Sub sandwich

Meanwhile, in today's news, Iran claims their missiles can strike 35 U.S. bases within minutes should Iran come under attack.

Yeah yeah. Sure sure.

Once again Iran's leadership is banging the drum loudly for their own people's benefit so they'll support the military buildup. And since the missiles can hit targets 900 miles away, and Israel's border is only 600, this kind of rhetoric plays well to the anti-semetic, effigy-burning, American flag-stomping crowds.

But what Iran's military knows all too well, even if they're conveniently forgetting to mention it to their people, is that U.S. nuclear submarines, like the Ohio-class sub shown here, surround Iran on all sides. See, their 900-mile range missile I mentioned is their most advanced. One of our regular ones has a range of 2,000 miles.

You do the math (hint: the math is we don't have to be anywhere near them to take them out seconds after they've made the piss-poor decision to launch).

I know, all this doomsday talk makes me nervous too. It's obvious the people of Iran are just as much at the mercy of bad decisions their leaders make as we are. I'd never want to test out the "our missiles are better than your missiles" theory. Ever.

But, having said that, if I'm being honest with myself (and you know how I hate doing that), I have to admit considering the recklessness, lies and irrationality Iran exhibits on an almost daily basis, I take comfort in the fact the U.S. has something besides homes underwater.

Clocked out

My pal Rich Siegel at Round Seventeen wrote a great post about the expectation of you working late if you work at Chiat. Which, if you've ever worked there, know is absolutely true.

But it's not only true of them.

Here's the thing: if I'd wanted to keep doctors hours, I would've been a doctor. Which would've made my parents very happy. Then, I wouldn't have had to explain what I do over and over to them. They never understood. Many times I don't either.

I didn't become a doctor for many reasons. One of which was that I didn't want to be on call at all hours of the night. I think it came right below "I'm not smart enough," "I'm not doing prostate exams," and "Who'd be stupid enough to have me as their doctor?"

I've been working on a major automotive client which shall go nameless - Toyota - that I've worked on before and enjoy.

Only this time I've been doing it through a small, virtual marketing agency that I've never worked at before. The experience has been something short of pleasant (except for the checks: that part's been very pleasant).

For some odd reason, this company is under the mistaken notion I'm on call 24/7, just waiting for their last minute copy changes. Which usually come after their last minute change in direction. The other night, I had no less than eight emails from them that arrived between 1 a.m. and 3:30 a.m.

I didn't read them until I woke up around 7 a.m. And I'm pretty sure if they'd taken a breath and thought about it, they'd have realized those emails didn't need to be sent in the middle of the night. No action was going to be taken on them (certainly not by me), and they could've gotten a good nights sleep (always thinking of others - it's my curse).

My friend Janice used to have this sign in her office:

I think I've found the Christmas card I'm sending to agencies this year.

Shower power

Okay, it's time to make some hot cocoa, cuddle up in the blanket, and settle in for a totally fictional story that would never happen in the real world. Never. Trust me.

Just for arguments sake, let's say there was this house. A 63-year old house. And once upon a time, not so very long ago, this house had all the pipes replaced with copper piping because of the promise that copper piping held.

High water pressure. The ability to run different showers at the same time. Hot water almost instantly.

But for some reason, the new pipes never quite delivered on the promise. So for years, the owners of the house just made do, suffering with low water pressure that barely cleaned the soap off their bodies. They were happy everywhere in the house. Except the showers.

Then, one day, the owners of that old house decided to call a plumber. They asked this plumber to snake all the drains and sinks, and see what he could do to increase the water pressure in the showers, and finally deliver on that long ago promise.

Well, this was a very smart plumber. He knew everything there was to know about pipes and water pressure. In fact he was so smart, he knew that all the new shower heads and hoses had water regulators in them. He also knew if those were removed, the water pressure would be like showering at one of the fancy hotels the family liked to go to, like The Venetian. The Hotel Del Coronado. Or The Fairmont.

Now the water regulators were there to restrict the flow of water to conserve it, because the city the house was in had had a drought for a long time. So really, it would've been wrong to remove them.

But that sneaky plumber removed them anyway, and didn't tell the owners of the house until he was done with the job. And even though the owners knew it was wrong, they sure liked the way the showers felt after he was done.

The promise of the copper pipes all those years ago had finally come true.

And the good news is even though they were using a little more water, now they didn't have to waste water while they waited almost ten minutes for it to get hot. Plus they don't have to stay in nearly as long to get clean. So it all evened out in the end.

And the whole family showered happily ever after.

Riding again with the 77th

Car thieves, kidnappers and prostitutes. No I'm not talking about ad agencies I've worked at. I'm talking about my second ride-along with the great professionals of the LAPD.

I've already written about my first ride-along experience here. But last Monday night, I had the privilege of being partnered with Sgt. Bland of the 77th Street Community Police Department. Located in the heart of South Central Los Angeles, it's a place officers gain the kind of experience in a very short time that they couldn't get at any other outpost.

