My second career

I own a black car. Do I own it because I think it looks sleek and stealthy?

Of course.

Because it matches my limited wardrobe on most days?

Absolutely.

The statement it makes about me those other colors can't?

Definitely. Although I do think it'd be a better statement if it were a black Porsche instead of a black Lexus.

Which reminds me, I have to raise my day rate. These agencies have no idea what a bargain they're getting. Recession my ass. They're whining like babies "waaa waaaa our budgets.." "waaaa waaaa client won't let us..." "waaa waaaa you know if it was up to me...." all while they grind freelancers so they can pad their bottom line. Don't get me started.

I feel I may have wandered off point.

What I was going to say is that the main reason I own a black car is because I'm a glutton for punishment. If you've ever owned one - and I've owned five of them, in a row - you know it's nothing short of a second career keeping it clean.

I don't know what percentage of cars that go through car washes are black, but I'm going to guess it's disproportionally high (not unlike some agency people I work with - BAM! Thank you, I'll be here all week).

And really, why even bother washing it? As the car is drying, you can actually see the dust settling on the hood, laughing at you on its way down.

But for that minute and a half they're actually clean, they do look, dare I say, sexy (again, Porsche not Lexus).

Every once in awhile I try to convince myself I could be fine with another color. That's right up until I see my car on the road in Champagne, or Desert Sand or Dusty Rose or whatever the hell that color is. Right then is when it hits me: I don't have any choice. I'll keep buying black cars.

Perhaps this story sums it up best. A few years ago my wife and were in Seattle. We were going to have dinner with Jim Walker, a creative director I used to work for. My wife called to tell him we were running a little late, to which Jim replied, "How come? Is Jeff having trouble deciding which black shirt to wear with which black pants?"

Ned Reyerson & Mother's Day

I had this idea for a post about Mother's Day being like Groundhog Day. The movie, not the holiday. It was going to talk about how, like all holidays, it's the same year in and year out. How through a carefully planned program of brunch and flowers we show our appreciation for all the moms in our life.

Something we should be doing every day.

Frankly, it was going to be a thin thread connecting the two. And the only real reason for it was because I wanted to post this clip from the movie.

So consider the clip my gift to all the moms out there. Enjoy your day.

Over and over again.

What is sis-boom-bah

Unless you like your jokes professionally tamed, the edges sanded off, watered down and served with an extra helping of corn, you already know that night after excruciating night, Jay Leno proves he isn't worthy. Certainly not of the job he's had hosting The Tonight Show since 1992 - with the exception of the seven months Conan did a far better job of it.

Jay Leno wants you to believe he's a good guy, a man of the people. The kind of talk show host you can have a beer with, and who'd never take your show away from you just because his new one flopped and he wants his old one back. Well, not so much on that last one.

To realize how bad Jay Leno actually is in the modern late night era, all you have to do is watch Letterman. Or Jimmy Kimmel. Craig Ferguson. Or Jimmy Fallon (who ever thought anyone would be saying that?).

But before all of them, there was Johnny.

Johnny Carson owned late night in a way no one else ever will. Every night, almost, for thirty years Carson put America to bed with style and wit that was at once ahead of and very much a part of its time.

When I was a kid I remember watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson one night when I was up late fighting a particularly nasty flu. It happened to be the night of what was perhaps his most famous line as Carnac the Magnificent:

Carnac: Sis boom bah.

Ed McMahon: Sis boom bah.

Carnac: Describe the sound made when a sheep explodes.

It was the first thing to make me feel better in a week. If Johnny was on, things were okay in the world. Even if they weren't.

The reason Carson's on my mind is this week's Newsweek features an article by Bill Maher remembering Johnny twenty years after his retirement. It's a good article.

The first night Leno hosted The Tonight Show in 1992, he didn't mention Carson's name once. Not to thank him, not to acknowledge him, nothing. When asked about it, he blamed it on Helen Kushnick, his notoriously overbearing manager and agent who got him the show. Many people say she orchestrated Johnny's retirement so Leno could get it.

For all his posing about being a good guy and putting out this straightforward "you know me" "I'm a regular guy" image, the fact he didn't ever thank Carson betrays Leno for what he was at the time: an ungrateful coward who didn't have the guts to stand up to his manager and do the right thing.

I'll never forgive him for it.

But his punishment is what he's become. Jay Leno, before he got the Tonight Show, used to be the best stand-up working anywhere. He'd do Springsteen-length sets. I used to love seeing him, and hearing material that was fresh, original and edgy with cleverness and insight. I imagine the Leno that did that material isn't the same one he sees now when he looks in the mirror.

Despite his publicity machine, and because of his slighting Johnny that first night, Leno will never be a class act.

Certainly not anywhere near the one he replaced.

Don't call me Toto

While I love my German Shepherd more than any reasonable person – even a dog person - should, the truth is he’s not the only dog that’s fetched my heart and not given it back.

There was Fred, the one before Max.

Fred actually belonged to my wife. Having grown up with dogs as she did, I would've expected her to research the breed thoroughly, talk to breeders, get medical checks before she bought one. She did none of that. Instead, she let her heart do the window shopping and got Fred at a pet store years ago at Beverly Center.

When she held him, he spoke to her and said he needed to come home and live with her. Which coincidentally is the same way I wound up here.

