Ahhhh capella

See that guy leaning against the lamp post in the center of the album cover to the left? That's Jerry Lawson, formerly lead singer of the a capella group The Persuasions.

Now, not only have I leaned against a few lamp posts in my time, I've also actually sung onstage with Jerry Lawson. Yes that Jerry Lawson. More about that in a minute.

I've always been a huge fan of a capella singing. Doesn't matter where I find it - in front of the theater with the group's hat on the ground for change, on the Third Street Promenade, street corner boys singing in a movie (yes, even Take You Back from Rocky), or occasionally on an actual street corner on a Saturday night.

What's amazing to me is how not only do they hear the music that's not there, they make you hear it.

If you could measure how much I love a capella, that's the same amount I hate competition talent shows like American Idol and Dancing With The (Z-list) Stars. But this week I happened to catch a show called The Sing Off on NBC, hosted by Nick Lachey (talk about Z-list). I was reaching for the remote when I heard Nick explain that this particular competition was between a capella groups.

He had me at a capella.

And as if that wasn't enough, one of the groups was Jerry Lawson - the Jerry Lawson - and The Talk Of The Town, his post-Persuasions a capella group that sounds exactly like the Persuasions. Go figure.

I was glued to the set. The first night ten groups sang a capella. And while they weren't all equally talented, they were all entertaining. Jerry and his group came out and sang Save The Last Dance For Me, promptly showing the young 'uns how it's done.

Towards the end of the show there was a group of college students called The Backbeats. They stole the show with their version of Beyonce's If I Were A Boy.

I have nothing but admiration for anyone who's willing to put it all out there, and risk failing on that kind of scale. Of course, they're also risking success.

Now, about being onstage with Jerry Lawson. When my wife and I were dating, we used to see the Persuasions every time they came to town. One night, they played a club that used to be in Venice called Hop Singh's. We'd seen them there a lot, but this one night at the end of the show, they invited the audience to come onstage and sing the final song with them.

If you know anything about me, you know what a shy, quiet wallflower I am.

I think I set a new land speed record for jumping onstage.

I was standing right next to Jerry Lawson, singing my little off-key, out-of-tune heart out. Fortunately an audience member who could actually sing was the one holding the mike, so no one but Jerry had to endure my vocals. And he was very gracious about it.

So even if it is a competition show, and even if Nick Lachey is hosting, I'm still glad there's a venue where a capella is being brought to the masses each week.

The best part is now I get to sing with Jerry Lawson twice a week.

Even better, this time he can't hear me.

Why I Love Costco Part 2: Giant Shopping Carts

The first thing you should know is this isn't an actual  picture of my shopping cart. I wouldn't be caught dead buying anything as healthy as  fat-free milk or celery (Janice, I didn't reach for the celery. - Inside joke).

But there are lots of other things I do buy at Costco. And the beauty of it is it all fits in their ginormous shopping carts.

I work in advertising. I know while the company line about the size of the carts might be convenience, they're actually giving you all that room so you'll buy more. Here's what I have to say about that: thank you, thank you, thank you.

I love piling gallon jars of strawberry jelly, 50-pack rolls of Charmin, a year's supply of Bic Disposable Razors and boxes of Tide large enough to wash everyone's clothes for 10 years in there.

And that's just from the first aisle.

At check out, when they collect all my items and put them in boxes so they're easier to handle when I get home, those boxes also fit easily into the carts.

Of course, oversized is Costco's theme and reason for being (joke about why I relate to it goes here). And even though I know I don't have anyplace at home to put all these boxes that look like props from Land Of The Giants, I have lots of room in the basket.

And that's all that matters.

What does it say about me?

These are my two favorite shows.

I'm five seasons into Dexter, and three into In Treatment. Which means I've been with both of them since the beginning.

In case you've been living under a rock, Dexter, played by Michael C. Hall, is about a serial killer who lives by a code. The code has a few parts to it. One is not to kill anyone who doesn't deserve it. Another is to make it really entertaining.

In Treatment, starring Gabriel Byrne, is the less flashier of the two. It's about a psychiatrist named Paul Weston and four of his patients. Three of the episodes are sessions with his patients, and the forth is Weston's session with his own shrink. Two air on Monday, and two on Tuesday.

Sometimes it's hard to tell who has the bigger issues - the shrink or the serial killer. Just like in real life, the one who seems normal has a lot of secrets, while the one who seems crazy has a lot of answers.

If you work in advertising, you're already familiar with serial killers and shrinks. They just have different titles at the agency.

The beauty of it is I can enjoy Dexter on Sunday, and then therapy with In Treatment on Monday and Tuesday.

It's a cathartic yet well-adjusted way to begin each week, not to mention great fun not to be taken too seriously.

Well, I see our time is up. Better pack up the knives and get out of here.

The hidden damage

Ever since my car crash, I've been thinking about a particular term the insurance company and body shop have been tossing around: The hidden damage.

It's the damage to the car that's not readily apparent. It's hidden beneath the surface. It's the kind of damage that can't be revealed until you do a complete tear-down. Strip away the outer layers - bumpers, panels - and see what's waiting underneath. Once that's done, light can be shed on the problem and it can be seen clearly.

Of course, they have to be willing to recognize it when they see it.

I've always been one to criticize some of my blogger friends for going all new-age whammy jammy in their writing. I try to avoid that. Still, it seems to me the metaphor is hard to escape. Everyone carries around some hidden damage. If you're alive at all, how can you not?

