Encore post: Radio radio

Yesterday I was talking about radio with my pal Rich Siegel, author, owner and grand poobah of Round Seventeen. In one of my many business schemes, I asked Rich why don’t we start a radio production company. We’re both good writers with lots of radio production experience. It seemed like a win-win to me.

Rich replied, “Who pays for radio anymore?”

Thanks pal. Here’s my balloon –pop it.

Of course, he’s right.

For starters, there’s not a lot of radio being done, and what little there is certainly doesn't have any money – real money – thrown against it. Agencies usually just hand it off to the juniors, or the interns because they pay them even less than the juniors.

In most agencies, radio is considered the bastard stepchild to, well, to just about every other media. Maybe it’s because good radio is so hard to do, but many writers suddenly seem to get swamped when a radio assignment is up for grabs.

I’ve never looked at it that way.

The fact is, for the most part, the agency leaves you alone when you write radio. It’s not that high on the glam-o-meter, so you can usually fly under the radar and write some pretty fun stuff. But let me go back to an earlier point: good radio is hard to do.

There are of course basic rules to writing good radio. But if you've listened to any radio commercials lately, I'm sure you'll agree there need to be more.

Here are a few I’d add:

First, no more spots where the listener is eavesdropping on the recording session, and then the talent realizes they’re recording.

Next, no fake stand-up comedians with bad fake material and fake canned laughs.

Then, no more spots where the talent is talking about a sale with another talent, and suddenly there’s a door slam sound effect and the first talent says something to the effect of, “I guess everybody’s going to the (CLIENT NAME HERE) sale!”

Even though many writers use them, filler lines have got to go. You know the ones I mean. Lines like “so what’re you waiting for?” or “Hurry in now, the only thing that’ll be gone faster than these (PRODUCT NAME) is this sale.“

Lastly, the direction “more energy, have fun with it” must be banned from all recording sessions. No real person is that happy about having to take erectile dysfunction pills or diarrhea medicines.

This isn't the first time Rich and I have talked about starting a business. Just a few days ago, he suggested we start a deli.

I thought it was a good idea. Obviously, since we work in agencies, we already have enough baloney to stock it.

It begins

First of all, happy new year, and congratulations for surviving—in a very literal sense—what’s sure to be the worst year in everyone’s life. I think I speak for all of us when I say I’m glad we made it, and there’s definitely nowhere to go but up.

Unless of course Cadet Bone Spurs has a(nother) Giuliani-size brain fart and decides to burn the house down on his way out. And out he will go, no matter how many calls he makes to Georgia.

Of course, despite the fact we’re still going to be using masks as a fashion statement, keeping our distance and washing our hands like Howard Hughes for the foreseeable future, there are a lot of things to look forward to in the coming year.

In just a Scaramucci and five days we’ll have a new sane, decent, smart and compassionate president. I don’t agree on all policy with him, but he’s already a breath of fresh sanity.

We’ll also have the first female, Black/Indian vice-president. I’m even more excited about Kamala because she was my first choice for the top job in the primary. My dream ticket was Harris/Buttigieg. It may still wind up being that. No one's getting any younger if you get my continental drift.

Dr. Fauci is staying on, and he’ll have a new president who believes in science, listens to and respects what he says, and will be a partner in finally bringing this horrible pandemic chapter to a close. As well as the run on bleach and hypodermic needles.

The vaccine. Just give it to me in the left arm like the flu shot. I never like waiting in line, but I’m more than willing to make an exception.

And as I’ve done so many times before, I buried the lead. The other thing you’ll have to look forward to, and you know you will, is another year of stimulating, insightful, side-spitting, far too long posts on Rotation and Balance. Now at the risk of sounding like the blogger who cried wolf, this year is actually positioned to be a stellar one in number of posts, if not in quality of writing. You can’t have everything.

Besides, who do you think I am. Round Seventeen?

He has my vote

Like many of you, and by many I mean the nine people that read this blog on a semi-regular basis, and by semi-regular basis I mean you forgot to empty the cache and it came up again accidentally, I thought this day would never get here.

Election day. It's the one we've been waiting four extremely unpleasant years for.

But it's here now, and it's our last chance to replace the racist, lying, misogynistic, name-calling, Big Mac-grazing, nazi-loving, pussy-grabbing, Covid-spreading, division-stoking, dictator-fawning, deficit-raising, veteran-hating, democracy-killing, adderall-fueled, festering piece of shit occupying the White House with someone who deserves to be there.

Someone with a moral compass and an innate sense of right and wrong.

Someone with intelligence that rises to the job and being leader of the free world.

Someone who in times of severe hardship and sacrifice—say a war or a pandemic—we can trust will have our best interests at heart and will act accordingly.

Someone who won't be laughed at every time they're on the world stage.

Someone who will surround themself with a cabinet of intelligent, non-yes men and women (no-men?) instead of swamp-residing, just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock grifters looking to line their pockets on the taxpayer's dime.

Someone whose kids don't kill wild, endangered species for sport and aren't second-generation festering pieces of shit.

