The Perfect Storm

Looking east

Looking west

Not usually one to post about the weather, but I must admit the way the sky looked on my block at sunset yesterday has brought out my inner Al Roker (yes, all of you who thought I was actually a bald, black man with glasses were right).

As you can see, the contrast between clear skies to the east, and the gathering, nuclear-glow looking storm to the west was quite spectacular. It was hard to tell whether to break out the deck chairs or the lead shields.

While the family and I were having dinner on our patio, it started to rain. Warm weather, crisp, fresh rain.

Not only the perfect storm. The perfect dessert.

My unlikely friend Mel

My friend Mel - short for Melissa - had the can tied to her at Yahoo this week, along with the rest of her department. I felt a literal pang of sympathy when I heard about it. Everyone in advertising has been through it and we all know what it feels like.

If you get laid off in advertising all it means is you showed up.

Anyway, it was interesting to me for two reasons: first, now there might be freelance work at Yahoo (see what I did there?). And second, sympathizing with Mel for this or any other reason isn't something I would've ever pictured myself doing not that long ago.

I always read my close, personal friend Janice's blog. I noticed on virtually every post she'd get a comment from someone named Mel, who I'd never heard of and she'd never mentioned despite the fact she was my office wife at Y&R. Come to find out Mel was a friend she used to work with.

Anyway, Mel would constantly leave comments on Janice's posts. Comments I'd often disagree with. Comments I'd almost always be compelled to comment on, usually in that subtle and tactful way anyone who knows me has come to expect. (btw, still waiting for that "unsend" button.)

Suffice to say it wasn't always the most positive or friendly feedback.

Eventually this back and forth got so heated, the three of us decided to meet for dinner so we could each see who was behind the comments. Needless to say, I approached the dinner cautiously (insert joke about me "approaching food cautiously for the first time in my life" here).

Long story short - although I have a feeling it may be too late for that - is that we all had a great dinner and Mel and I hugged it out.

Now I read her blog regularly, and we're pals online, through the occasional email and probably in real life if and when our paths cross again.

It's amazing what you can discover about a person once you give yourself and them a chance. Since I've gotten to know Mel a bit I see how many great things she has to offer.

In fact, there are two things in particular I really like about her: how often she reads my blog, and how often she comments on it.

Ironic ain't it.

It's showering money

There are shower people and there are bath people. For the most part, all of us here at the Ponderosa are shower people. That's because not only is it easy to take a shower, it's easy to take a shower for granted.

Right up until something goes wrong.

Back in June my wife opened a door to a closet in the back of the house that we don't use very often. When she did, not only was she hit with a musty, mildewy smell, she also stepped onto a soaking wet carpet that made a very unpleasant squishing sound. She yelled to me down the hall, "Do you know where this water is coming from?" I replied, "Narnia?"

Sometimes she doesn't think I'm so funny.

Now I'm no stranger to household flooding. I've had experience with it before. Which is why I was able to figure out the problem was the shower in my son's bathroom on the other side of the closet wall.

I immediately leapt into action to fix the problem by grabbing the one indispensable tool every Jew is a master at. The telephone.

I called the plumber.

It didn't take long for him to figure out it was a cracked shower pan. And judging by the damage, it'd been cracked for a long while (I told you we don't use that closet often).

So the first order of business was to dry out everything back there: the walls, the items in the closet and the carpet. The good news is I found out there are people for that.

The Servpro team stormed our house like the beaches at Normandy, and came in with four giant fans that sounded like a 747 taking off, plus three giant dehumidifiers. We had to close off the back part of the house for four days while all of them ran 24/7.

That is until the circuits blew.

Our house was built in 1949, and the wiring has always been a little sketchy. If we run the washer, dryer and dishwasher at the same time the circuit blows. Sure, we could rewire the place so the electrical load is more evenly distributed. But where's the fun in that?

Besides, resetting the circuits is one thing I actually know how to do.

The next thing was to call my insurance company and have a very long, unrewarding conversation with my agent. Here's the funny part: if this had been a sudden accident - like a pipe bursting and flooding the place - we would've been covered. But since this was a cracked shower pan, they wouldn't cover the repair, although they would cover the water damage.

So I was happy about that, at least until I found out how much our deductible is.

Seems in my attempt to be a shrewd negotiator, and let State Farm know exactly who they were dealing with, I tried to save a few bucks on my homeowner's policy. Somewhere along the line I said okay to a $5,000 deductible. Which is not a bad thing if you have $50,000 in damage. We weren't even close.

Also turns out there are two ways to replace a shower pan. The cheap way, and the right way, which as you'd expect costs considerably more.

Guess which one we went for?
Of course when you're involved in any kind of big home project, one thing inevitably leads to another. Since we're also replacing the tile floor, we had to take out the vanity - the cabinet and sink - to get to the tile underneath. If there was a cheap and wrong way to do it, that's how the former owners of this house did it. The vanity is no exception. When the contractor went to remove it, it literally crumbled.

So last night the family and I had a romantic evening at Lowe's plumbing and bathroom section, picking out a new vanity. And moving ever closer to our deductible.

Anyway, enough about this. Suffice it to say at the end of it all, my son will have an awesome, newly tiled bathroom with an updated vanity. And he'll be able to enjoy his newly subway tiled, leak-proof shower.

The same shower it turns out I'm going to take a bath on.

