One and only

I'm an only child. And I'm okay with that.

Sure, I don't really understand the whole sharing thing. Or not having my way when I want it. But for the most part it hasn't held me back.

Naturally there's been one or two times in my life where it would've been nice to have a sibling. For example when my parents died. As you'd expect, an extremely tough time. It would've been nice to have somebody who knew exactly what I was going through because they were going through it too. Another tough time: when Springsteen tickets go on sale. A brother or sister would double my chances of getting the good seats.

When I tell people I'm an only child, I usually get one of two reactions. They'll say, "Oh you're so lucky." Or they'll give me a sad, sympathetic look and say, "Oh that's a shame."

It's not a shame. For the most part, it's awesome.

I have lots of friends with siblings. Some of them get along, some don't. Many of them have found a way to negotiate a truce because they have family obligations and joint decisions that have to get made, none of which happens if they're fighting like cats and dogs all the time. But it always seems like an uneasy truce.

I also have people I don't get along with. The difference is when I don't get along, I can get away. I don't worry about having to see them at home, or running into them at family events or holiday dinners.

Also, I think because I'm an only child my friendships take on even more importance in my life. Well, some of them anyway (you know who you are). I tend to invest time and energy to nourish and grow them, and find myself getting more than just a little out of sorts when that investment isn't returned in kind (you know who you are).

Anyway, I'm not making an argument for being an only child. I'm just saying there are worse things that could happen in the world.

That would be the world that revolves around me.

The 77th

I am never complaining about a tough day at work again.

Last Saturday night, I had the privilege of riding along with Sgt. Sandoz of the L.A.P.D. 77th Street Community Police Department. It's located in the heart of South Central Los Angeles, and to say that it's a busy division would be an understatement.

I joke a lot about growing up on the mean streets of West Los Angeles (north of Wilshire). But driving through South Central on my way to the station makes that joke ring incredibly hollow. I was born and raised here, yet I've never been in that part of the city.

Sadly, many residents there have never been out of it.

When I first arrived at the station, Sgt. Sandoz gave me a tour. I met many officers, who were all welcoming and surprisingly upbeat, funny and optimistic given the work they do.

And the high crime area they do it in.

I was shown things the general public rarely sees: the holding cells, all metal - makes it a lot easier to hose down. The watch commander's office. The weight room where officers work off some of the stress of the job. The very overcrowded jail at the station, including the two padded rooms which were occupied.

I was also shown the breathalyzer station, or as Sgt. Sandoz called it "Comedy Central", where drunk driving suspects try to fool the machine. I saw a few suspects try to do just that later in the evening when we came back to the station.

The vial of medical marijuana one of them had probably didn't help any.

Every day, the officers have to check out the weapons and patrol cars. We walked up to a counter in front of a room where the walls were lined with shotguns to get ours. Well, his. I didn't get one. (I also didn't get a bulletproof vest. Forest Whitaker got one when he was there researching a role for a movie. I'm just sayin'.)

Anyway, after Sgt. Sandoz got the shotgun and car keys, we went into the station lot to find our car: number 89173. Here's the thing about the 77th parking lot: sitting in the overhead pipes throughout the lot are giant stuffed animals keeping watch on everything. Don't ask.

We got in our car and were off. I told Sgt. Sandoz I fully expected the four words I'd hear most from him were, "Stay in the car." But he said not at all. I was riding with him as his partner. As far as anyone knew, I was a police officer and I was welcome to be right there with him on the calls.

While we were driving the real mean streets, I got to run license plates for stolen cars on this laptop that sits between the front seats in the patrol car. I actually was pretty good at it. When we'd pull up to a red light, or behind a Toyota or Honda (the most frequently stolen cars), I'd run the plates. Unfortunately I didn't get any hits. I was seriously hoping for a high speed chase. Maybe next time.

I also got to sit in at the 911 call communications center for the entire city of Los Angeles. Listening in on a few of those calls, and the way the 911 operators handle them, gives an entirely new definition to the word "patience".

I'm not going to go into great detail, but here are a few of the calls I went out on:

- A domestic violence call. We parked down the street from the address and waited for another unit to get there before we went in. The woman, visibly bruised and scratched, said her boyfriend was sitting in a car in the back of the apartment with their baby. The officers and I went around back, and saw him with the baby in the backseat of an old BMW. They asked him to come out and he didn't right away. There's a moment where you have no idea what's going to happen, what he's going to do to himself, the baby or us. But eventually he got out, gave the baby to the officers and the police cuffed him and took him away.

- An AIDS patient wanted to kill himself. He very calmly explained to both Sgt. Sandoz and me that he was overwhelmed with his own situation, and that his ailing mother who lived with him was driving him crazy and he wanted to end it - although he hadn't given any thought yet as to how. He was still healthy and showing no signs of the disease. A second unit arrived, and he was taken away for psychological evaluation.