Someone we can respect.

That's why I'd like more than anything to cast my vote for Josiah Bartlet. I'd like to, but I can't.

On the off chance you don't know, Barlet is the fictional president played by Martin Sheen on The West Wing, which it so happens the wife and I have been bingeing for a while now (we're on season 4, episode 17). He possesses all the above mentioned positive qualities, as well as a wicked sense of humor, laser-focus and a keen analytical mind. It sounds great, amIrite?

And while I'm sad I can't vote for Josiah Bartlet, I'm happy I've already cast my vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.

During primary season, Biden wasn't my first choice, he was my fifth. I imagine that's true for a lot of people. My dream ticket was Harris/Buttigieg. Or Warren/Buttigieg. Or Sanders/Buttigieg. Or Buttigieg/Yang. But Biden brings with him the experience, the leadership, the compassion and the decency we've lost as a country. It will take decades to undo the damage the unstable genius has done, but Biden has a roadmap to get there.

Plus instead of a simpering suck-up who looks at him with moony-moon eyes and a schoolgirl crush, in Kamala Harris Biden has a Vice President more than qualified for the job, a trusted advisor and someone who won't be afraid to speak up when she disagrees with policy.

So today I'm going to try as hard as I can to stay away from all the election news—it'll go on for days and months, I'm sure I'll hear about it. Instead I'll be spending my spare time watching more episodes of The West Wing. Because while Aaron Sorkin's stellar, rapid-fire dialogue and precision writing gives me a benchmark to aspire to (you know I can hear you laughing, right?), in each and every episode, and on this day especially, it also gives me something else I've missed terribly and need desperately.

Hope.

Production is down

There are a couple of ways you can tell this blog hasn't exactly been one of my priorities this year.

First is the aching, lonely, abandoned feeling you've been experiencing deep in the pit of your stomach. The sense that something good is gone. That uneasy, anxiety-ridden, nagging feeling that asks, "Why can't he just give me my daily dose of humor, insight and wit I've relied on so dearly for the last ten years to get through my otherwise sad, mundane and ordinary day. Why?"

The other way to tell is the chart pictured here.

When I started blogging in 2009, you can see I just put up a couple of posts. I was getting my toes wet in the blogging waters of the interwebs. Then for the next five trips around the sun, I posted over 100 articles each year. Enthusiasm was high, people were commenting, I was confident I had something worth saying to fill up all those posts.

Of course, 2015 was the best year for this blog. Not for the quality ("quality", good one) of the posts, or the subject matter, but for the fact it was the year I beat out my close personal friend and fashion consultant Rich Siegel of Round Seventeen fame in my imaginary race to keep up with, and exceed, his prolific output of online articles.

Just pausing for a second to re-live the victory.

Ok, I'm back.

Apparently that was the year I peaked, because as you can see the following years took a precipitous drop in postings despite a slight upward tick last year. This year doesn't even average out to two postings a month. And I think I know why.

Besides being the least disciplined writer you know, every time I begin to write a post it becomes political in nature. No surprise given my complete revulsion and disdain for the unstable genius we have for liar-in-chief. But after a day of political posts on Facebook and the sewer that is now Twitter, it just seems difficult to add anything of meaning to the discussion that isn't already being covered a thousand different ways on other channels. And writing about anything else seems meaningless and a wasted effort, given the dire state of our country and our democracy.

I just light up a room don't I?

But writing is a muscle, and if you don't exercise it you lose it. And God knows I've lost enough muscle in my life. So I'm going to start thinking about maybe making the effort to perhaps begin posting a little more frequently if I think I have something worth talking about.

A grateful nation breathes a sigh of relief.

Admit it, you're feeling better already.

What Papa said

Who's up for a really passive aggressive blogpost? I knew you'd say that. Here we go.

I'm going to have to disagree with my pal Rich Siegel, wedding coordinator to the stars and proprietor of the infamous Round Seventeen blog. In one of his more recent posts, A Celebration of Birth, he makes a rather large, revealing statement near the end that sums up the difference between his approach to writing and mine.

I quote: "The thing is, I like to write."

The thing is, I do not.

Now, just so I don't sound ungrateful or unprofessional (and I may be too late already), let me clarify something right up front: I love writing for a living. You know, the kind that's creatively challenging, let's me dress like a fifteen-year old every day, surrounds me with wildly creative, funny people and pays the bills. When I say I don't like it, I'm talking more about the idea of sitting down to write as much as the actual act itself.

And of course, one man's essay is another man's agony. Rich likes it. I treat every assignment like I'm going to my execution.

I understand the best writers make it look easy. But by its nature, it's one of the most difficult of the arts.

In fact after juggling, crowd estimating and balloon animals, maybe the most difficult.

I suppose like most writers, if it came easier I'd enjoy it more. But that's Hemingway's point (I'm in no way comparing myself to Hemingway—my sentences are much longer). If you're going to reveal your true self in words, you have to be willing to go to the deepest, truest and most painful place.