My dermatologist is Dick Cheney

You know how some things are never as bad as you think they are? Like bad hair days for example. You're the only one who really notices, and if not, the only one who really cares.

Unless it's a really bad hair day.

Then everyone's laughing behind your back and making Nick Nolte jokes.

Here's the thing: I went to my dermatologist this afternoon to have a few dark spots removed from my face. But that's not what it looks like.

It looks like I went hunting with Dick Cheney.

The way it works is the dermatologist freezes the spots with liquid nitrogen, the same stuff they store fertilized embryos, bull sperm and Walt Disney's head in. Then the spots they've treated blister, then scab.

Then the scabs fall off (aren't you glad I chose this graphic instead of a more graphic graphic?). Then you have beautiful new skin when it's done.

There are a few problems. First, the liquid nitrogen feels like it's burning even though it's actually freezing your face. Secondly, the dermatologist seemed like she was enjoying it a little too much. And finally, the time it takes to heal is somewhere between five and ten days. Which is way too long to look like I've been cleaning my gun.

Or hunting with Dick Cheney.

So I'm going nocturnal as much as possible the next few days. Thanks to my little procedure, not only will I be able to finish a few things I've been meaning to get to in the Batcave, it's also shaping up to be a great movie-going, star-gazing, moonlight walk week.

The good news is when I emerge from the darkness, my skin will be smooth and radiant with even tones.

Why go through all this pain for a few blemishes? Because when L'Oreal calls, I want to be ready.

And besides, I'm worth it.

Thank you Steve

It'll be all over the news and the internet tonight. Steve Jobs has resigned as CEO of Apple, and has been named Chairman of the Board.

While it's a nice title, judging by his resignation letter it's probably more symbolic than real.

There's no arguing what he's done for Apple. For technology. For retail selling. For movies, music and cell phones.

While all the business pundits will have their "What does this mean?" fifteen minutes tonight, I'd just like to thank Steve.

For the awesome products you envisioned and then brought to life.

For the coolest phone ever.

For the excitement and anticipation of every new product announcement. Or old product improvement.

For the laptop that I make my living with.

For the tools that allow my kids imaginations to soar.

For never wearing a suit.

For your exceptionally inspiring graduation address at Stanford.

As you enter this next chapter, I hope you have the time to heal, the energy to continue doing what makes you happy and the desire to keep bringing your unique and incomparable vision to the world.

Thank you for everything you have done. And will do.

Hard to say no

Sometimes, like almost everyone who works in advertising, I think about going client side.

While driving today, I heard a radio spot for this company. And it sounded like a good place to work.

For starters, it seems like fertile ground for new thinking. A place where every single employee counts. Where management understands that sometimes you have to swim upstream to get where you're going.

It sounded like an exciting place where explosive ideas happen on a daily basis.

It's obviously the kind of company that wants to make a splash in the marketplace. And because it's such an innovative environment, you never know when the next great idea is going to come.

So maybe I'll go to their website and fill out an application.

And if I make a mistake, I'll wait 15 minutes and then fill out another one.

No, they don't

It'd be one thing if you saw 18-year old college cheerleaders wearing these shirts. But you never do.

You know who's always wearing them? Old guys.

It reminds me of those license plate frames you see every once in awhile that say, "Damn I'm good!"

I guess "Damn I'm insecure and my self-esteem and self-worth are non-existent but I'll cover it up with this bold statement that has nothing to do with who I really am." wouldn't fit.

The other obvious contradiction is the image on the shirt. A golfer, really?

For starters, if the golfer is an old guy then why is he carrying his own clubs? In a game known for having people to carry your clubs, or a cart to drive them around in, if you're an old guy carrying your own clubs then by definition you don't rule.

The t-shirt company probably realized that not all old guys want to project the image of a failed golfer. So they came up with this biker version of the shirt. Here's the funny part: you know who's wearing these?

Not bikers.

Not real ones anyway.

The old guys you usually see wearing the biker version are the yuppie bikers. The ones you see sitting outside at Starbucks on Sunday afternoon, with their yuppie Harley's all lined up in front.

The kind of guys real bikers just love to beat the shit out of. And for that reason, old guys wearing this version don't rule either.

Somewhere along the way, the t-shirt company decided images of golfers and bikers weren't iconic enough for their old guy demographic. And I'll admit that in a world full of iconic images, they did come up with not only a great one, but a classic.

It's the timeless shot of Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston, who he's just knocked to the mat. An image that at once projects power, strength, confidence, beauty, skill and defiance. All qualities that understandably any old guy would want to project.

Except, you know, old guy golfers and yuppie bikers.

Here's the problem with it.

Ali and Liston had two classic and controversial fights. The first time, Ali was 22 years old. The second time he was 23. So an old guy wearing that shirt is kind of like a young guy wearing a shirt that says, "Young Guys Rule" with a picture of Hume Cronyn in Cocoon. I use Hume Cronyn because old guys will know who he is. I was going to go for John McCain, but too easy.

I think we've all learned a few things here today. I know I have. To sum up then: most old guys don't rule. And the few that do don't need a t-shirt saying it. They also shouldn't carry their own golf bags, or buy yuppie Harley's.

And maybe, just maybe, the most important thing we can all take away from this post is that no matter how old you are, where you're from or what year it is, that enduring picture of Muhammad Ali is always going to take your breath away.

Which by the way is another thing that's not so good for old guys.