I'd always been more of a big dog person. But the thing about Fred was he had no concept whatsoever that he wasn’t a big dog. He’d take on anything: Great Danes, Dobermans, Pit Bulls, FedEx drivers. Fear just wasn’t anything he knew about it. He was a great burglar alarm. Nothing got near the house without us knowing about it. And since Cairn terriers were bred to be ratters, we never had any trace of vermin anywhere near the house (not that we do now, but when Fred was around they didn’t even think about it).

The one downside to having a Cairn terrier was the way people reacted to him. As if it was the most original comment in the world and they were the very. first. person. EVER. to think of it, they’d inevitably say, “Oh look, Toto.”

Toto my ass.

Fred was a fighter, a lover, a guardian angel. He had a sense of humor. As he got older, he was also a cranky old man. He’d lay at the foot of the bed, and when you’d touch him, like a squeeze-toy he’d emit a “grrrrrrrr” letting you know exactly how happy he was about being touched while trying to sleep.

Fred's time to go came two weeks shy of his 17th birthday. Truthfully it probably came sooner, but none of us, especially my wife, were ready to let him go.

When we went to the vet for the final time, my daughter held him while he got the shot. We all cried - sad that he was gone, happy he'd live such an outstanding life for so long (17 is 119 in dog years).

The one thing I've learned is it doesn't matter whether I own a small dog or a big one.

They all seem to have the same giant heart.

I rest my case

It's not easy to read, so I'll tell you what it says: not guilty.

I love it when things work out.

You'll recall back in January, I posted about the fact that I went out and treated myself to a nice new speeding ticket since I hadn't had one in awhile. In that post I mentioned I was going to wish it out to the cornfield by taking traffic school.

That was until I found out the fine was $360. Then I posted about how I was going to stand up to the system, fight the man and take my battle to the courtroom - figuratively speaking.

Just to refresh your memory, I fought the ticket using a little known loophole called Trial By Declaration. Basically you write your side of the story, submit it to the court, then they wait for the officer to write his side and submit it (which they usually don't do, because unlike appearing to fight you in court, they don't get paid extra for the additional paperwork - that comes out of their time). The other thing about it is that if the decision doesn't go your way, you have twenty days after receiving it to request a court appearance where you can ask for traffic school.

In my country, we call that a win-win.

So yesterday, I got this verdict in the mail from the court. Oh, did I mention not guilty?

Today, I drive as a vindicated man, knowing that wherever that officer who gave the citation is, the shoe is finally on the other foot.

Of course my shoe still has lead in it. But we'll keep that between ourselves.

ADDENDUM: There seems to be some confusion about whether I was actually not guilty, or got off on a loophole. The Trial By Declaration is not a loophole (probably shouldn't have used that word to describe it), but a lesser known and not at all publicized way of fighting a traffic ticket. According to the Basic California Speed law, which states "No person shall drive a vehicle upon a highway at a speed greater than is reasonable or prudent having due regard for weather, visibility, the traffic on, and the surface and width of, the highway, and in no event at a speed which endangers the safety of persons or property." I was not guilty by the states own definition. Don't think less of me just because I played by their rules. There are plenty of better reasons to think less of me.

We'll have a gay old time

You may have seen this video making the rounds today. It's an audio track of Pastor Sean Harris of Berean Baptist Church in Fayetteville, North Carolina telling his congregation to punch their children and break their bones if they exhibit any sign of behavior not gender specific.

I couldn't make that up.

So, a few things. Not that it makes him any less dangerous, but in no way do I believe this represents a majority opinion of the country's, or even the south's for that matter, pastors. Not even close.

He's an anomaly, like a two-headed snake. Or a viable Republican presidential candidate.

Next is that as scary as this guy is, even scarier are the homophobes - and really, what other name is there for them - in his church that are "amen-ing" every hateful thing he's saying.

But we know how this ends, right? Of course we do.

At some point in the very near future, someone will come out (see what I did there?) with pictures of the good pastor on his knees in an airport men's room, or dressed in assless leather chaps dancing to Donna Summer under the mirrored ball in a North Carolina gay bar.

Then that'll be that. His fifteen minutes will be up and hopefully he'll blow his brains (or whatever is in his head) out.

There's only one thing any pastor should be preaching to parents about their children.

To unconditionally love and accept them for who they are.

Mr. President, could you pick up the soap

It's looking more and more like John Edwards is going to get his wish. He's eventually going to be moving into the big house. Just not the one he was hoping for.

Seems the hundreds of thousands of dollars he got from two rich supporters to hide his mistress and love-child mama Rielle Hunter, which Edwards called loans, were actually illegal campaign contributions.

The government just doesn't have any sense of humor about things like that.

While the tide has turned against him now, I think Edwards, in the years to come will be hailed as the biggest boost ever to male self-esteem this country's ever seen. Years from now, husband's who get into hot water, thanks to him, will be able to say, "Okay, I'm not perfect. But at least I'm not John Edwards."

Even for a politician, it's amazing how much slime can fit into one well-dressed, perfectly coiffed package. John Edwards scum-o-meter reading is so far in the red, he made Newt Gingrich look like a saint just for asking his wife to sign divorce papers while she was battling cancer in the hospital. No easy feat.

The thing to remember is how smart Edwards thought he was, and how stupid he really is. When asked in an interview about cheating on his terminally ill wife, he replied he thought she was in remission. Which of course, as we know, makes it all alright.

We all know the illegal contributions are a cover. He's being tried for being a monumental asshole even by Washington standards.

I just hope when he gets to prison, the first thing he asks his fellow inmates is how his hair looks.