I don't like going to those places. I prefer New York or Las Vegas.

If you've followed this blog for any amount of time—and really, you're never going to get those minutes back—then you know there are a few posts on here where, instead of going for the snarky laugh or easy shots, I've actually shined a light, dull though it may be, on my true self, my real life and my inner thoughts.

Not that anyone was asking for that. I know for a fact no one was paying for it.

The reason that kind of writing causes me nothing but anxiety and apprehension is because of this almost crippling fear I'll have nothing to say. In fact, a lot of people think I have over 900 posts to prove that.

My former office wife Janice MacLeod, who's written four maybe five books (who can keep count) including the fabulous Paris Letters, always told me two things. First, that venom was my best medium. I still don't believe that to be true, although that's just what someone whose best medium was venom would say. The other thing she said was just sit down, stare at the blank screen and eventually an idea for something to write about will come to me.

Again, 900 posts prove that may not always be the case.

My close, personal friend Cameron Young is always just completing or just starting a new screenplay. His enthusiasm for original ideas, story structure and writing is inspiring. Apparently not inspiring enough for me to put down the potato chips and the remote, stop bingeing Breaking Bad (again) and write a screenplay of my own. But, you know, inspiring nonetheless.

In spite of my unwavering resistance, all three of these talented, imaginative, disciplined writers are incorrigible encouragers, supporters and advocates of my writing. It is appreciated to a degree I'll never be fully able to express.

Certainly not in words.

I have another problem with opening up as a writer. And I say this with love—frankly, it's none of your business. As an only child, I've always felt the idea of sharing was just crazy talk. But I do recognize that sometimes it makes for good reading. So, you know, anything (almost) for my art.

What am I saying? That Hemingway was right. And if you think by reading my blog you somehow can glean the joy and sense of fulfillment from my words that writing brings me, I only have one thing to say.

You're reading the wrong blog.

Not a keeper

The first post is about the last year. Ironic ain't it?

So here's the thing. When it comes to the promises I made on our last trip around the sun, I'm a lot like the road to hell—I'm paved with good intentions. Alright, so maybe analogies aren't my metier (look it up), but you see where I'm going.

I made a lot of promises in 2017, some spur of the moment without much thought—you know, the same way I approach my career path (rolling eyes at the word "career")—some to you and even more to myself that despite the best intentions, well, we've already covered that.

For example, this one that would've made your Christmas shopping infinitely easier when it came to stocking stuffers. Or this one, where I vowed to be more disciplined and prolific with my blog postings (stops to laugh hysterically at the thought of being disciplined). But not as prolific as Round Seventeen because, frankly, my Crank-O-Meter doesn't go to eleven. And I'd rather read his posts than write my own.

Besides making gift buying easier and giving you more posts to avoid reading, I also made several promises to myself which I've broken like a fine china vase on a sitcom.

"Whatever you do Joey, don't touch the vase!"

"What, do you think I'm stupid? Of course I'm not gonna touch the vase."

SFX: Vase crashing to pieces on the floor.

Laughter and applause. Freeze frame. Roll credits.

Some are the same promises I've made before like losing weight, changing my style (which would involve actually having one), opening the folder marked Jeff's ideas and following through on some of them, any of them, one of them (yes Cameron Y., that includes the one marked "Screenplay ideas").

Those are the actionable, external promises. There are also the internal efforts that met with mixed success.

Cutting people some slack and realizing everyone's not going to do it my way or on my timetable, although for the love of God I still have no idea why not (only child, does it show?).

Following Elvis Costello's advice about trying to be more amused than disgusted at what's going on around me.

Sticking to the golden rule, no matter how hard someone is making it to do.

Not taking any of it personally, although I have to say I'm actually pretty good at that one.

Got a little heavy on you there didn't I? (Insert diet joke here). Yeah I know, I didn't see it coming either.

Anyway, all of this to say my promise to me and you for 2018 is to do better at keeping promises I make, and not make ones I can't keep.

This year, it's like Jules said in Pulp Fiction: "I'm trying Ringo. I'm trying real hard..."

One month later...

Tomorrow is one month since my last post here at Rotation and Balance.

Although you may not have been consciously aware of it, I'm sure you felt a disturbance in the force. An unexplainable void in your life, you know, besides money, a loving relationship and worthwhile employment. For the last thirty days, you've had that creeping feeling the world was a little less entertaining. A lot less funny. Deep down, on the inside, a small, quiet voice was telling you something was missing.

Well now you know.

This isn't the first time I've taken a break from posting. I've done it before, although rarely for this length of time. Sometimes it's pure laziness (most times). Other times it's that I just don't have anything interesting to write about.

Of course, if I let that stop me I'd never write anything.

I have to say that, like you, I haven't exactly missed it. For starters it's been a busy month what with a home remodel going on. Do to refinishing hardwood floors in our house, we've had to move out, move into an airbnb, move out of an airbnb and move back into the house with kids and dogs in tow all in the space of the last ten days.

So that's a hectic third of the month right there.

