Late edition

This won't come as a surprise to anyone who's freelanced more than ten minutes in an agency.

Years ago I was freelancing at McCann and wrote a spot for the McDonnell Douglas C-17 aircraft. Ginormous, window-rattling cargo plane. The idea of the spot was to show how the plane could be used for civilian missions, and showed it bringing supplies to an area that'd been hard hit by an unnamed natural disaster (the best kind). Since the spot required a skill with real people and emotions, I thought Elma Garcia would be a great choice to direct it. So I suggested her to my partner and the creative director: they agreed and we - including me - began talking to her.

Here's the punchline.

Early on in the conversations, when everyone started realizing the spot's potential and how much fun it would be shooting on a base in North Carolina, the creative director suddenly decided my services were no longer needed and cut my gig short. He then went on to shoot the spot with Garcia. Despite the fact he liked to rewrite everything I ever showed him, he wound up shooting this one word-for-word as I'd written it. But just for good measure, he put his name ahead of mine on the copywriting credit (and ahead of the art director's on his credit) on every awards show the spot was entered in. I found this out when I picked up the New York Ad Awards show annual where the spot had won.

At least my name was on it. On a web page I looked at for this post, and I won't say who's page, it's just his name.

I know, so what else is new? Well, that was then and this is now. The ironic part is in the intervening years, I've had many reasons to consider (and still do) that creative director a good friend of mine despite his dickish ways at the time.

Over it. Really.

The reason I even bring it up here, instead of in therapy, is that during those early conversations with Elma, somehow the fact that my Dad worked at Al's Newstand for years came up. Elma couldn't believe it, because she'd shot a print ad using my Dad at the newsstand. The picture you see here.

Needless to say I was beside myself when she sent me the picture. My dad was from Brooklyn, and to me it looked like a classic New York newsstand, instead of one at the corner of Fairfax and Oakwood in L.A.

My Dad used to go to open the newsstand at 4:30 in the morning when all the papers and magazines were delivered. I hated that the heavy metal doors covering the stand weren't on sliders, and he'd have to lift them off one by one and set them to the side. To me it seemed so unfair that Al (who was great to my father for many years) would ask a man my Dad's age to do that.

But my Dad never complained even when he should've. Yet another difference between us.

I'm at a crossroad here, because my instinct is to get sloppy in my beer and go on and on about my Dad. I don't think I will.

Instead what I'll do is just look at the picture, this picture that came to me by grace and chance, and smile while I remember how much he must have enjoyed having his moment.

And how much I enjoyed having my Dad.

Welcome back cauter

Nice picture isn't it? It's sunrise over the Caribbean Sea.

The reason it's here is because it's considerably more pleasant to look at than the images I got when I Googled "nasal cauterization."

Take my word for it.

The reason I was looking that up is because I had to have it done last week. I was sitting on one of our newly reupholstered couches at home, and I sneezed. Hard. When I did, the wall of a weakened blood vessel very near the surface on the inside of my nose blew, and I started bleeding profusely.

It was like a scene out of Dexter.

Thank God I managed to get into the bathroom and over the sink so I could bleed there instead of the couch.

Now, the site of my nose gushing blood like the well in There Will Be Blood (no pun intended) would normally be enough to scare me into a panic. Fortunately, I knew what was happening because it's happened before.

The same thing occurred a couple years ago, and I had to have vessels in both sides of my nose cauterized. In case you're not familiar with cauterization - and why would you be - it's a minor procedure where they burn the vessel either electrically or, as they did in my case, chemically with silver nitrate to stop the bleeding and seal the blood vessel with scar tissue so it doesn't happen again. At least in that vessel.

It works in theory. But here's the thing: once you have it done, your body says, "Hey, what the heck! How am I gonna get blood to this guys schnoz?" So it regrows the vessel(s).

It's not necessarily the location that makes it happen. It's the fact the nose dries out and weakens them. Hence the small bottle of saline solution you'll see me spraying up there five times a day for the next month.

The other thing is that while it heals, I can't blow my nose or sniffle too hard. And I have to sneeze with my mouth wide open, which takes the pressure off the nose, not to mention scares the hell out of anyone within earshot cause it's so loud.

That part is fun.

Then there's the Neosporin that I have to apply very carefully each night with Q-Tips so my nose doesn't dry out during the night. I'd like to take a moment to thank the Santa Ana winds for their impeccable timing.

So, all in all, it looked a lot worse than it was. And at the end of the day, I realize it could've been symptomatic of something much worse. I have a lot to be thankful for.

Not the least of which is finding that picture of the Caribbean. Trust me.

The waiting is the hardest part

This is a book my therapist wrote a few years ago. I know what you're thinking: Jeff seems so well-adjusted I can't understand why he sees a therapist.

You have no idea.

Anyway, you can probably tell from the title it deals with why we can't always do what we want when we want to do it.

Or when other people want us to.

The gist of it is, no matter how good your intentions, nothing happens until you're ready.

If you've ever tried to quit smoking, lose weight, write a screenplay, ask someone out, clean the garage or whatever, despite the necessity of the task, you won't be able to complete or even start it until you're ready.

The Supremes said it best. You can't hurry love, you just have to wait.

The good news is when you least expect it, suddenly you'll find yourself doing the thing you've been meaning to do. Or well intentioned friends have been wanting you to do.

And you'll succeed because you're ready.

This shouldn't be confused for an excuse not to do anything. After all people, show a little initiative.

