Sirius-ly

On the giant fun-o-meter that is my life, taking my car to the dealer for repair rates right up there with root canals, status meetings, prostate exams and parent/teacher nights. Each in their own way, they're all equally enjoyable.

However there is one rockin' benefit when the car’s in the shop: they give me a loaner with Sirius Satellite Radio.

The reason I enjoy it so much is the same reason my family dreads it: E Street Radio. It’s like a big, double dose of disappointment. First I pull up in a different car that for a brief, fleeting moment they think is our new car. Then, not only is that initial surge of excitement snuffed out, but the realization dawns on them that for the length of time I have it, any music they want to listen to is only going to be a fond memory. They’ll only be listening to one thing: Springsteen.

It's no secret I'm a hardcore Bruce tramp. And since, so far, I've been unwilling to pony up for Sirius in my own car (which happens to be satellite radio ready), when I have the loaner it's E Street Radio 24/7 until the car has to go back. Which of course I make sure is at the very last minute.

My kids initially give me some pushback about it, but at the end of the day I remind them if they want to go to a good school, maybe they should just stop talking and enjoy Thunder Road, Born To Run and Rosalita for the billionth time.

It usually does the trick.

The downside is that in the same way they feel an immediate loss of their music when I pull up in the loaner, I feel a profound grief when I have to turn it back in. I actually watch the attendant drive off with it before I go inside and claim my car.

I know, I have issues.

Anyway, now as I’m writing this I’m thinking it’s a new year and a new day, and maybe it’s time to just take the plunge and put that languishing satellite radio button on my car to use.

After all, that's what college funds are for.

What have you done lately

Hey, you know what's a really bad thing to do if you're trying to feel good? Compare what you've accomplished in your life to what others have accomplished in theirs.

Always a lose-lose proposition.

I was watching the Kennedy Center Honors the other night. Every year, a select group of artists is chosen for their contribution and lifetime achievement in their field. This year, as in years past, was a stellar group: Dustin Hoffman, David Letterman, Buddy Guy, Natalia Makarova and the surviving members of Led Zeppelin. All were received earlier in the day by President Obama, and during the broadcast each had tributes paid to them by colleagues after a reel showcasing their contributions was shown. To give you a little flavor of the show, here's the entire segment honoring Letterman, and a portion of the one honoring Dustin Hoffman.

I could have a reel of my accomplishments, but it'd look decidedly different. For starters, there'd be very little of my work on it (I'll wait a second while creative directors all over town nod in agreement). Not that I wouldn't be proud to display it, but as I've said many, many times here, it's just advertising. (My friend Janice, who has a fine, Parisian blog of her own, rightfully calls what we do a "legacy of garbage.")

No, my accomplishment montage would have more of a personal than universal touch to it, more of the things that matter to me. There'd be shots of my beautiful and ever so patient wife, my awesome kids and Max, the world's greatest dog. It'd have before and 14-year later after shots of my house. Did I mention Max, the world's greatest dog?

And just so you don't think I'm completely neglecting the industry that's been so good to me, I'd also include pictures of friends I've made in the business who've become real life friends as well. People who've inspired me with their monumental talent, and are constantly giving me something to aspire to. (I'll save their names for a later getting-sloppy-in-my-beer post I'm planning to do on gratitude.)

I realize I may have started this post on a somewhat less than positive note. But just so there's no confusion, I feel pretty good about my accomplishments.

Although dinner at the White House does sound nice.

The right direction

Contrary to what you may have heard, I usually don't make a habit of looking to boy bands for positive messages in an otherwise cynical and demanding world. But as you know, I have a 13-year old daughter (who is also quite the poet), and boy bands just come with the territory.

I file it under things could be worse: at least it's not non-stop Justin Bieber. Anymore.