I've also been enjoying taking time to read and catch up with other ad-bashing blogs, like Round Seventeen, the Ad Contrarian and Ad Aged. They all say a lot of things I'd have said if I'd been posting the past month. Only they're saying them better than I would have.

The truth is I've started to post a number of times in the past month, but nothing really interested me enough to see it through. To quote Stephen King, one of my writing heroes, every false start felt like I was shoveling shit from a sitting position.

Not that it's ever stopped me before.

All of this is to say the month of no blogposts is over. I'm getting back in the saddle, and ready to ride into better metaphors than this one. I think all our lives are going to be better now that I've made this decision.

And if that turns out not to be the case, there's always next month.

850

Break out the champagne, drop the balloons and cue the DJ. This post right here you're feasting your eyes on is my 850th blogpost. Well, 850th published one.

Like all bloggers, I have a whole slew of drafts and false starts—over 70 of 'em—that, for one reason or another I didn't deem particularly post worthy. They have titles like "The creepy clown" "Jasper is enough" and "I'll have what he's having."

Maybe they were too long. Too short. Too bad. Too late. Too serious. Too light. Too revealing. Too sexy (always a problem). Too similar. Too repetitive. Too likely to get me sued. Too poorly written. I know what you're thinking: "I've been following you for a while. Since when is 'poorly written' a criteria?"

OK smartass. Let's talk about it after I see your 850 posts.

The point is at least I have some kind of filter. Occasionally though, shields are down, my judgement is off and something gets put up here that shouldn't be. But thankfully I have a support system of several other exceptional writer friends that let me know immediately when they think I've crossed a line and should take a post down. Sometimes they're gone before you even know they've been there.

The posts, not the writers.

The other thing is 850 may not be a big number to other, more prolific writers (which would be about all of them). But it's my number and I'm happy about it.

Any writer will tell you filling the page can be challenging. But I have a feeling I'm going to have plenty of things to write about for the next four years. Or with any luck, the next two.

In the meantime, stay tuned for 851. I don't know when it'll be here, but I hear it's going to be worth the wait.

Recommitting to recommitting

ROTATION AND BALANCE

                                    

                          ROUND SEVENTEEN

Every year I recommit to doing a better job with this blog. I don’t know why. It’s not like my nine readers are demanding any more from me in the way of quality. Besides, the truth is you can’t get blood from a stone. And after more than 900 posts, frankly this is as good as it gets.

I know. I’m as disappointed as you are.

Nonetheless, here we are at the start of a new year. Even though I believe most of the world only has seventeen days left as of this writing, I’m still going to recommit to recommitting. You can take that to the bank. Although don’t take it to Wells Fargo. They’ll just make you open additional accounts you don't want or need.

Anyway, I’m giving you my word every year from here on out, I’ll make a point of telling you how much better this blog will be. More consistent with postings. More topical with subjects. More entertaining because, let’s face it, when I want to I can bring the funny. I am recommitting to the idea that I will be prolific in the amount of recommitments I’ll be posting.

But let's not forget who we're dealing with. I'm not going to go crazy and be as prolific as say my pal Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen. Although the stats for 2015 do not lie, and show that thanks to a deliberate effort on my part, I matched his blog post for post and in fact beat his numbers by a solid eight posts for that year. Although the electoral votes still aren’t in yet.

Don't pay no never mind to the numbers for the other years. It's a painful memory.

Besides, I think if committing is good, then recommitting is better. It reminds me year in and year out of the promise I’ve made, even if I have yet to keep it.

It’s not hard for me to recommit to writing more on here.

For one reason, I’m sure you’ve already recommitted to not reading it.

Think inside the box

What do Jeopardy, Angry Birds, Star Wars, Sports Illustrated, Jeff Foxworthy, Mr. Rogers and the Dali Lama all have in common? Besides being mentioned in an internationally loved, critically acclaimed, extremely prestigious blog? The answer is they all have box calendars.

And they're not alone.

The other day I was killing time in Barnes & Noble while the wife and daughter were shopping in Ulta. I would've gone with them, but they don't carry the foundation or blush color I use. And besides, I think we all know I'm beautiful enough as it is. Anyway, I was shocked, shocked I tell you, to see that virtually every book title, sitcom, dog breed, video game, celebrity, magazine, website, car manufacturer and radio talk show host has a box calendar.

Apparently there's so much wisdom out in the world the holiday shopping public doesn't know about, it takes 365 days to dispense it all—one day at a time.

I imagine these bright, little squares make great stocking stuffers, not to mention secret Santa presents and gifts for people you really don't want to spend anything on, but feel like you should give them something. Whatever the reason, they take up two of the large tables at Barnes & Noble, so they must be selling just fine.

As I was perusing the vast assortment of them, the thought struck me that I'm overflowing with words of wisdom my own self, and I'm pretty sure I could stretch them out to fill up 365 days worth. So I'm going to do something I rarely do here—I'm going to make a promise to you. Because I know you'll want it, and more importantly you'll buy it, I'm going to start working on my own box calendar, and have it ready to go just in time for next year's holiday shopping season. I know, right?

