Failing the test

I love my mom. I love my dad. I think sons are the best thing ever. I think daughters are the best thing ever. I think cancer sucks. I'm a great friend. I support the walk. I think dogs have many better qualities than most humans. I think it's a good idea to donate blood.

But I also think I don't have to prove it to you.

Of all the annoying posts on Facebook - and there is no shortage of them - the ones that make me wish my eyes could roll further back are the ones asking me to re-post if I agree.

They're under the guise of a good cause, but the last line is always something aggressively patronizing and challenging like "I know many of my friends won't repost this, but I want to see who will...."

Screw you. Re-post if you agree.

Life is demanding enough without having to prove to you I agree with your cause. And if you think I don't agree with it because I'm not posting, I'm more than fine with that. I've lived through worse.

Plus if you feel you have to "test" me to see if I'll do what you want me to, we're probably not as close friends as you think we are.

Sorry, but you'll just have to trust that I'm a good person, and as a rule love my family and don't wish crippling diseases on anybody.

Besides, if you'd stop testing me to see if I'll re-post, you'd have more time to post things that are actually meaningful.

Like that sunset shot. Or what you had for breakfast.

Well-placed blame

My good friend Michelle Purcell once said you can never underestimate the power of well-placed blame. As usual, she was right.

Clearly this is something all ad agencies, or marketing communication collectives, or integrated media-agnostic think tanks, or whatever the hell they're calling themselves this week have a deep understanding of.

At agencies, blame gets passed around faster than a Kennedy driving to the liquor store at closing time.

Or to paraphrase Groucho's "whatever it is I'm against it", the internal battle cry is "whatever it is, I didn't do it."

The reason is pretty obvious. If you've ever been fired from an agency, all it means is that you showed up. But agencies, especially the ones owned by holding companies (is there any other kind?), run on fear and no one likes getting fired, especially for a mistake they made.

Like underestimating the client's budget by $12 million.

Scheduling a shoot on a Vancouver beach in winter.

Telling the client you can get it done without checking with anybody if what they're asking for can be done. Then not getting it done.

Rather than man up and face the music, walk into an agency and you'll see so much finger pointing it looks like a master class in giving directions. Ironically for a business that believes consumers have to have an emotional attachment to their product, many of the players have no personal attachment to their decisions or actions. At least if they backfire.

However if they succeed, then the ground shifts from the blame game to the taking credit game. That's the one where anyone who was in the building and passed a meeting in the conference room where they were presenting a successful campaign takes credit for it.

Agencies don't have a monopoly on either behavior. Anytime you have an office with the kind of politics, ego and ambition found in agencies, the same primal survival instincts kick in.

I don't mean to paint in broad strokes - this is not to say you can't find responsible people with a finely honed sense of integrity, grit, decency and honor in agencies. You can.

But if you can't, don't blame me.

Sustain this

When I was growing up - a process many who know me would say I have yet to accomplish - I remember in history class or social studies when we'd talk about the then Soviet Union. We'd laugh as only ugly Americans can at the plight of those people who, having yet to experience perestroika or come to their capitalist senses, were still living under a harsh communist regime.

One example of their state of despair that we talked about always, pardon the pun, stuck with me. It was their toilet paper. The teacher would make the observation that in communist countries, the toilet paper was always brown and had the silky smooth texture of sandpaper.

Clearly Mr. Whipple was not a communist.

I've never forgotten that image of square, brown sheets of paper. In fact, I couldn't even if I wanted to. I'm reminded of it every time I go into a restaurant where they use napkins made from recycled paper.

Absence of color me old-fashioned, but I miss the soft white napkins these environmentally correct ones have replaced. They brought an elegance to the dining establishment, even if the main course was burgers and fries.

And really, are we running out of trees to make paper? Trees are one of our most renewable and sustainable resources. While we may not be growing them as fast as we're cutting them down, are we really at the point we have to recycle paper that's been wiped across someone else's mouth?

The solution seems relatively clear - plant more trees, and make the ones we have now last a little longer.

Yeah, I know it takes electricity to run the mills, but the sandpaper napkins aren't making themselves either. Track it down and you'll find a brown plug somewhere.

