Urine no position to talk

I am a series of contradictions. I’m private by nature, but also a little social butterfly. Outgoing, but guarded. I like good conversation, but have no patience for small talk. I’d never describe myself as chatty, especially in certain places.

Like elevators. Or restrooms.

For some reason, the design of most men’s rooms is far too neighborly for me. At least a lot of them have the good sense to put up a divider between urinals. But even that doesn’t stop these lamebrains with full bladders and empty heads from wanting to strike up a conversation while emptying the tank.

Here’s my question: how starved for conversation are you that you feel the need to talk to a complete stranger while they’re peeing?

It usually starts with a head nod, and the usual, “Hey.” Who the hell knows where it goes from there: sports scores, cars, women. Happy to talk about them all.

Just. Not. Here.

It’s like going to clubs and seeing guys in the men’s room on their cell phones. Is that the best place to make the call? Not that urinals and toilets flushing don't make a lovely backdrop to the conversation.

Fortunately, side-by-side isn’t the only option where I’m currently working. There’s one urinal off by itself, a stall wall on one side, and a tile wall on the other. Conversation proof and private. Or as private as it can be in a public restroom. This is the one I use. If it’s busy, I’ll leave and go to another men’s room on another floor in the building. They’re all the same.

I know what you're thinking: if I want privacy, why not just use a stall? Because if I use a stall I have to close the door and lock it. I'm a bit of a germophobe. I don't want to touch more things than I have to, if you get my drift.

So a little advice when nature calls. Go, do your business, and leave. Don’t strike up a conversation, with me or anybody else.

Because you know what's almost more unbearable than being involved in a bathroom conversation? Listening to one.

Movin' on down

I have a good friend who's constantly reminding me that any day above ground is a good day. I think that's probably true for most people.

Unless you're Sherman Hemsley, who's been above ground since he died of lung cancer on July 24th.

Well, above ground and in refrigerated storage in a funeral home in El Paso.

A long way from the east side.

Seems the hold up was, and I know you'll be as shocked as I was, money. After Hemsley died, his half-brother crawled out of the woodwork and sued his brother's companion of the last 20 years, Flora Bernal, to be made executor of his estate. Sadly, it's been a very long time since The Jeffersons. His estate was estimated at just over $50,000.

Today the judge ruled against his half-brother, and kept Flora Bernal executor per Hemsley's last wishes in his will. She is now free to manage his estate, and finally put his body to rest.

There's not a lot of dignity in death as it is. But being on ice for three and a half months while people fight over your estate sure takes away what little there may have been left.

But it's all settled now, and he's finally movin' on up to that deluxe apartment in the sky.

Finally, rest in peace Sherman.

Enforce the death penalty

Last Tuesday, Proposition 34, which would've repealed the death penalty in California, was defeated. As well it should've been.

In the week leading up to the vote, and early election eve before all the precincts had been counted, some of my well-intentioned friends were posting fast and furious about how Prop. 34 needed to pass. They talked about how immoral the death penalty is. How it isn't a deterrent. That it was costing the state too much.

As if it were about cost.

I love my friends, and appreciate their sentiments. But I'd like to explain why I think they're wrong on this one. Let's take it point by point:

Moral equivalency

For starters, I've never bought the argument that putting murderers, and in particular child murderers, to death brings us down to their level. It is an absolutely false analogy. Violently murdering innocent adults and young children, then executing the murderer as a consequence of their crime are two completely different things. No matter how much you'd like them to be, they aren't morally equivalent.

Not a deterrent

The fact is the death penalty is the best deterrent there is. Not to criminals in general, but certainly to the individual being executed. I guarantee you nothing deters a convicted murderer more from committing another murder than being put to death. Besides, while some corners would have you believe the reason for it is to act as a deterrent, it's not. It's about enacting justice for a heinous crime.

