Holland & Tony

As some of you may know by now, I decided to take a trip to New York a few weekends ago. I hadn't been there in a number of years, and for a variety of reasons it felt great to be back.

Not the least of which was the main reason I went in the first place: to see my friend Holland Taylor in ANN, the play she wrote and stars in about former Texas governor Ann Richards.

You know that feeling when you have an expectation about a show and hope the reality lives up to it? And you know that other feeling, the one where it wildly exceeds your expectations?

The second one.

The play was beyond whatever it was I'd imagined it would be. With the turn of a phrase, or a subtle change of tone or expression, Holland would have me laughing hysterically one minute, then crying the next. It's a performance filled with subtle nuance only a talent of Holland's caliber and experience could pull off, in the writing and the performance. A tour de force - one you come out of with the immovable conviction that the actor you've just seen is the only one you could ever imagine in the role.

The other thought I had was what a remarkable woman Ann Richards was. Outspoken, straight-shooting, wicked sense of humor and a low threshold for fools made her entry into politics an even more intriguing choice. It's not hard to see why Holland was drawn to her given their many common traits.

Anyway, to the surprise of absolutely no one who's seen her in the show, Holland is now nominated for Best Leading Actress in this year's Tony Awards. I keep telling her she needs to start working on her acceptance speech, and she keeps shushing me.

But she really needs to start working on her acceptance speech.

I know what you're thinking: I'm going on and on because she's my friend. How can I possibly be objective? It's a valid question.

Well, here's the thing about a once-in-a-lifetime role and an unforgettable performance: everyone can agree on it.

Making the grade

As we near the end of the school semester, there are a lot of ceremonies where awards and recognition are doled out to students who’ve excelled academically. Of course, if you’ve ever seen my work, read this blog, or watched me try to open a sealed-plastic set of headphones, it goes without saying I have no personal point of reference for these ceremonies.

However I’m happy to say my National Honor Society son does. He, along with many of his classmates, received certificates (suitable for framing) to remember their many accomplishments, including putting the X-box controller and iPhone down long enough to get a paper written.

As I sat at one of these ceremonies the other evening, watching 4.5 GPA student after 4.5 GPA student cross the stage, get their certificate and enjoy the well-earned applause, I couldn’t help thinking I wasn’t even smart enough to know you could get a 4.5 GPA.

At the expense of their social life, sleep, family time and sometimes their health, these students saw their goal on the horizon, and realized if they wanted it bad enough they had to fight for it. They burned the midnight oil, ordered some more, and burned that.

It was awe inspiring.

I was never that focused or determined when I was younger (“Jeff’s a good student, he just needs to apply himself more.”). With my iPhone, laptop and the television, I’m certainly not that way now. And while I like to think I’ve done alright for myself in life, academically there’s always been this nagging feeling I could’ve done so much better had my priorities been different.

But after seeing those wonderful, smart and accomplished students the other night, I left feeling inspired. I think the real lesson I came away with is that it’s never too late. I can still finish up getting my master's degree in Theater Arts.

After all, you don’t need a 4.5 GPA to know that’s where the real money is.

Same clowns, different circus

This is one of those posts that make my friends crazy, immediately emailing to tell me why I shouldn't have published it. I recognize they're looking out for my best welfare, which is what they think I'll be on if anyone who hires freelancers reads this. Duly noted.

Let me start by saying - as I've said many times before - that I've met some of the smartest, most creative, hugely interesting people working in agencies. Many of who form the first inner circle of great friends of mine.

If agencies were just populated with them I'd have nothing to write about.

But if you've worked at more than one agency, you already know, sadly, those aren't the only types that work there. There are about four or five personalities that keep showing up. Sure, they come in different packages, but essentially you see them over and over, coming and going at the agencies you work at.

There's Mr. Smarmy, who'd like to present my copy to the client, but "...I know you can do so much better." I don't think you're paying me the compliment you think you are.

Next, The Hostess, who really wants to like the copy, but "I just don't get it. And if I don't understand it, how will the consumer?" I'm going with the consumer's smarter than you are. Call it a hunch.

The Boss Man (not Springsteen) who brings their own work to the pitch, but promises "It'll be a level playing field. I don't have a favorite." It's okay. I didn't want to be away on production anyway.

Mr. Could'a Been A Contender, who recommends a director because "..when he took me to sushi at Urasawa I knew he'd be right for it." And besides, his reel looked great on that home theater system he gave you.

And yes, Mr. Hemingway, the copywriter who wouldn't mind making a small change, but "you have no idea how long it takes me to find the PERFECT words" You do realize the movie Precious wasn't about your copy, right?.

Here's what I know about clowns. Whether they're wearing big, floppy shoes, yellow power ties or hipster knit caps they've always made me uneasy.

Especially the ones whose noses aren't red.

The account executive of bodily organs

Here's how my Saturday went.

In the morning when I woke up, I found my dog Max on his pillow in our bedroom. Now, Max comes and goes in and out of our room during the night, but he's never there in the morning when we wake up. But I decided to just accept it for what it was: he finally realized he couldn't tear himself away from me.

When I left the room and called him though, he didn't come. He just stayed on his pillow, looking up at me with those big, brown eyes.

Something wasn't right in dogtown.