Besides, when a restaurant like, for example California Pizza Kitchen, decides to trade down to recycled napkins, they may be making themselves feel good about their environmental efforts but they're also cheapening the currency when it comes to their brand. You can bet customers aren't hurling compliments at them for their proactive stance on the napkin issue. No one cares. The damage to the brand isn't worth the trade-off.

I have no doubt I'll be hearing from all my Earth Day-lovin', environmentally leanin', recycling supportin' friends about how wrong my position is and how I'm advocating wastefulness.

If it's any consolation, I love the Dyson Air dryers in the men's room.

Winning

I don't know whether I have good luck or bad luck. As a rule, I feel like I'm pretty lucky in life. Things seem to go more or less my way when I need them to, and I never seem to want for too much. God knows I'm not going hungry.

Still, I do have my own wing at the Venetian in Vegas, so good luck clearly isn't always riding shotgun.

But every once in awhile, Lady Luck doesn't have a date for the night and decides to plant a big wet one on me.

For example, the reason I joke so much about becoming a lotto winner as a profession is because I've actually been one. Back when the state lottery was first introduced - when they only had scratcher tickets - on the third day they were out I won $5000 with a ticket similar to the one above. My wife-to-be was with me when I bought a ticket in the little market between the towers at Santa Monica Shores, where I lived at the time. After I'd scratched off two $5000 squares, I remember turning to her and saying "How funny would it be if there were a third one under here?"

Which to our unbridled surprise there was.

My feeling was since it was the introduction, they top-loaded the scratcher tickets with winning ones. Fine by me. I wound up using the money to buy my 1986 Toyota Supra (the first half of the year model, before they ruined it by rounding out all the edges).

Years ago on channel 9 in L.A. there was a local show called The Dick Curtis Show, which everyone always confused with The Lloyd Thaxton Show (feel free to look up both of them). Anyway, the show aired live, and one afternoon they had one of those "...and the fourth caller wins a months supply of frozen pizza!"

Guess who was the fourth caller?

I remember they sent a certificate for ten frozen pizzas, which we had to pick up from the market. It was as exciting as it was challenging, because we didn't have a freezer nearly big enough for ten frozen pizzas. But we had hungry neighbors and I'm a giver, so we made it work.

Just this past week, I won something I desperately needed: a luxury car wash. I take my car to Rossmoor Car Wash in Los Alamitos for two reasons. They do a great job, and it's owned by good friends of mine. Which is why I thought winning their Facebook question of the week contest was a total fix.

Come to find out they had nothing to do with it. It's entirely overseen by their manager, who also selects the names randomly from what I can only assume is an empty carnuba wax container.

So I claimed my prize yesterday. Just my luck, as I was driving home it started to drizzle.

Oh well. Can't win 'em all.

'Twas The Night Before Christmas - Revision 5

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the agency halls
Not a planner was stirring, there were no client calls
The glasses were hung by the conference room with care
In hopes the Christmas party would soon begin there

Creative directors nestled with campaigns that were dead
While visions of One Show Awards danced in their head
They’d talk of production and work they had done
It was true this year’s party would be nothing but fun

When out in the lobby there rose such a clatter
I sprang from the status meeting to see what was the matter
Was it the new intern wearing an Urban Outfitters jacket
What could possibly be making all of that racket

With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!
Let’s go in the kitchen and see what they’re fixen!
To the corner office and just down the hall
They found trays of hors de oeuvres and ate them all!

The staff would look forward to the holiday bonus
Saying "as hard as we’ve worked of course they would owe us"
The general manager spoke, it was quite a summit
He told us all how profits had started to plummet

Cutbacks, downsizing, raise-freezes, client losses
He would if he could, but not so the bosses
He charted the bonus with marker not chalk
He wrote on the white board “That’s just crazy talk.”

They showed the work that’d been done all through the year
But with no bonuses the staff was not of good cheer
Sure there was music and dancing for those who were able
Even some shenanigans on the conference room table

Soon it was over, soon it was gone
All the carrying they’d planned had been carried on
The party was finished, the tinsel unhung
The songs they were singing had all been sung

After bad luck like this, what else could they add
It was Christmas, and really, things weren’t that bad
Until he exclaimed as his limo drove out of sight
Happy pink slip to all, and to all a good night!

Heaving her Christmas cookies

I can hear the season laughing at me, and it sounds like Ho Ho Ho.

