A deliberate cover up

I've never been particularly paranoid. But I will cop to the fact I have a little OCD about certain things.

For example, I check the door several times when I leave the house to make sure it's locked. Then I start to walk to the car, forget whether I locked the door or not, and come back and check it again.

I also check the oven at least two or three times to make sure there's no gas flame on the burners.

Admittedly, I unplug the chargers around the house before I go, not to save on the electric bills but, like the oven, to make sure there's not a short and the house doesn't burn down.

Call it what you will. I prefer to think of it as being thorough.

The other place I always happily err on the side of caution is when it comes to guarding my personal information. At least as much as I can in the age of the interwebs.

When I sort through my mail, I have two piles. One goes in the trash as is, and the other - almost always the larger pile - goes in my heavy-duty, industrial strength, cross-cut, fifteen-page-at-a-time feed shredder.

Next to my kids laughing, hearing credit card applications, bank statements and old tax receipts being shredded is the sweetest sound.

My friend, and occasional art director partner Mike Kelly likes to make fun of me for taking precautions the way I do. When we work together, he loves to chide me with the fact he does all his financial business - banking, taxes, loans - online. He knows it makes me crazy. I always tell him he's an identity theft waiting to happen. But he's never worried about it, and it's never happened to him.

It's happened to me twice. Maybe he has the right idea.

Anyway, my family certainly knows this aspect of my personality, which is why when it came to giving me the perfect gift, they gave me one they had no doubt I'd love.

What this little baby does is pictured above. Basically, it's a home redacting system. Simply run it over the document you want to render unreadable, and then it is. Despite it's diminutive size, it packs a powerful punch when it comes to my sense of security. Okay, maybe I have issues. What's it to you?

Anyway, it's my kind of gift and I couldn't be happier about it.

And let's face it: I can't carry the shredder everywhere.

King of pain

Maybe his real name's the one Steve Martin introduced him with on Saturday Night Live.

Stingy.

Today Sting announced not only do his kids not have trust funds, they also won't be getting any of his money when he goes to that Royal Albert Hall in the sky. Apparently, he has two reasons: one is there probably won't be any left. And the other is he plans on spending it all.

So the second reason makes the first one a certainty.

I'm sure that'll just add to all the good feelings his kids have already when they think about dad missing all their formative years with them while he was out earning a living and getting after show, um, backrubs (this is a family blog) from 20-year old groupies.

He's quoted as saying his vast wealth would just "be albatrosses" around the necks of his six children. I'm very sure it's a burden they could learn to live with.

As so many multi-millionaires have said, they don't want their children to have a sense of entitlement. I'm not sure when the idea of good parenting and leaving your kids financially comfortable became mutually exclusive. Seems to me you can teach children to be responsible, have a good work ethic, be good and charitable people, and at the same time provide them enough financial support to let them focus on doing what they love, and making a difference in the world.

The environment is competitive enough as it is today. I can't even imagine what it'll be like when my kids are out on their own in the world. If I could give them a head start and a soft landing when it comes to keeping themselves afloat, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I wish my parents had been able to do it for me.

And while we're on it, what's the deal with Sting cutting them off entirely? Even Warren Buffett said, "I want to give my kids just enough so they would feel that they could do anything, but not so much that they would feel like doing nothing."

That sounds about right.

Lest we forget, the one percent of money left after Warren gives it all to charity while he's alive will still be more than most people earn in their lifetime. Sigh.

But maybe Sting is just being pragmatic. He probably realizes that, based on his most recent album sales, his next experimental Neo-soul electronica jazz fusion Peruvian Ska African Norse album featuring folksongs in their original Aramaic from the sixth century isn't going to sell as well as Synchronicity did. He's just planning ahead.

Meanwhile, I'll keep trying to explain to my kids why they can't go to an Ivy League school, and try to convince them that trade schools are very underrated.

Retiring the bit

When it comes to comedy, there's been no shortage of male/female teams.

Nicols and May. Stiller and Meara. Lucy and Desi. Sid and Imogene. Burns and Allen.

Each of them has a famous bit, a signature routine that always kills when they perform it.

My wife and I know the feeling.

We happen to have a few comedy stylings of our own. And while our teaming isn't nearly as famous as some of those others, hilarity still ensues when the occasion calls for it, and we decide to bring the funny. It's safe to say our most popular bit by far is "The Wedding Guests."

If you haven't caught our act at any nuptials lately, here's how it plays. When the requisite wedding videographer finally wanders over to us to record a comment for posterity about the bride and groom, or the DJ starts passing around the mic for a toast, we launch into it.

The premise is that we stumbled into the wedding by accident, get the bride and groom's name wrong, and then the wife corrects me.