It comes to each of us in different forms: heartbreak, death, sickness, addiction, disappointment - with ourselves, our families, our friends - and other things, some so difficult to put into words they're almost justified remaining hidden.

I know, I just light up a room don't I?

My insurance company said once hidden damage is discovered, there are questions that have to be answered. Is it a total loss? Is it repairable? And at what cost.

The very same questions that need answers with our own hidden damage.

Some people keep driving for years until they finally break down, because either they didn't know it was there or knew but just ignored it.

The truth is there's always hidden damage that can use some attention. Often, if you're willing to put in the work, it can be repaired. Maybe not as good as new, but well enough to work.

But first, like the guy at the body shop said, you have to look for it.

The great crash of 2010

So here's what it felt like.

Remember the movie Duel?

It was a made for TV movie directed by Steven Spielberg that wound up being so good (go figure) it was released theatrically overseas.

Wonder what ever happened to that Spielberg guy? But I digress.

In the movie, an 18-wheeler, piloted by a mystery/ghost driver, decides it'd be amusing to run an unsuspecting Dennis Weaver off the road with his truck. One attempt involves rear-ending his car.

That's the image that went through my head last Monday night as I looked into my rear-view mirror a few seconds before getting rear-ended coming home on the 405 South.

Now, first things first. I didn't get hit by an 18-wheeler. I got hit by a 1999 Pontiac. I don't know which model it was, but at least it wasn't an Aztec. That would only be adding insult to injury for everyone involved.

Fortunately, unlike the truck in the movie, the Pontiac wasn't going 80 or 90. It was going about 25 mph when it hit my car. Unfortunately, I wasn't moving at all since I was stopped in rush hour traffic. Do the words "sitting duck" honk a horn?

I was taught when I stop in traffic, it's always a good idea to leave some room between me and the car in front of me. That way, if I get hit from behind, I won't get slammed into that car. Even though I didn't like the way I found out, it is nice to know that lesson actually works in the real world.

After the other driver and I pulled over to exchange information, I asked her why she hit me and how come she didn't see me. She said she was looking in the mirror and just didn't look up in time.

Now, when I heard that, two thoughts immediately ran through my aching head. I wanted to express the first one to her in two words, which I did not. The other was, looking in the mirror? Really? Why would she tell me that, even if it's the truth?

We tried to see the damage to my car, but the fact that I drive a black car and it was nighttime wasn't really helping.

I looked at her car and felt really bad. Not because it was trashed, but because it was a 1999 Pontiac.

The good news is my car was drivable, she was insured, and no one was hurt as bad as they could've been.

So while I wait for my bumper, and any hidden damage the body shop uncovers, to be repaired, I'm driving a rented Ford Flex. It's a huge, SUV-esque car that's as long as a school bus and drives like a truck. It's way bigger than a car needs to be.

Right now, it's the perfect car for me.

The downside of freelance

I feel like crap.

When I was in Vegas earlier this month, towards the end of my trip I got sick. Really sick. Some cold/flu-y kind of thing.

But I was a good patient.

I changed my flight and got home as soon as I could, drank fluids, slept and rested for the next four days (a lot of people think that's what my week looks like on any given day).

Tomorrow, I'm going in to an agency I've never freelanced at before, to work with people I've never worked with before. And I can tell from the aching, the fever, the sneezing and coughing, that the cold/flu-y crud from earlier in the month has decided to pay a return visit.

But there's not much I can do about it. When you're freelance, the show must go on. And by show I mean day rate.

In the past when I've worked on staff somewhere and been sick, I'd just cash in a sick day, take care of myself, and then come back to work the next day feeling better. Unfortunately, when you're freelance there are no sick days. Not paid ones anyway.

I also used to get mad at people who'd come to work sick and risk infecting the rest of us with whatever they had. Obviously, both myself and my wallet have reconsidered our position on that.

So I'm going to go to bed early - and by early I mean after Dexter - get as much rest as I can, and hope I feel better in the morning.

I want to make a good first impression at this new gig. Something hocking up on your colleagues rarely does.

The 101st Post

If you know anything about me, you know I'm one of the least disciplined writers around. Even if you didn't know anything about me, you could probably tell that from the infrequency of posts to this blog.

I'm easily, very easily, distracted when I finally make the hair-pulling, angst-ridden decision to actually sit down and write something. Shiny objects. New episode of Dexter. Cold pizza in the fridge. Run to the newsstand (to see what other writers are writing). Catching up on phone calls. Changing batteries in the smoke detectors. Folding laundry. Gassing up the car.

Pretty much anything really.

Since I'm pretty sure no one expected me to get this far, least of all me, I imagine the fact I've completed a 100 posts to this blog won't be a big deal to many people.

Like my friend Rich, who's written over 366 posts since starting his blog. Or my friend, former office wife and partner in snark Janice, who's written over 312 posts since she started her blog.

Here's the difference: they're both disciplined writers who set out with a goal to accomplish a certain number of posts in a certain amount of time.

I know, crazy talk right?

But damned if they didn't. And if that's not crazy enough, now that they've both reached their goal, to the pleasure of myself and the rest of their readers, they're going to continue on with their angry, brave, humorous, insightful, intelligent, revealing, fun to read, fun to talk about blogs.

Truthfully, I'm kind of happy with my little accomplishment here. But I do realize that if I ever hope to catch up with them I'd better get writing.

Right after I get some coffee.