And unlike my diet, unfinished screenplay, accordion lessons, sticking to a budget or my high school girlfriend, I actually intend to follow through on this promise to you dear reader(s).

First of all, it seems fairly easy to me. And if you know anything about me, you know I'm all about easy. Next, judging by the back of these box calendars that show a sample of what's inside, it looks like a lot of white space with very few words. If you've read this blog for any amount of time, you already know the less I write the better I am. In fact, the better we all are. Also, I have plenty of art director friends I can call on to design the colorful, whimsical, eye-catching box for whatever subject I decide to focus on.

Will it be a distilled rehashing of the most popular Rotation and Balance posts? A searing, snarky, advertising buzzword-a-day calendar? A skewering posting of the things account planners say day to day (you know, a comedy calendar)? It might just be daily pictures of my German Shepherd, which sounds really appealing because that means I don't have to write anything (about easy, remember?).

I guess we'll all have to wait until next year to find out.

Until then, I recommend the Keep Calm And Carry On box calendar to hold you over.

Stop me if you've read this one before

I have a bad habit. Well, I have more than one. But I’m not talking about my addiction to virtually any kind of bread, how I leave near-empty food containers in the fridge or my compulsion to binge Breaking Bad whenever I have a free minute.

No, the one I’m talking about is repeating myself.

The one I’m talking about is repeating myself.

See what I did there?

Case in point. I just put up a post called Drive Time about the agency I’m at, the fact it’s at the beach and how nice the commute is. Come to find out the problem is I’ve put up nearly the exact same post two other times – Tsunami Adjacent and Mourning The Commute. In fact, I've even used the exact same photo a couple of times.

Granted, it’s a good story, but let's be honest for minute—although I've never figured out the upside of doing that—it's not that good. And I’m just a little embarrassed I’ve told it here three times.

I worry that I repeat subjects. Being who I am, I think it may be symptomatic, an early form of dementia setting in and I'll be the last one to know. But then it occurs to me I’ve been cranking out this blog for years, and the truth of the matter is occasionally I run out of topics I think are worth ranting and raving about. Apparently when that happens, I unintentionally go back to the same well and write about something I've already written about. Not that it's always a bad thing. After all, some things are worth repeating.

Although I'm pretty sure this isn't one of them.

I know the nine people who read this on their iPads while they’re sitting on the toilet probably aren’t paying that much attention, and had I not pointed it out, wouldn’t have even known I was telling the same story again and again.

But you’re all paying good money for this, and I didn’t want you to…wait a minute, you’re not paying any money for this. Suddenly I don’t feel so bad.

Anyway, I'll try not to repeat myself as often. And if I do, I’ll try to keep it to the most interesting and popular subjects only.

By the way, don’t miss tomorrow’s post on how I sometimes repeat myself. It’ll be a good one.

Ghostwriter

The wide and raging river of taglines, headlines, subheads, subject lines, pre-headers, bold lead-ins, body copy, banner ads, manifestos, landing pages, social media posts, positioning statements and concept write-ups seems to flow on endlessly no matter which ad agency I happen to find myself at.

This of course is an excellent situation for a freelancer, because when the river dries up so does the bank account.

But as any copywriter will tell you, occasionally you have to deal with a bout of what real writer’s who aren’t creating a legacy of garbage (Legacy Of Garbage ©Janice MacLeod) refer to as writer’s block. For whatever reason, sometimes the words that make America buy just aren’t there when you need them.

Which is fine if you’re writing a snarky little blog only nine people read, and then only when reruns of the Bachelorette aren’t on. But when you’re a hired gun up against a deadline, there are no excuses. If the words aren’t there you have to go out and find them.

Fortunately I know just where to look. To my son James.

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But I don’t have an apple tree, because it attracts rats to the backyard and I have a black thumb and would probably kill it anyway. And who wants to eat apples that fall off a rat-infested tree into the dirt. There’s not enough Dawn and Brillo to get them clean enough for me to eat. Don't get me started on the worms.

I may have wandered off track here.

My son is a great writer. He's unburdened by strategy briefs, client concerns, nervous account people, award-whore creative directors, account planners whispering sweet nothing in his ear – and I do mean nothing. He just likes to make up fun lines. So on those rare occasions when I need to get a fresh, untarnished perspective because my brain has gone into vapor lock, I just give him a call and tell him what I need.

Give me some car headlines that talk about performance. Knock out a few lines for this video game. I need something for a hotel in half an hour.

He always delivers.

I'd like to think he gets his writing talent from my side of the family, but I think it's just who he is. Screenwriting major, hello? This is a kid who's not afraid of throwing it out there and seeing what happens.

So, to the agencies I work for now, and will in the future, rest assured that when it comes to writing copy for your prestigious clients, and even your lesser ones, I'm going to give it everything I've got. Including my first born.

Goodbye Garry

I had lunch with Garry Shandling in New York.