Anyway, in a rare moment of good parenting I thought I should take a listen to what's blasting out her headphones and into her brain. And since One Direction's the group she's crazy about right now, that's where I began. I'll admit I was cynical about them right from the get go. Even though they've sold over 15 million albums, they've only been a group for a little under two years. And they only became one after Simon Cowell told them that if they wanted to return to X-Factor, they'd have perform together instead of individually.

Of course, thanks to my daughter, I'd heard their first all-handclaps-and-percussion monster hit You Don't Know You're Beautiful a bazillion times. I never paid much attention to the lyrics, because first, since when have boy bands been about lyrics? And second, none of them sound like Springsteen. But when I found this song of theirs called Little Things, I started to see an encouraging pattern.

It's about a girl who isn't in any way happy about her appearance, and how her boyfriend loves her and thinks she's perfect because of all the things she doesn't like about herself. I went back and listened to their first hit, and realized it was also telling girls that others can see the beauty in them even if they don't see it in themselves.

I know, I have way too much free time on my hands.

Still, as any dad will tell you, these are big issues in their daughters lives.

I was discussing it with my wife, saying that it's a great message considering their audience is screaming, teenage girls. Fortunately, my wife as she so often does, set me straight.

She said the songs aren't targeted to teenage girls.

They're for every woman.

Take the week off

It's been twelve days since I've posted on here, but I figured that fit right in with the season: twelfth month of the year, twelve days of Christmas. You see where I'm going here.

Now you might be thinking I've simply been too lazy to think of anything worthwhile to write about, but that's not it at all.

Actually I was out shopping for your gift, you know, that thing you told me you wanted way back in summer.

Im not saying that to make you feel bad for thinking I was lazy (but you do don't you? Ha, it worked!)

At any rate it certainly wasn't because I was busy working. In fact, almost everyone who works at an agency wasn't busy working. Every year, the Christmas spirit takes over agencies right after Thanksgiving, kicks in to high gear at Christmas parties in early December and reaches its peak the Friday before Christmas.

That's because while bonuses, flying first class, five-star hotels and expensing lunch has become mostly a thing of the past, one perk of agency life that's still around is the extra paid week off between Christmas and New Year's.

I'd like to report that it's out of the goodness of their hearts these multi-conglomerate global holding companies decide to give employees the week off. But it's more the fact that all the clients are gone for the holidays, nothing gets done or approved anyway and management wants the week off for themselves.

Still - and freelancers appreciate this more than most - a paid week off is a good thing no matter what the reason.

So, while I've had a self-imposed twelve days off from posting already, most likely I'll be giving myself this coming week off in solidarity with my on-staff comrades. In that time, I hope to write down the ideas as they occur, and have plenty of new posts ready for you in the coming year.

Have yourself a Merry Christmas, and a safe and sane New Year.

See you on the other side.

Where she's from

No snarky commentary, pithy insights, agency-slamming editorials or self-indulgent rants today. Nope, just a poem written by the most beautiful, smartest, funniest, most caring, lovliest daughter who's obviously picked up her good looks from her proud dad.

It's times like this I have the feeling I may have done something right.

Where I'm from

I am from pink woobies and hot chocolate
Early morning volleyball tournaments
And late night concerts
I am from grandma and grandpa spoiling me
And my brother always fighting with me

I am from Wendy sharing her crazy stories
And her house that is full of loud animals
I am from beautiful German shepherds
And big Herman Leopards
And family that's always there for me

I am from friends who care
And leaders that share
I am from a tree with heart shaped leaves
And roses that never forget to bloom
I am from a vegetable garden that is full of color and some things as big as balloons

I am from "Go to your room!" and "Great job!"
Making monkey bread on special days
And having yummy challah bread on Hanukah in honor of my dad
I am from sleeping in too late and waking up with God's blessings
And keeping all my blankets close to me
And staying strong with my faith

I am from memories that I keep
The ones that are in a box under my bed
On scrapbook pages
And in my head
I am from memories I will never forget

Grandma got screwed

And now for an update on the patient.

