What is glutton for punishment

I was just trying to think of something I could do to make people say, "I.Q. over 60? Please."

And I've come up with the answer (which may be the only answer I come up with - that'll be funny in a second). I've decided to do again what I've done so unsuccessfully before. I'm taking the contestant quiz to be on Jeopardy.

As you may recall, I posted here about how well it went the last time. But I'm older and wiser now. Well, at least older and fatter. And frankly I consider myself much better versed in European Capitals, Rivers Of The World and Renaissance Artists than I was last time.

The good news is in the test, I don't have to ring in with that impossible buzzer you see contestants wrestling with on the show .

Anyway, if you need me between now and tonight, you'll find me studying up on Civil War Generals, Architecture, "R"eal Words, and the ever popular Potpourri.

And of course I'll also be working on my interesting-yet-humorous-although-not-too-humorous 30-second story for when Alex briefly interviews me after the first commercial.

Wish me what is luck.

My eyes are open

I've posted before here about my problem with floaters and flashes. And I'm not talking about the kind you see downtown at midnight. Ba dum bum!

Because of all these little suckers floating around in my eyes, I have to go to my world-renowned ophthalmologist once a year so he can make sure my retina isn't detached. And every year, he gives me the same answer.

It's not detached, it's just more of a loner. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, in order to do the exam he has to dilate my eyes. An assistant comes in and puts two drops of the dilating elixir into each eye. I think one of the main ingredients is gasoline because that's what it feels like.

Once my eyes - or anyone's eyes - are dilated, they let in a whole lot of light and there's nothing you can do about it. Usually I get this exam during the day, and I have to wear three pairs of sunglasses (not kidding) to reduce the light coming into my eyes so I can see well enough to drive home.

But since this time the exam was at night, I thought I could get away with not wearing them.

So you're asking, "How'd that work out for ya?"

This is what every headlight looked like on the way home. Each one was a starburst, and every lamp shining from a lamp post looked like fireworks. It was very pretty. I think they design it that way because they know it may be the last thing you ever see as you go careening out of control across four lanes into other cars on the freeway.

The good news is it eventually wears off in about four or five hours, and then once again I'm able to see things as they really are.

Which, as anyone who knows me will tell you, was never a strong suit of mine to begin with.

Mint condition

Good news for anyone who knows a close-talker or people with absolutely no respect for personal space. Now more than ever, there's simply no excuse (was there ever?) for bad breath.

I used to think this was just a problem made up in Listerine and Tic Tac commercials. That was until I worked with a creative director who had the problem. It was the only agency I ever worked at where people arrived early for meetings, then jockeyed for the seat furthest away from him/her (I'm not telling). It was bad, and it may explain why the agency didn't do well in new business meetings.

But now with the plethora of mints to choose from at checkout, usually right below the tabloids featuring some escapade of the Kardashians (why doesn't anyone ask them where their dad put OJ's knife already?), your breath can smell minty fresh in a variety of ways.

When I was growing up (I can't believe I just started a sentence with those words), the only choice you had mint-wise was a nickel or dime York Peppermint Patty. It was awesome because it was essentially the Borg of mints: half candy, half mint.

However with the popularity of Altoids, Tic Tacs, Trident and Orbit (alright, the last two are technically gum - but really, what are you using it for: "chewing pleasure?"), we now have a choice of dedicated breath fresheners in paper, metal or plastic containers.

The challenge of course is to let the mint dissolve all the way instead of chewing it. I usually get about three-quarters of the way, then chew it like rock candy. Peppermint Altoids is my mint of choice. I have a tin in the car, in my briefcase and - when I'm working at an agency - at my desk. I think of it as the crack of breath mints. I pop 'em three and four at a time, and have built up a disturbing immunity to their "curiously strong" flavor.

Often co-workers, spouses and friends aren't aware that their breath smells like a landfill. Fortunately, Altoids also come in inexpensive, small tins as well. Which makes it that much easier if you have a colleague who could use a little breath freshening to discreetly leave one on their desk.

After all, there's a reason mint rhymes with hint.

How big is that bulge

Sorry about the somewhat provocative headline. My close, personal friend and fellow blogger Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen always tells me the more suggestive the headline the higher the readership. So be sure and tune in for tomorrow's post: Keeping A Breast Of The Situation.

Anyway, my back went out about three days ago and it hasn't come back yet. Four days ago, I was clearing a path in our garage so the termite guys could come hit a few spots where the little wood-chompers were having their winter buffet.

And not to get too much off track here, but why do all termite and pest companies have those stupid cars: VW beetles (no pun intended) with rat ears and a tail, or giant ants crawling up the side of the car? If they're carrying all that pesticide shouldn't the bugs be gone? Don't get me started.

Where was I? Oh yeah. So at one point, I lifted an extremely heavy box of books, and as I was doing it I immediately knew two things: I was lifting it the wrong way, and I was going to pay for it.

The next day, as I sat down in my big, soft, swallow-you-whole reading chair, I heard a pop in my lower back that could only mean one thing. I'm so screwed.

Since it was a holiday weekend, my chiropractor - the incredible Michelle Zarzana - was closed. I texted and asked if there was any chance she'd be in the office on New Year's Eve day. She wasn't planning on it, but said she'd be glad to come in for me.

The woman's a saint and I'm guessing has a special spot in heaven reserved just for her.

After she worked on my back I felt slightly better. Following her advice, I went home and iced my back the rest of the day. Then, going against her advice, I went to see Les Miserables with the family for New Year's Eve. Can I just tell you how good my back felt after sitting in a theater seat for almost three hours?

I dreamed a dream I hadn't done something that stupid.

On January 1st, we went to our friends house in Topanga for the annual New Year's day brunch, and I was at least able to move around.

Today, I went back to Dr. Zarzana. After working more on my back, and talking about my symptoms and pain, she concluded it's probably a bulging disc (between 1 & 2 or 2 & 3 for those of you keeping count). I asked if I'd need surgery for it, and she said no. But she did say I'd have to work on increasing my core strength, and that I definitely had to lose weight.

I get that a lot.

So now, it seems the impossible has happened. If I don't want the lead in the revival of Sunrise At Campobello (look it up), I'm actually going to have to follow through on my annual resolution to lose weight and get in better shape.

Meanwhile, if things get any worse, I may have to have an MRI and see how bad my disc actually is. Which would be okay.

At least then I could show my bulge to anyone who wanted to see it.

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.