Years ago, the wife and I had gone back to visit our friend Kevin, who was living there and working on SNL at the time. We were going to meet him and his wife at the time for lunch at the now defunct Cafe Des Artistes. When we were confirming lunch, Kevin said, "I hope you don't mind, but I invited Shandling and one of his writers to join us."

We were good with it.

We all met at the restaurant, and there was an additional person at the table who I didn't know. Come to find out later he was the president of PETA, which Kevin's wife was very involved with.

Shandling sat next to my wife, and, either not knowing or not caring, spent most of the lunch talking to her and hitting on her. As you might imagine, it was hysterical.

I don't remember many of the lines, but at one point, obviously for the PETA president's benefit, he asked my wife, "I want to get a new haircut, but I'm nervous about how it'll look so I want to try it out on my dog first. Is that considered animal testing?"

A few weeks later, the wife and I were shopping on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica (where we lived at the time), and we wandered into this antique furniture store. We were looking at one of those two-person desks when Shandling walked in. We reminded him we'd all had lunch in New York, and had a nice conversation with him for about twenty minutes.

Here are a couple things he told us: he started out as a copywriter in New York, and ironically had written on Suntory Whiskey - an account I'd worked on at Wells Rich Greene early in my career (stops to laugh hysterically for using the word "career").

Early in 1998, I sat down and wrote two episodes of his influential and landmark Larry Sanders Show. I thought they were pretty good, and I asked Kevin if he'd read them and, if he liked them, would he mind passing them on to Garry.

Well, there's good news and bad news. The good news is Kevin liked the scripts. The bad news was it was right at the point when Garry was pulling the plug on the show. In comedy, timing is everything.

A couple years ago, the wife and I saw Shandling again at Kevin's birthday party. While it was a star-studded affair, we both felt a personal connection to him. We didn't know him well, but we'd been fortunate enough to spend time on the receiving end of his remarkable humor and unmistakable kindness.

I could go on about how revolutionary both It's Garry Shandling's Show and The Larry Sanders Show were, but you'll be hearing and reading a lot about that in the coming days. Besides, the work speaks for itself.

Sadly, and all too soon, as of this morning the world is a far less funny place. However, if you know anyone in heaven, you might want to let them know there's going to be a killer set tonight around 9pm at The Laff Stop on Cloud 9. Two drink minimum. Look for the brick wall and the mic.

You're in our hearts forever. Goodbye Garry. Rest in peace.

But who's counting

Believe it or not, this is my 200th Rotation and Balance post for this year. I know, I'm as shocked as you are.

I think the reason I made it to this particular landmark is I'm an exceptionally prolific writer. I'm also disciplined, making it a point to carve out enough time each day to hone and craft my words so that they convey my thoughts precisely and accurately. Plus I have opinions and things to say on a wide variety of topics - hence the tagline in the header about perfecting random.

You know I'm yankin' your chain right? I just want to have more posts this year than Round Seventeen. So far so good, but the year's not over.

The truth is I enjoy writing the blog, and I've heard rumors at least three of you enjoy reading it. And even though I usually like working a big room, that's enough for me to keep doing it (a grateful nation breathes a sigh of relief).

Anyway, since I have to get my 201st ready tomorrow, I'll keep this short.

I don't have any idea what tomorrow's subject will be, and I haven't set aside any time to write it. Maybe I'll slap it together on my lunch break.

I'm just that disciplined.

Manifesto

Sung to the tune of the Eagles' Desperado:

Manifesto, why don’t you come to your senses

You’ve been full of pretenses for so long now

Oh you’re a hard one

I know that you got your reasons

These words that are pleasin’ you

Don’t matter no how

Fancy sentences don’t impress judges boy

You know they’re just a fable

They’re wanted by a client you ain’t met

Now it seems to me award shows

Like the ones you see on cable

Leave you filled with nothin’ but regret

Manifesto, oh, you ain’t getting shorter

Cause it’s the first quarter, the budget’s approved

And creative, oh creative, well that’s just some people talkin’

Your prison is balkin' when good words are removed

Write a spot you’re proud of this time

Don’t squander it you’re in your prime

It’s the only way to get an increase in pay

You’ll have your highs and lows

Ain’t it funny how this assignment blows, cliché

Manifesto, why don’t you come to your senses

They’ve paid your expenses, go write something great

It’s now or never, a book piece is just what you’re needin’

You better stop your concedin’

You better stop your concedin’

You better stop your concedin’

Before it’s too late

Hepinstall!

I like to think I have a pretty objective assessment of my talent when it comes to writing. Essentially, I'm not bad. In fact most of the time I'm pretty good. And occasionally, I bat one out of the park.

On those days, when I'm feeling pretty good about myself knowing I've said exactly what I wanted to say, I walk with a little spring in my step. A certain joie de vivre if you will, knowing I've strung a few choice words together people will enjoy reading and thinking about.

Those are the days I try not to think about Kathy Hepinstall. Because if I do, then I have to face the cold, bright glare of harsh reality that I can't come close to how very good she is.