You'll remember back in October I published this post talking about how my mother-in-law had fallen on our top step, broken her arm and was about to have surgery. Well, a lot's happened since that post.

For starters, as you can see by her x-ray, grandma got screwed good and hard four times right after her fall. Given her age and the position she was in, it was exactly what she needed.

Yeah, I'm making sexual innuendos at the expense of an 85-year old woman. Deal with it.

At her recent doctor visit, he was very pleased at her progress. Her arm had regained more movement than he would've expected from someone her age so soon.

She's also lost more than twelve pounds since she's been staying with us because she's eating much better thanks to my wife's cooking and not munching on all the chocolate she has lying around her house.

I don't know what the hell my excuse is.

Where she used to walk up our driveway so she didn't have to climb four steps, she, well, she still walks up the driveway. Except when I'm with her I make her walk the steps. She's a bit set in her ways and severely exercise resistant. Going up the steps is good for her. And of course, making an 85 year old woman work harder is just one of life's great joys.

My living room couch is her bed, and she has everything she needs pretty much within arm's reach - the good arm. And while I can't parade around half-dressed as I'm prone to do, I can still watch the flat-screen late into the night because Grandma drifts off fairly early and her hearing isn't what it used to be.

She'll have her driving privileges back soon, and then I imagine she'll be moving back to her house which she visits once a week after church to pick up a bag full of an obscene amount of junk mail I can only hope for the sake of our forests not all seniors are getting.(Yes, that sentence had 54 words - let's see you do it.)

Every once in awhile Grandma complains about the unfamiliar ache in her arm. Having had a steel plate and five screws in my arm from an auto accident years ago, I completely understand the feeling. It's a unique kind of pain, only made worse when the weather gets chilly or it rains. But it does have its benefits. I used to love setting off the metal detector at the airport. In a pre-9/11 world it was a lot of fun.

Anyway, I make a point of cutting off her complaining at the pass, because it doesn't help us or her in the long run. Instead, what I do is remind her she's not the first person to have a broken arm and she won't be the last (although this is the first broken bone she's ever had).

What I should do is tell her about the great racehorse Barbaro, and the 27 screws he had to endure. And then tell her in that gentle, compassionate, caring way anyone who knows me knows I have, the four little words that would make it all better.

You got off easy.

Wheel Of B-O-R-E-D-O-M

I once told my son I couldn’t imagine a more boring television host than Nick Lachey on The Sing-Off. He took a beat, then said, “Carson Daly.”

He was right of course. But if he said that today, I’d come back with “Pat Sajak.”

A few of you may remember from this post that my mother-in-law, Grandma to the kids, fell at our house, broke her arm and had to have surgery. That was back around October 19th. Since she got out of the hospital she’s been staying with us.

Seems one of the routines we’ve fallen (see what I did there?) into has been following up Jeopardy, which we always watch, with WOF, which we never watched until Grandma was invited to use our couch for a bed for a few weeks. It always reminds me of the old joke that Vanna White is so stupid they have to light the letters so she knows which ones to turn.

But just a few viewings tell you that's the least of this show’s problems.

Let’s start here – apparently the contestants are coached to ar-tic-u-late every word in the answers clearly, distinctly and loudly.

You know, the way people talk in the real world.

Sajak always saunters over to them in his neutral color suit that totally clashes with his spray tan, makes some lame joke in a voice that has no modulation or energy, and then has some excruciatingly awful jokey exchange with the announcer before prizes that the contestants are playing for are announced.

It should replace waterboarding at Gitmo.

Here’s the thing that probably makes it even more unbearable: Grandma is a little hard of hearing, so the volume has to be up. Way up. Hear it from down the block up.

I’m trying to stay social given the circumstances, but I’m finding it too much to take. I wind up doing exactly what I tell my kids not to do: going in my room, closing the door and shutting out the world.

Or at least lowering the volume on it.