- A man brandishing a gun. This was interesting for a few reasons. The apartment where this happened was at the corner of Florence and Normandie, flashpoint of the 1992 riots after the Rodney King verdict. Up until this point, I'd only seen this intersection from an overhead shot on the news. The man allegedly brandishing the gun was in a back unit you got to by going down a narrow walkway with apartments on both sides. The people he was threatening were family. Several units arrived (mention "gun" and the party's on), and a helicopter was called in to shine some light on the place. Myself and several officers were lined up against a side of the walkway, as they told everyone in the back unit to come out with their hands over their heads. Which they did. They were cuffed, and faced the wall as the officers went into the apartment to make sure no one else was there, and to retrieve the gun. It turned out there was never a gun, and it was an extremely heated family argument that triggered (see what I did there?) the whole incident. Once the situation was under control, we were back on patrol.

Since it was a relatively slow evening, at least the part of it I was there for (7PM-1:30AM), I didn't see anything really hardcore (bodies, shootouts, more bodies). Actually kind of grateful for that.

The real crime happening everyday is the budget cuts to the department that force these dedicated, overworked and underpaid officers to stretch their limited resources virtually to the breaking point. If you're so inclined, and you should be, sending a letter to Anthony Villaraigosa or Governor Brown asking them not to cut the budget where law enforcement is concerned can do nothing but help.

I want to give a huge thank you to Sgt. Sandoz and all the great people working at the 77th, not only for letting me have this incredible experience, but for who they are and what they do each and every day for all of us.

Roger that.

Tonight's the night

Tonight's the night of my LAPD South Ride Along. I'm pretty sure the four words I'll be hearing the most are, "Stay in the car."

Anyway, I'll have a post about it when I get back at 3AM.

Meanwhile, you can sleep easy knowing that the mean streets of L.A. are being patrolled by yours truly.

Sure it could be dangerous, but not to worry. I look fabulous in Kevlar.

Roger that.

A shot in the dark

If you know anything about me, and really, shouldn't you know something about me by now, you know that I do loves me a good game of craps every once in awhile.

Well, come to find out that thrill of rolling the bones and not knowing exactly if my number's going to come up apparently extends well beyond Vegas.

In fact, all the way to my doctor's office.

Every flu season, my doctor offers me a flu shot. It's an offer usually met with cynicism and a polite refusal. I rarely get the flu, and the ones I have gotten haven't been that bad.

Until now.

I remember the great flu panics of years past: Swine flu. Avian flu. Hong Kong flu. I also remember everyone in the media getting the message out, telling people to get their flu shots.

This time, I wish I'd listened.

I've just spent ten days down - way down - with the flu. This was no lightweight virus. This was a wicked, ass-kicking, anti-Semetic, vindictive, petty, vengeful flu that was relentless in making me feel as bad as it possibly could for no reason at all.

I'm not sure what its official name is. I call it the Creative Director flu.

Fortunately it didn't come with some of the messier symptoms that can sometimes accompany the flu. It was mostly fever after fever, 24/7 aching from head to toe, and a fatigue that would necessitate three hour naps after a walk from the bedroom to the bathroom.

The good news is I lost my appetite as well as a little weight, and now have a newfound appreciation for mango juice from Trader Joe's.

As a result of this latest bout, I'm now even more of a hand-washing fanatic than before. On the hand-washing scale, I'm way north of my kids and just slightly south of Howard Hughes.

I've learned my lesson. Next year, I'm rolling the dice on the flu shot.

Even if it only lessens the misery, I'll consider that a win.

Unmistakably extortion

I'm going to tell you the truth: it's not cheap being me. One of the reasons is that being a theater arts major (Really? Which restaurant?), and a lover of the thee-a-tah, I like going to plays. Not that I don't get enough drama in my real life. I work in advertising. I'm used to farce on a grand scale.

For me the stage holds a particular magic not found anywhere else.

Here's the other thing: I'm at a point in my life where, not only am I not willing to sit in the fourth balcony, I also won't beg, borrow, steal, wait, connive, cajole, call in favors and con people to get good seats.

I save that for Springsteen concerts.

Instead, I pony up the bucks and subscribe.

Now the alleged benefit of subscribing is you get better seats than the general public, and enjoy the same ones for each production. The most positive experience I've ever had with a subscription was the Shubert Theater in Century City. It's long gone, and in its place sits the Death Star (CAA). What the Shubert subscription gave me was killer seats - fourth row, dead center. Every season, every production.

When the Shubert went away, I became a subscriber to the Ahmanson Theater. I've been a subscriber over 10 years, and that entire time these have been my seats.

Fortunately the Ahmanson isn't a ginormous theater, so these are reasonably good.

However, each and every time we see a production there, I can't help noticing there are 17 rows in front of us, each one closer to the stage than we are.

But the Ahmanson wants to keep their subscribers happy.

So they enclose this form with the season subscription renewal that lets you check a box if you want to improve your seats by moving them closer to the front and center.

We've checked these boxes every year for ten years.

Guess where our seats are?

Really, who do you have to upstage around here to get better seats at this place?