Hepinstall is a writer's writer. Reading her words are a joy. I don't know how she manages to make me feel awe and jealousy at the same time, but somehow she pulls it off.

She has the priceless ability to make readers feel deeply, surprise them and then leave them breathless. For a sample of what I'm talking about, have a gander at her latest blogpost Jesus Would Take The Middle Seat.

I like to imagine the words don't come easy to her, and that she struggles with the same angst and durang I do every time she faces a blank page. I'd like to think that. It would bring me enormous misery-loves-company joy. But reading her work, seeing the ease, flow and specificity of the words tells another story.

Kathy's also written four or five novels - I've lost count. My idea of being productive is leaving a note on the door for the UPS guy. Clearly we have different approaches.

If I were half the writer she is, I'd be twice the writer I am.

Which tells me I should start thinking about math teacher as an alternative career choice.

Marathon man

There are plenty of reasons to look forward to holiday weekends. No work, that's a good one. Another is no work. Then of course there's also no work, which makes them extra pleasant.

One other reason, equally as good, is the annual Twilight Zone marathons.

Usually on Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends, somewhere on the six-hundred cable channels Charter overcharges me for, Rod Serling is telling me there's a place between light and shadow called the Twilight Zone. And he does it for forty-eight hours.

It's a given that at least two weekends a year I'll get to see William Shatner freaking out about a gremlin on the wing of his plane. Or about a fortune-telling machine with a devil's head on it in the booth at the diner.

I'll watch Burgess Meredith break his glasses, just as he has all the time he wants to read. I'll also get to see him square off against Fritz Weaver, explaining why he's not obsolete.

John Carradine will tell H.M. Wynant not to remove the small staff locking the door of the howling man, because he's really the devil. SPOILER ALERT: He doesn't listen and has to pay the price for it.

Captain Lutze will visit Dachau, and the ghosts of a million Jews will haunt him and eventually drive him insane.

And of course Ann Francis, as Marsha White, will go to the nonexistent ninth floor of the department store looking for a gold thimble, where she'll run into some familiar looking mannequins.

Under the guise of brilliant storytelling (Note to agencies: this is what real storytelling looks like), the Twilight Zone tackled real issues like racial prejudice, equal rights, crime and where an insatiable greed in all its forms inevitably gets you.

It's a testimony to Rod Serling's talent and imagination that decades after their original airing, the themes, stories and conclusions drawn on the Twilight Zone continue to be relevant.

Which I suppose makes it a sad commentary on us.

Glad to help

There's a reason I'm showing you the three books you're looking at. And here it is.

Each one of them was written by a very talented friend of mine. And each one of those friends decided to thank or acknowledge me by name in their book.

It's very flattering. Not to mention very inspiring. Unfortunately not inspiring enough to write a book of my own. That's just crazy talk.

Kidding. Okay, they've inspired me to write a book, or at least finish the several I've started or had ideas for. If for no other reason than I'd be able to return the favor and thank them.

If you recall, and why wouldn't you, I actually wrote a post to thank my one time office wife Janice MacLeod for making me the very first thank you in her spectacular book, Paris Letters. You should make a point to read that post, then read Janice's book if you haven't already. After you do your first instinct will be to thank me for the recommendation. I suggest you write a book of your own and thank me there. You know how much I like that.

I've known my good friend (producer, professor, singer, actress, musician) Rona Edwards for over thirty years. She was kind enough to thank me in her book "I Liked It, Didn't Love It" which takes readers through the process, and arms aspiring screenwriters for the labyrinth that is screenplay development.

It's a road she's traveled often and successfully.

I like to think it's my clear understanding of plot and story, my keen insight into what an audience wants and my ability to punch up a script that motivated her to mention me in her book.

Nah, just messin' with ya. I have no idea why she thanked me, other than the fact she's a kind and generous person, as well as one of my oldest (in terms of time) friends.

I've known my friend Josh Weltman for twenty-nine years. We've been partners at agencies we've worked at. And a little known fact is I've flown more with Josh than anyone else thanks to a freelance gig we had at Foote, Cone & Belding in San Francisco for about nine months.

Josh wrote a recently released book called Seducing Strangers: How To Get People To Buy What You're Selling based on his years in the business, and his time as a co-producer on the show Mad Men.

I hadn't seen Josh in quite a while, until we ran into each other at a mutual friend's funeral a couple years ago. So you can imagine my surprise when I saw my name in the acknowledgements in his book.

Given the time that's passed, it was a nice surprise and appreciated kindness on his part.

Of course, you should know now that I've somewhat committed to writing a book of my own, there'll be many more thank you's in it than just the people here. Many of my friends have been encouraging, supportive, critical in the best sense of the word and patient while I've used this blog as an excuse for doing some real writing.

But now that it seems like everyone I know is popping out a book, I guess I'll have to get going on mine.

So thanks for that.

An open letter to Morongo Hotel & Casino

Dear Person In Charge Of Marketing,

Being a copywriter and creative director as long as I’ve been, I appreciate better than most people how difficult it is to create great advertising. Or even good advertising, you know, the kind that at a minimum gets the communication across in a somewhat entertaining, memorable, non-offensive manner.