We wound up taking him to our dog-walker's vet since our local vet's office was closed. After an X-ray, we discovered why Max was being so sluggish: a grapefruit-sized tumor on his spleen.

It sounds awful, but it's apparently quite common in larger breeds - like German Shepherds - and usually around the eight-year mark. Max is eight and a half.

We were in shock how fast this came on him. Just the day before, we were playing with him in the yard, and he was chasing, jumping, barking and just generally trying to kill us (not literally - we love to play rough with him). The day before, the World's Greatest Dog was the World's Happiest Dog.

David Feldman, a close friend of ours for over 25 years, and the world's greatest vet, explained it like this: the problem is the spleen. If it were the heart, you'd notice his troubled breathing much earlier. If it were his brain, we'd see him unsteady on his feet. But in a dog, much like in a human, the spleen is pretty much a useless organ that does nothing, which is why as the tumor grows on it you don't notice it until it's almost too late.

My wife called it "the account executive of organs." Before you get all over me for that, she was an account person in her former life.

We wound up driving Max up to David's office in West Hollywood around eleven last night, and by midnight he was in surgery. Yes there are vets and emergency clinics closer to us, but when it comes to the big stuff, David and his staff are the only ones we trust. After we dropped Max off, we were able to breathe for the first time that evening.

About 2a.m., we got a call from the doctor at David's practice who did the surgery, saying the words we were hoping to hear, "It couldn't have gone better."

Now there are a few ways this can go. The tumor they removed along with the spleen is either malignant or benign. If it's benign, Max heals up and life goes on. If it's malignant, we have maybe two to four months if we do nothing, and maybe six to twelve if he goes through chemo. And of course, chemo brings its own set of pleasantries with it.

So we'll wait for the pathology report and then we'll have some decisions to make. But while we're waiting, we'll do what we've always done: love Max as unconditionally and fully as he's always loved us.

There are four of us in this house. Max's magic is that each of us thinks he loves us the most.

Theory of flight

I have a theory about flying. It's a simple one really, and it goes like this: no matter what the destination, there is no flight too short for first.

Elitist? Maybe. Expensive? Definitely. Worth it? Without a doubt.

This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who follows this blog (and if you do follow this blog, you really need to get out more). After all, I've posted before here about the rapid decline in respect for air travel as evidenced by the caliber of people who fly. And by that I mean people who fly coach.

I know how I sound. And, as is typical of first class passengers, I don't care.

We used to go see family in Carmel, CA. While my wife and kids would get all excited about the six hour road trip up there (by road trip they meant monotonous drive up interstate 5, with a stop at the McDonald's in Buttonwillow being the highlight of the trip), I on the other hand would make my airline reservations. I'd fly from L.A. to S.F., then take jet-service back down to Monterey.

The flight from San Francisco to Monterey is exactly 16 minutes. Know where I sat? In the front of the plane. I'd buy upgrade coupons from United in books of four, and I wasn't afraid to use them.

So when I went to New York a couple weekends ago to see my friend Holland Taylor in the Broadway show ANN, which she wrote and stars in, there was no question what part of the plane I was going to sit in.

Which is why you're looking at a picture of the left wing and engine as seen from seat 2A.

Holland Taylor is ANN

My friend Holland Taylor is starring on Broadway in a play she wrote about former Texas governor Ann Richards. If you're in New York, go see it. If you're not in New York, get there and see it.

Meanwhile, I'm going back to my own pet project: finding out where she gets the energy to do it all brilliantly, then bottling it.

Right after my nap.

Not ready for my close-up

Agencies have a lot of camera equipment laying around. And while today, that could just mean a few iPhone 5's, I'm talking about the real thing. Actual HD cameras, with mics, lights and people who know how to use them.

Many agencies even have full blown production departments they position to potential clients as responsive and money-saving, when actually what they are is a profit center for the agency.

"Sure we can produce 10 spots for a million dollars!"

What they don't mention is that the hard costs to them are only $20K a spot. What the hell, everyone's entitled to make money. And if that money goes into the freelance budget, even better.

Perhaps I've said too much already.

Anyway, sometimes that equipment is drafted into service for a new business pitch, a party video or a clip about the agency for their site.

I've always tried to avoid appearing in these videos. They never seem to be as funny or clever as they are on paper (Yes, just like my copy - so predictable). And while everyone is yelling at you to look happy while it's being shot, I've noticed the overwhelming feeling after participating is regret for having done it.

Still, there never seems to be a shortage of volunteers. I call it the Kardashian effect: the 15 minutes of fame theory reduced to 2 minutes while it gets shown in a staff meeting.

The powers that be where I'm working right now asked me to appear in a New Hire video today (I'm using "asked" as a euphemism). The idea was a group of people - a representative from every department - around a conference room table having a fake brainstorming session. I guess it was going to be shown in the HR waiting room. I made them swear a blood-oath and put in writing that it would never make its way to YouTube, social media or the company website.

They assured me it wouldn't.

The upshot of it all was that shortly before they were to begin shooting, they said I couldn't do it because I was only a temp employee. They were going to use a staffer instead. Personally, I think I was being such a pain in the ass they just uninvited me to the dance. It wouldn't be the first time.

Fine with me.

Besides, until they invent a camera that subtracts ten pounds, I don't think I'll be appearing in agency videos any time soon.