When you're ready.

Cut to the chase

You'd think I live in a rusty Airstream trailer, strewn with beer cans, yellowed newspapers and cigarette smoke stains on the fake wood-veneer cabinets and shag carpet.

But God help me, I loves me a good high-speed chase.

I have a system - what I like to call my personal HSC Alert Hotline. Several friends and relatives are in place near their phones at all times. When they happen to come upon a HSC as they're switching channels, they immediately call and let me know.

I take it from there. I immediately leap into action. By action, I mean drop everything I'm doing, grab the remote, switch to the station(s) covering the chase, plant my ever expanding derriere on the couch then sit back, settle in and watch the chase until it reaches it's inevitable conclusion no matter how long it takes. And know this: the really good ones can go on for hours, especially if it's an SUV with a spare gas tank.

Now you might say to yourself, "How sad he has to watch his high speed chases all alone." First, thank you for your concern. But you'll be happy to hear I don't.

The other person in my house, the only other person who appreciates the extremely high entertainment value of them as much as I do is my 12-year old daughter. The apple doesn't fall far from the police helicopter.

As we switch back and forth between channels covering the chase, looking to see which news chopper has the best overhead shot, we always ask the same question: how does the guy driving think this is going to end? Does he think the police chasing him will:

A) Run out of gas

B) Get tired and go home

C) Get lost and have to pull over for directions

D) Not drive nearly as well as he can when he's that high

And by the way, what exactly does he think that bright white light shining down on him from overhead no matter which neighborhood, on-ramp or back alley he turns on to is. The sun? The angel on his shoulder?

Not so much.

The police helicopter pilots are the unsung heroes of the high speed chase. Oh sure, we all love seeing the perp narrowly avoid crashing into pedestrians, trash cans, trees and other vehicles. And what viewer doesn't get tingly at the prospect of seeing one of the several police cars in pursuit deciding to do the PIT maneuver.

By the way, only hardcore chase fans know that PIT stands for Pursuit Intervention Technique. Go ahead, impress your friends. Win bar bets. You're welcome.

Earlier I mentioned the inevitable conclusion: here's what it is, although you've probably guessed by now. After the suspect runs out of gas, crashes the car, turns on to a dead end street, drives the tires that have been flattened by a spike strip down to the wheels - which now look like sparklers riding on the cement, loses his buzz or jumps out of the car and makes a run for it, the chopper pilot just shines the light on him as a guiding beacon for the police to come and get their man (or woman - seen a few of those too).

Occasionally they won't come out of the car when asked, and that's when it gets tense. The police surround the car, guns drawn and make it very clear what they want him to do. It gets really good sometimes when the police are distracting him on one side of the car, and then more police open the door on the other side and drag him out (sometimes they just pull him through the window if he's pissed them off enough).

I've never seen a suspect get shot, which is a good thing since my daughter is almost always next to me watching. I suppose there's always the chance that could happen, and if it does I'll try to use it as a teaching moment. You want to play, you have to pay.

When it's all over, the feeling is exactly like coming home from Vegas. Everything seems a lot slower and a little duller.

The good thing is that this is Los Angeles, so high speed chases are like buses - miss one, there'll be another along any minute.

Many people think the saddest words are "what might've been."

For me, they're "we now return you to our regular programming."

See the problem?

Apparently it's pretty easy to get a job at a bank these days. Especially since a working knowledge of math doesn't seem to be part of the job description.

I'd overpaid my overdraft account, and Wells Fargo wanted to refund my overpayment.

Instead of sending me an email, or electronically transferring it back into my account, they sent me a check. In the mail. With a 44 cent postage stamp.

Even if I was going to feel sorry for the banks - which I'm not - they're not making it easy to.

The Descendants

Maybe it’s because we look so much alike, but I’ve always been a fan of George Clooney.

Both Michael Clayton and Up In The Air have joined The Godfather(s) as films that, when stumbled upon, must be watched to the end to pick up some line read, nuance or expression I didn’t catch the first twenty-five times I saw them.

I just finished seeing his most recent film, The Descendants. Can you guess what I thought of it? Of course you can.

I’m not going to say much because far be it from me to spoil anything. But I will say a couple things.

It was directed by Alexander Payne, who also did Sideways (merlot anyone?). It has several great moments in it, like the one where your perception of one of the characters does a complete 180 in the time it takes that character to deliver one line.

Several moments take you straight to tears, do not pass go, do not collect Kleenex. There is also one spectacular moment that reaches out of the screen, grabs your heart and squeezes as hard as it can.

For that moment alone, for me, The Descendants is worth seeing.

It’s also worth seeing for Shailene Woodley, who steals the film with her frighteningly real and effortless performance as Clooney’s older daughter.

If you have a couple hours to spare this Thanksgiving weekend, this would be a fine way to spend them.

Besides, if you're looking for a way to wash away the taste of homemade turkey, nothing does the job like a movie hot dog and a 64 oz Coke.

I'm thankful someone else wrote it

It's the same challenge every year. How to kill the turkey without traumatizing the little girl for life. Wait, that's not it.

No, the challenge is writing a heartfelt holiday message that expresses just how thankful I really am for all the good things I have.

This year, you can read my heartfelt sentiments on my friend's blog since he's expressed exactly what I would've had I written it myself. Which I didn't.

And if you've read my other posts here, maybe that's one more thing to be thankful for.