I'd expected to ride with Sgt. Sandoz who I did my first ride-along with. But he was unexpectedly assigned Watch Commander for the night, and I wound up riding with the equally exceptional Sgt. Bland from 7p.m. to 4a.m.

We went to the parking lot to look for our assigned car, number 89140. Sgt. Bland handed me a spare set of keys to the car. I asked him what they were for, and he said, "In case you need them." I didn't ask anything else.

Like my previous ride-along, I fully expected the four words I'd hear most from Sgt. Bland would be, "Stay in the car." But also like before, he said I was riding as his partner and could get as close as I wanted with him to the action (with one exception).

Once the Jurassic Park-sized fortress doors from the garage of the 77th opened to let us out, the first call was a stolen van with five occupants. When we arrived, they were stopped on 76th Street, under a Harbor freeway overpass. I saw about 12 police cars with the officers out of them, standing behind their open car doors with guns drawn and aimed at the occupants coming out of the van to join the ones already on the ground, face down with arms and legs spread out as they'd been instructed.

The officers in the cars closest to the van had their shotguns drawn.

I asked Sgt. Bland why there was so much firepower for one stolen van. He said there were two reasons. First, while the officers could see five occupants, they didn't know if there were others hiding in the van and whether or not they were armed (or with what). Second was the message it sent. I asked what that was, and he told me, "You're not going to win."

It turned out there were five people in the van, and the only hidden occupant was a baby blue pit bull puppy.

There are a lot of pit bulls in South Central.

Next was a domestic violence call. When we arrived, the fire department was there as well. A woman had been pushed out of a truck, and was being treated at the scene and taken to the hospital. Her face had been badly banged up, her head was bandaged and she had blood all over her. It doesn't look anything like it does on television. We stayed until the paramedics took her away.

As we were driving off, we saw a gentleman stop his and car drop off a woman we believed to be a prostitute given the known prostitution activity in the area. He was driving down the street, except what he didn't know was that it was a dead end street.

Sgt. Bland had me run the plate on the patrol car's computer. What came up was all the information on the vehicle, as well as the owner, a Mr. Kang. Since the driver appeared to be a male Asian, we believed him to be the registered owner. We pulled around to the end of the street he'd have to come out of. When he did, we shone a light on him, and called out, "Mr. Kang. Go home Mr. Kang. Have a good night."

In case you didn't know, getting caught dropping off a prostitute by LAPD results in a very shocked expression. I thought I actually heard him pee his pants.

Oh Mr. Kang.

Next up was a liquor store robbery. We got there shortly after it happened. Two robbers had been able to gain access to the contents of a safe while they held the owner at gunpoint. The officers already at the scene had everything under control, so we left to continue patrolling the streets.

South Western and Figueroa are popular "tracks" for prostitutes. Every once in awhile we'd pull up to one, ask how she was doing and remind her to keep her eyes open and be safe. They'd say okay, then walk away quickly from the car. Nothing kills business more than talking to LAPD.

Back to the domestic violence call. When the officers followed up with the woman at the hospital, they learned who did it. It was a former relationship of hers. He had her in a truck, and when she asked him to stop so she could get out, he sped up then pushed her out into the alley.

Assault with a deadly weapon (ADW), kidnapping and domestic violence all in a matter of moments.

She told the officers where he lived, and that he kept a loaded shotgun at his front door.

We went back to the 77th, where Sgt. Bland and six other officers quickly planned a strategy for getting him. I could feel the atmosphere change and the tension ratchet up as they discussed where they'd be positioned around his house, and contingencies depending on how he reacted to the knock at the door.

A caravan of four police cars drove to his house. Remember earlier I said there was one call I couldn't get close to? This was it. I stayed in the car while the officers went to his door. From where I was positioned, I heard them knock on the door and tell him to come out. In that moment, for the first time all night, I was afraid because I didn't know what sound I was going to hear next.

Fortunately, the guy decided to not shoot it out, and was taken in without incident.

Turns out he was 5'8" and 140lbs. Seeing him escorted to the patrol car in front of me by two officers over 6' tall was pretty comical. One of them had the shotgun that was in his apartment, as well as another gun he kept in his bedroom.

And ladies, I understand he is single again. Just saying.

After that, we went back to the station. Sgt. Bland thanked me for keeping him safe out there (nice of him to say, but we both know it was the other way around).

Just like last time, each and every officer I met during the evening was exceptional. They have no idea what they're walking into from one call to the next. Yet they handle each one with professionalism, courtesy and a respect for the people they're dealing with regardless of their situation in life. It is inspiring to see, and reassuring to know.

The other thing that remains the same from my last ride-along is the resourcefulness of these officers given the limited resources due to budget cuts. These dedicated, overworked and underpaid officers are stretched almost to the breaking point.

But here's the secret: for them, there is no breaking point.

I said this in my last post, but I'll say it again: 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.

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

Roger that.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

Remember earlier in the year when I won my second LAPD Ride-Along at my kid's school fundraising auction? Of course you do. You're just that involved in my life. Thank goodness one of us is.

Anyway, tomorrow's the night.