Costs too much

I recognize it's a reality, but it still seems vulgar to me to talk about it in terms of cost. And I'm not sure where cost comes into the equation when it comes to justice. The argument is all the mandatory appeals that go on for years - years that are torturous and cruel for the victim's families - is much more expensive than life imprisonment. Although most anti-death penalty proponents choose to ignore it, when the hidden cost of items like medical care, psychiatric care, educational benefits (yes, benefits) are factored in, especially for convicted killers with a life expectancy of 40 or 50 years, it becomes more costly to warehouse them for life. If people are genuinely concerned about the cost, instead of arguing against the law they should be advocating for the layers and years of appeals to be handled in fiscally responsible, expeditious manner.

It's inhumane

I think the notion that lethal injection - executing a prisoner in the same manner as you'd euthanize a pet - is inhumane needs a point of reference. Inhumane as opposed to what? Stabbing a 4-year old child 50 times in the bathtub? Using the claw end of a hammer to bludgeon someone to death? Decapitating a 7-year old, then for good measure cutting off his hands and feet? It's nice to care so much about the guilty, but I believe the concern is misplaced.

And while we're on the subject of inhumane, let me again mention the victim's family. The real inhumanity is the fact they have to wait decades while the California appeals process runs its course. Decades without their loved ones. Decades of knowing their tax dollars are paying for three squares a day for the monster that killed their baby, sister, brother, mother, father, friend. I not a big fan of Texas, but in 1998 they passed a law expediting the appeals process. People think they execute people like crazy, but the numbers tell you they don't have a higher amount of people on death row. They execute a higher percentage of them because of the expedited appeals.

I also notice many of my friends against the death penalty aren't parents. I'm not saying that in a judgmental way, it's just an observation. I do think, as any parent will tell you, that having children changes your perspective on the issue in ways you never could've expected. I can't even watch movies like Ransom or Without A Trace anymore.

I do agree the system needs to be overhauled, although probably not in the same way my friends do. Again, I think California needs to take a page from Texas' book and reform the appeals process. Expedite it, and reduce the number of appeals given to convicted murderers, especially in cases where DNA is the primary evidence.

If you've followed this blog at all, you know this isn't a new position for me. I've posted here, here, here, here and here about criminals for whom death doesn't come close to being a good enough punishment. Sadly, there never seems to be any shortage of them.

My wish is that nothing bad enough ever happens to anyone I know to change their mind if they're against it.

But I also hope they consider the people who's lives are forever changed by these killers, and think about the only way they and the victims can ever truly have justice.

Argo and see it

It seems to me one of the toughest hat tricks to pull off when you’re making a movie based on a real-life incident is building suspense when the audience already knows how it ends.

In fact, that used to be my joke when anyone said they were going to see Passion Of The Christ. I’d say, “Want to know how it ends?” I love that joke – if they ever re-release the movie I may resurrect it.

BAM! Thanks, I’ll be here all week. Tip your waitress.

Back to the point.

When a movie’s able to pull it off well, to make you forget the actual real life outcome and root for the ending, it’s downright miraculous. The ones that do it well, movies like Apollo 13, Miracle, Thirteen Days or JFK, are rare.

The reason I mention it is I saw Argo for the second time this weekend. It’s an outstanding picture, and Ben Affleck – already one of my favorite directors - is batting three for three. Not a lot of people knew about the clandestine operation by the CIA to get the six hostages out of Iran disguised as a movie crew during the height of the hostage crisis. But once the publicity machine started, everyone knew it was successful.

Despite that knowledge, the suspense is breathtaking. You’re literally on the edge of your seat.

At the end of the film, during the credits, the actors are show side-by-side with the real life people they're portraying. If there was ever a film that made the argument for a casting director Oscar, this would be it.

After a long, summer drought of movies I've wanted to escape from, it's refreshing to find one I want to escape to again and again.

The Shithouse Poet

One of the jobs of a copywriter is to find exactly the perfect words to describe what you’re talking about. Revision after revision, you rewrite, hone and whittle the copy down to turn the precise, interesting phrase to perfectly describe your subject.

When you get there, you know it instantly.

And when someone else comes up with it, you know that too.

I have a writer friend of mine I’ve known coming up on twenty years. He’s a writer of some renown in the business, and we’ve worked together as well as crossed paths at a number of agencies over the years.