And of all the mediums available, from broadcast to print to online, perhaps nowhere is that more true than radio. But then, I don’t have to tell you. I'm sure it's not the first time you've heard this, but your long-running radio campaign for Morongo ranks somewhere between an east-coast sewage spill and a crime against humanity.

I’ve tried to figure out exactly why I have this extreme reaction to your radio commercials. What is it exactly about them that provokes such a visceral, negative response? After some serious consideration, I think I’ve narrowed it down. Everything.

I’ve never been to Morongo Hotel and Casino, so I don’t know exactly what the experience is like. What I do know is if it’s anything like your radio spots, I’d rather stick dull needles in my eyes. Slowly.

I'd also like to offer some constructive criticism, although granted it's hard to know where to start. So let's begin with your tagline: Good times.

In print, on TV and on radio, your announcer or on-camera talent ends the spots saying, enthusiastically, "Morongo! Good times!"

Apparently whoever wrote the spots didn't realize the phrase "good times" is used in everyday vernacular to refer to something bad. For example, one person might say, "I'm number two million twelve on the waiting list for a kidney transplant." The person they're talking to would reply, sarcastically, "Good times."

I don't think the phrase means what you think it means. And no amount of airplay and false enthusiasm will change that.

It's the same as when people say something is bad, they actually mean it's good. Or when someone hears something they want to know more about, they say, "Shut up!"

All I'm saying is a working knowledge of what words mean and how they're used is probably a good thing to have in life and before you start writing radio spots.

Let's talk about talent. I could make a snarky remark like you should try having some in your radio spots. But I'm not going to.

But you should.

Instead of the painfully obvious non-union talent blathering on in the spots, you might try to pony up for union talent that can actually make bad copy sound palatable - a skill that would come in mighty handy in this case. I know, I can hear you griping about budgets and residuals and fast turnarounds. Here's the thing: you're a casino. It says right on your website that by 2008 you had put up to $2.8 billion into the local economy. Crying poor just isn't going to cut it. Pony up for some real talent and polish your public face.

On your radio spot I heard driving to work today, the non-union woman breathlessly says, "Sunday is fun day!" Is it really? It sounded more like "Sunday is being yelled with the direction to sound excited, but not quite making it day."

Also, the phrase "Sunday is fun day!" has been used in bad advertising of everything from mattress stores to car dealerships to coffee shops since the beginning of the Jurassic era. Besides, at a casino aren't all days fun days?

I realize you can't have original music for each spot when you do so many of them. But you can use better needle drop music. Perhaps a track that isn't so forced, isn't trying so hard. Maybe one that reflects a more elegant experience (assuming of course you can provide one).

Finally, the very premise of your spots has been done to death. I'm talking about the top of the spot, where your voice-talent (and I use the word talent loosely) is supposed to be in a recording booth, and we catch him saying something funny when he doesn't think the mic is on. The other problem is nothing he says is funny.

As the movie Spinal Tap teaches us, there's a fine line between clever and stupid. And you are most definitely on the wrong side of the line.

My suggestion would be if you have an agency creating your advertising, fire them and get a better one. And if you don't have an agency, get one. (At the very least, bring in a freelance writer for a fresh point of view. I'm just sayin'...)

There's a huge segment of the population who'd love not to drive all the way to Nevada to gamble and be entertained. And gamble. I believe with media buys that run your spots as frequently as yours do, you can change their perception of Morongo by upping the quality of your radio advertising.

Without attracting new clientele, you can't expect to expand and thrive. Then, if the current customers decide to reduce their visits and average spending, Morongo could wind up just another empty husk of a building, a symbol of excess and broken dreams. A reminder of what could've been if only you'd done better radio.

Good times.

Don't ask: Writing a letter for you

It's been awhile since I've added to my wildly popular Don't Ask series of posts. If you read this blog with any regularity - and if you do you really should try to get out to a bookstore or a library - you know I've already covered moving, picking people up at the airport, sharing my food, loaning you money and sharing my hotel room.

Sharing seems to be something I'm not very fond of. I'm an only child. Does it show?

Anyway, I get asked by a lot of friends and family to write letters for them. Letters of recommendation, letters complaining to a company about someone or some slight they think they've been on the receiving end of, resume cover letters, as well as the resume itself.

I know why they ask. I'm a writer. I do it for a living, and I'm not bad at it. But when I'm done writing all day for my job, I don't even want to write things for myself, much less you, when I get home.

I just want to binge Breaking Bad or House of Cards again.

I do appreciate the compliment of you asking. That you think my words would get better results than yours, or would communicate what you want to say more clearly. Which no doubt they would - I mentioned I was good at this, right?

Anyway, there's no secret to getting results. Address your grievance to the CEO, not to the underlings. Use spellcheck. And say what you need to say without trying to be fancy or funny. Simple advice, no?

You might want to write it down.

Just don't ask me to do it for you.