I decided to read through the renewal package a bit more thoroughly. I thought somewhere inside there it might tell me how, after subscribing for 10 years (did I mention that?), I could guarantee myself better seats.

Well, of course it did. I just hadn't seen it before. Switch on the light bulb and cue the choir. Suddenly, it was all so very clear to me when I came upon this cheerily written yet profoundly disheartening little paragraph:

See the problem?

I thought by being a loyal subscriber for over a decade, at some point that loyalty would be rewarded with better seats. Come to find out that's not the way it works. Says right there in black and white you have to become a "donor" to get put on the "fast track" for better seats. It kind of begs the question: how much do you have to donate?

One year, we decided to test the waters and donated a tax-deductible $600 to see what that did for us.

Guess where our seats are?

Luckily, the Ahmanson provides a valuable service for its current and future subscribers. Instead of taking up valuable time making up your mind whether you want to donate and how much, they conveniently suggest a donation when you renew your subscription.

They even have a little box you check to show your desire to "support the theatre I love."

Funny, I thought that's what I've been doing for the last decade by subscribing.

And since I know $600 doesn't buy better seats, what exactly does their suggestion of $265 do besides prime the pump to get you in the habit of handing them money season after season.

Actually, if I'm going to be honest, the $600 we donated did buy us one thing: unrelenting calls for months on end at dinner time and weekends, sometimes three and four a week, asking us to donate more.

Thank God for caller I.D.

If the Ahmanson ever has a production where an actor has to portray a character who'd just as soon rob you than look at you, I know a great place they can research the part.

The subscription office.

Groundhog's meeting

How many times has this happened to you?

You're in a creative meeting with other teams, and the creative director is telling you about the television spot he wants you to come up with. He says the spot should be moving. Should make the consumer feel something besides nauseous or insulted. You should make it unlike anything the competition is doing. Unlike anything that's been seen or done before.

Here's the funny part.

Immediately on the heels of instructing you and your colleagues to make it different, he starts subtly dropping code words that every creative recognizes. Words that tell you to make it exactly like what everyone else is doing.

If you're not in advertising you may have a hard time understanding this. The only way you'd have a harder time is if you were in advertising.

The truth is that in creative meetings at agencies across the country, this kind of thing happens more often than a Charlie Sheen interview. It's the reason so much advertising looks alike.

A writer friend of mine (who had a joke in the meeting that I'm still laughing at) told me that he never bites the hand that feeds him. Excellent advice.

So I'll work on the spot, using the directions I was given. One of which was to make it great.

I'll start by looking at a great spot the competition did.

My Jesus moment

It was a genuine turn-the-other-cheek moment.

Yesterday I took my son and daughter to see the new movie Thor. If you've seen the lead actor in the ads, you know he's tanned and has long blonde hair.

I call him Malibu Thor.

And if you've seen me, you know how incredibly similar Thor and I are built. I swear, during the scene where he had his shirt off it was like looking in the mirror.

But I digress.

Anyway, we cut it close getting to the theater in time, but were lucky enough to get three seats just a couple steps up the stadium-seating theater. I sat on the aisle.

At some point early on in the movie, I noticed a father with a young baby in his arms come down and stand in the hallway to the theater, just the other side of the rail for the stairs up to the seats. After a little while, his baby started banging on the rail, and frankly the reverberation of the metal every time his kid hit it wasn't enhancing the soundtrack in the slightest.

After letting this go on for a longer time than was reasonable, I leaned over to the dad and politely asked in a whisper if he could stop his baby from banging the rail. With that, he turned to me, bouncing his baby in his arms, and said, loudly, "He's just a kid man. F&#k you!"

Needless to say, not the response I was expecting.

Two things immediately went through my mind: first, it's going to be interesting to hear baby's first words when he's old enough to speak. Second, since I had my kids next to me, and they (and most of the theater) heard the entire exchange, this might be an excellent teaching/learning moment for them.

So instead of engaging this moron, I just kind of laughed it off and returned to watching Malibu Thor. When I did this, I noticed that he retreated back a bit, and moved his baby out of banging range of the rail. He didn't say another word to me, and stood there for the entire film, scared his baby was going to start crying in the theater.

Personally, I don't see why. What is it about seeing an ear-shattering, violent movie about the warrior Norse God of Thunder that would make an 8-month old baby cry?

When I got up to go to the bathroom and walked right by them, I realized I had about 60 lbs. on the guy. He saw me get up, and took a step back as I came around to pass him. When the movie ended, his wife came down from wherever she was sitting, and they quickly left without giving me another glance.

Now, I work in advertising. Believe me it's not the first time I've been F-bombed. But I was proud of myself for going completely against my true nature and not engaging with the guy.

Like I said, a genuine turn-the-other-cheek moment.

By doing so, I had returned the compliment without ever having to say it.

Plus my kids got to see that you don't have to engage every asshole who comes at you.

So all and all, an interesting and educational afternoon at the movies.

Of course, if I'm being honest with myself - which I so rarely do because where's the upside in that - I know if my kids weren't with me, this is probably the Jesus I would have followed.