Until now, this Christmas seemed to be shaping up nicely. It wasn't nearly as hectic as ones in the past. The lights were up in time. We found everything we wanted shopping wise. And it all managed to get here in time.

We still haven't gotten Christmas cards out, but the bright side is now they'll turn into New Year's cards. Yet another Christmas miracle.

We were going to have family over to our house on Christmas Eve, then visit more family on Christmas day. It was shaping up to be a Christmas full of fun, merriment, egg nog and family. And lots of bourbon in the egg nog.

That was right up until my daughter, through no fault of her own, started heaving her own cookies when we got home today.

She'd been complaining of a bad tummy all day, but she has that every once in awhile and it usually passes and then we move on to more important things- like what's for dessert.

She was a trooper today in spite of feeling bad. I took her to our dentist in Santa Monica and had her teeth cleaned (something she might be needing again). We had lunch at The Counter, although she really didn't have much appetite.

But once we were home, she asked for the bucket and started spreading a little Christmas cheer of her own into it. Very thankful her aim is true.

So it looks like our Christmas plans are in a holding pattern until we see if she's feeling better.

But as Christmas' go, sitting on the couch with my girly next to me, looking at our beautiful tree and watching tired Christmas movies isn't a bad deal.

The bad deal is having to empty the bucket.

Terms of endearment

The last time I looked, and believe me I don't look often, the iTunes Terms of Use Agreement had 38 pages. That's 38 pages that make liars out of all of us when it comes to having read it. Sure, we click the "Accept" button. We say we've read and understand it. But we've done neither.

Fortunately there are people who have way too much time on their hands that do go through them, and alert us to things we should know about.

Like the latest Facebook privacy invasion.

The disparagement clauses that don't let you post bad reviews of companies on Yelp.

How they collect and sell your information, even when they say they don't.

There's a lot of essential information in that Terms of Use Agreement. Not surprisingly, it's all skewed to protecting the site as opposed to the rights of those using it. And every site you visit, big or small has them. Except this one.

Until now.

Starting today, you're on notice that Rotation and Balance now has a short albeit strict Terms of Use policy that will have to be adhered to should you desire to continue using this site. And really, why wouldn't you?

Terms of Use Agreement for Rotation and Balance

Don't be a jackass in your comments. I'm not made of glass and I won't break if you disagree with something I've said or don't think it's funny. But try to be civil about it. Or at least be funny. I don't shy away from a good debate, but name-calling and insults don't make it one. If you do it, not only will I block your comment, I'll see to it you're put back in your cage where you can throw your feces at passersby and I don't have to watch.

Don't pretend to know me. Odd as this may sound, some strangers who leave comments assume an undeserved familiarity in their tone. This will come as a surprise, but I actually know who my friends are. I know who I know. And if I don't know you, don't pretend I do. By all means feel free to comment. Just not like you're a friend.

Tell me who you are. If you're going to take the time to comment, don't do it anonymously. Cause really - and I think you know this already - it's the coward's way to comment. If you're going to dish it out, you have to be able to take it. Anonymous comments don't count. Just look at the ones on any given Yahoo article.

Don't point out my typos. Let he who is without ever having had a typo cast the first stome (see what I did there?). It happens. I type fast - it's part of my job description. It's not like the boom mic hanging down in the middle of scene and taking you out of the movie. You'll still know what I mean. And I promise I'll eventually go back, reread and correct it. Keep in mind this isn't Miss Quigley's english class. It's a blog. You're lucky I can spell anything at all.

If you comment, check back for my reply. Don't just talk to me, walk away and never look back as if you were any one of my high school girlfriends (it's okay, I'm over it). If you're going to take the time to comment, I'll gladly take the time to reply if it calls for it. I'll probably reply even if it doesn't. What can I say, I'm a giver.

Never forget that you're appreciated. There are so many things you could be doing right now besides reading this. I never forget that, and I'm forever grateful you give these little musings any time at all. Often it probably takes longer to read them than to write them (does it show?). Anyway, nothing but gratitude.

So there it is. Not too bad, not too complicated. It's not like I'm selling music on here. I'm not even going to ask you to click on the "Accept" button.

First of all, I don't have an "Accept" button.

And second of all, if you've read this far, I already know you're pretty accepting.