At 7p.m., I'll be cruising the streets of South Central L.A. courtesy of the 77th Precinct, running plates, hoping for a high-speed chase and getting yet another taste of what these dedicated men and women face every day. I've already written about my experiences last time, and I'm sure I'll have more to tell the next time I post. Hopefully they'll give me a vest so there is a next time.

As you already know, having grown up on the mean streets of West L.A. (north of Wilshire), I already have some experience with dangerous criminal activity. I remember this one night there were these junior high school kids getting a little loud at the imported Italian gelato store. I'll save that story for another time.

Now that I have a sense of what it's like from last time, I'm in the be-careful-what-I-wish-for mode. The things I saw and participated in last time were fun (an odd use of the word, but I mean for a civilian) and exciting, but none of them gave me nightmares to take home. The kind of crime scenes that forever etch themselves in your memory and are out there night after night.

I think it's fair to say I'm hoping for the same this time out.

Meanwhile, if you happen to be in South Central tomorrow night and see a police car with the lights going on and off and different sirens being blasted, don't worry.

It'll just be me keeping the streets safe.

You're asking for it

Ever been with people when they fish for compliments? They'll say something like, "Doesn't this flowered hat with the lace veil look great?" Or, "Can that Tommy Bahama make great looking shirts or what?!" To me, there's always a certain sadness and desperation to it.

I feel the same way about posting birthdays on Facebook.

Now before I get the flack I already see coming from my friends who post their birthdays, let me say this: I do enjoy you giving me the opportunity to wish you a happy birthday.

I'd just rather you let me remember to do it on my own. If we're good enough friends, I will.

When you list your birthday for the world to see, my wishes for a great day mean nothing. They're lumped in with the list of birthday wishes from your other FB friends. I didn't have to remember your special day. It didn't take any effort on my part. You weren't making yourself special enough for your really good friends to think of you.

Instead, essentially, you fished for everyone to wish you a happy birthday. Wishes like that are as genuine as Mitt Romney's concern for the middle class.

As you might've guessed, my birthday isn't posted on FB. Yet on that day, on my wall, I receive birthday wishes from good friends who take the time to remember. It means the world to me because I know they've made the effort, instead of just shifting into auto-response when they saw it on the corner of their page.

It seems to me it's just one more example of Facebook revealing its true identity: anti-social network.

At any rate, please be sure to also list the date and time of your birthday party.

I'm always up for free cake with 847 of your closest friends.

Whole hell

Eating the right things takes a discipline I greatly admire and sadly lack. I'd do it more often if I could, except I fear the shock of ingesting healthy food might be too much for my body.

However, like most people, I'm not going out of my way to actively search out food loaded with pesticides, food coloring and hormones.

By the way, how do you make a hormone?

If the chickens eggs come from are free-range and cruelty-free, I'm all for it. That being said, I think we can agree that after all is said and done, it's still food. And when it comes to food, there are some things that just go against the laws of nature.

Don't pay her (read back, it'll come to you).

On the way home from lunch today, my wife wanted to stop at Whole Foods. I wanted to wait in the car. Guess who won? I don't go in there very often because all that "healthy" food just makes me feel bad on so many levels. But today I'm glad I went in, if only to reinforce my decision not to go in all the other times.

I don't think I have to tell you people how much I love bacon. I've already told you here. Just to reiterate, you know what bacon has that's good for you? Nothing. That's why it's bacon. That's why it's awesome. If I wanted my bacon to be healthy, I wouldn't be eating bacon in the first place.

So when I saw this sign, it made me sicker than the chemicals in real bacon - you know, the good bacon. No one on God's green earth is eating bacon and thinking that it's healthy for them in some way. Selling a form of it that is, or trying to make people think that way is like putting earrings on a pig.

I know, it was a long run for a short slide. But worth it.

As I walked the aisles, I found myself wondering who hurt the store's food buyer when they were a child. Obviously someone did. How else do you explain the shelves being stocked to the rafters with things that should taste good, but don't.

Case in point: Pizza. Like bacon, pizza isn't supposed to be good for you or healthy or low-fat. It's supposed to be pizza.

It's also not supposed to be called Tofurky (actually that applies to anything you eat). Non-dairy cheese? Meatless and delicious? As if these words weren't enough to make your head (and stomach) hurt, there's one word on the box that's like Kryptonite to anyone who enjoys food with...what's the word?...oh yeah, flavor.

That word, reversed out in capital letters, is VEGAN.

Now, some of my best friends are vegans. Some of my better ones aren't. And some of my friends that once were are no longer.

I can appreciate not wanting to consume animal products in any form. And I'd never advocate cruelty to animals in any way. But here's the thing: when I'm having my burger at Five Guys, the truth is the cow was dead before I got there. I'm just seeing to it that he didn't die in vain.

Alas, even Whole Foods knows their shoppers aren't always disciplined enough to stay on the straight and narrow. They know occasionally, something from a real market must make its way to the floor, if only as a bait-and-switch lure to get customers to stock up on the Kale Chips.

Vegans like barley and oats, right?