This one agency we worked at decided to bring in a creative director to bolster its creative chops. So they brought in a guy originally from one of the big cities in California. I won’t say which one.

But it’s known for, among other things, sourdough bread, a bridge and cable cars.

Anyway, this creative director fancied himself a renaissance writer. He'd made his reputation with two big successes: drinking before eight in the morning every day of his life, and making sure no one he ever worked with in that California city remembers him in a vertical position.

I kid. I kid because I love.

Actually the award-winning, nationally recognized work he did for a sparkling water account and, at the time, a brand new car company is where he made his mark. He had a folksy style he thought was appropriate regardless of the account he was working on.

He also had a deep baritone voice he decided would be the voiceover for all the radio and tv we were doing on every account.

Someone thought very highly of himself.

I was talking to my writer friend one day about this creative director, and my friend called him the "shithouse poet."

I was crying I was laughing so hard. It. Was. Perfect. In two exacting words, he'd captured the essence of who this guy had been, was and would always be.

I'm still in awe of it.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, the phrase pops into my head. And when it does, it brings me as much joy as the first time my friend said it.

Sparkling water, cars or anything else, I'm pretty sure the shithouse poet never described anything so perfectly.

The impossible dream

Tossing and turning, bathroom runs and a dog that picks 2 a.m. to bark at nothing. Whatever happened to a good night’s sleep? I can’t even tell you the last time I had one. I can tell you I’m not alone.

Everyone I know is walking around in this fugue state brought on by sleep deprivation. I don’t have a friend who’s getting the rest they need and deserve. What makes it worse is since I’m awake so much of the night, I have plenty of time to sit there and remember a time when I could just hit the sack, and log about nine or ten hours in what would seem like the blink of an eye.

Not anymore.

The result is a never-ending state of this low level exhaustion which I’m pretty sure can’t be good for me. I think I need to stop checking my iPhone every few minutes, turn off the television before midnight and quit drinking a glass of water before I go to bed. The brain waves have to be slowed down (although many people who work with me would argue they’re plenty slow already).

The other problem is it seems when I finally hit my best sleep, the one where I’m dreaming and really down deep, it’s time to get up.

So much of life is timing.

If catnaps were an option during the day I’d definitely do it. I’m at the point now where, even if I can’t have it straight through, I’m going to take my sleep where I can find it.

Come to think of it, I have three meetings tomorrow.

Better remember to bring my pillow.

Humerus ain't it

The top step strikes again.

When you come visit our house, there's a winding, brick walkway from the sidewalk to our front door. You climb four stairs from the street, then two more at the front door.

Those last two are the ones that get you.

A few years ago I personally tripped on the top step, went flying into the door jamb and cracked my head open. When I got to the ER, because the head is so vascular, I looked like I'd been at the scene of the murder. After a quick exam, the choice the doctor gave me was stitches or staples. I took the staples. I thought it would be some high tech piece of equipment that seamlessly and painlessly stapled the wound together so it could heal quickly. Not so much. It felt like a Swingline from Office Max.

Medical technology isn't nearly as sophisticated as you'd hope.

Anyway, last night, the top step claimed another victim.

My mother-in-law had picked up my daughter and was bringing her home. My daughter went into the house first, and Grandma was behind her when she caught her shoe on the top step and went flying into the door jamb with her full weight propelling her. She hit her right side hard, and broke her humerus bone just above the elbow.

The x-ray above isn't hers, but it's about what her injury looks like.

She's 85 years old, and tomorrow morning she'll have surgery to repair her arm. Then both her and her dog Barnabus will stay with us a bit while she recuperates.

Her outlook is good and she's in good spirits. Her blood pressure is 120/70, and despite her age she's never taken a pill for it a day in her life. Plus her side of the family usually goes to around 100, give or take.

Essentially what I'm saying is the door jamb didn't try hard enough. It's going to take more than surgery, healing and physical therapy afterwards to keep her down. She's going to be around a long, long time.

Which is exactly the way we like it.