Let's for arguments sake say the couple's real names are Bob and Susan. It would go a little something like this:

ME: We actually don't know anyone here. We were driving down (name of street the wedding venue is on) looking for the Boot Barn, when we heard this music coming out of here. So we came in, and it was great cause there was all this free food. But, as long as we're here, we'd like to give our best wishes and congratulations to Steven and Christina...

(The wife taps me on the shoulder, pulls me aside and whispers something in my ear)

ME:...I mean Bob and Susan, for a long, loving happy marriage.

And end scene.

It always gets a laugh from the crowd. And the fact that they've probably had a few champagne toasts before they get to us doesn't hurt. But still, funny is funny.

Well, it is right up until the couple thinks you've actually forgotten their real names. Then, not so funny. I have a sneaking suspicion that's what may have happened at our latest performance.

It's never happened before, and actually it never occurred to us that it could. But the last thing we'd ever want to do is add additional stress to what should otherwise be the best day of their lives.

We apologized right after in case they thought we really got it wrong. But let me apologize again. Here. Worldwide. (I don't know if the comedy will translate to the many countries who read this blog, but humor is the universal language. Right after money, prestige and oil).

Anyway, to avoid any future misunderstandings, the wife and I have made the decision to retire the bit. From now on, when we go to weddings and are asked to say a little something for or about the bride and groom, that's just what we'll do. And we'll use their correct names the first time out to make sure they know that we know exactly who they are.

Besides, if I'm going for laughs, I can always do the scene from The Graduate at the ceremony.

Take a beat

As yet another unintended consequence of technology taking over our lives, there's now a new experience for every driver on the road to look forward to.

The beat.

That moment, seemingly frozen in time, when the asshat in front of you is so deeply involved in their texting that they don't realize the light's turned green.

Whenever it happens - and it happens on a daily basis - the ball's in your court. Do you sit on the horn the second the light changes? What's the new etiquette? How long should you wait before letting them know you'd like to get where you're going before Social Security kicks in?

I think the right answer is only as long as it takes to realize what they're doing. On the horn-honking equivalency chart, texting equals fifty putting-your-make up ons, twenty-five changing the radio stations, fifteen eating in the cars and thirty-seven reading somethings.

Texting is by far the most egregious offense. So honk away Merrill (Signs movie reference. Now you know).

This isn't the first time I've posted about texting and driving. That was here. And it probably won't be the last. But it never ceases to amaze me how oblivious drivers can be. In the military, awareness of the environment around you is called situational awareness. When someone's texting at a red light, it isn't called anything because it doesn't exist.

Of course, just as icing on the texting cake, once they realize the light is green thanks to your horn rightfully blaring at them, they usually give you a hearty and friendly wave as their way of saying "thanks conscientious driver behind me for bringing to my attention the fact I was being selfish and rude by texting and thereby being inconsiderate of every other driver's time, also possibly endangering them by my lack of attention to the road. I'll try to do better."

Nah, I'm just funnin' ya. They usually return the favor with a one-finger salute, or by speeding away as if it'll reverse the time space continuum and make up for the extra time you had to sit at the light.

Which is ridiculous, because only Superman can reverse time by flying counter clockwise around the Earth. True fact. Look it up.

If you feel you have to text while behind the wheel, just don't.

Remember, beat is just three letters away from beating.

Best practices aren't

Clients and agencies both love to take refuge in "best practices."

The general definition, at least when it comes to advertising, is that they're a method, technique, style or set of defined guidelines that've shown results in the past better than had they not been used. They're tried and true. They've worked before. They'll work again.

Which begs the question: how do you know?

The truth is best practices make both sides feel they're doing the right thing - the optimum that can be done. It provides acceptable and universally understood cover if the effort fails.

In reality, what they do is slam the door (or block the road - it was the better picture) on new ideas. "Best practices" is the quintessential synonym for "It's worked before, it'll work again."

The problem with that line of thinking is the same one dice have at the crap table: they don't care what the odds are. In other words, best practices are just that. Until they're not.

Next time someone asks if you're using best practices, tell them not a chance. If they ask why not, say it's your best practice against mediocre work.

Call it a loaner

Yesterday, my car started making what I like to call an expensive sound.

When I hit the gas – or as we say in my country, accelerator – there’s a loud clunk as the car moves forward.

At first I thought something in the trunk was being thrown back against the lid. But since the clunk was coming from the front of the car, since this isn’t 1973 and since I don’t drive a VW Super Beetle, I quickly ruled that out.

Next I did what you’d think I’d have learned by now not to do. I went on the interwebs to research the noise. If I wasn’t filled with wallet anxiety before I went on, I sure was after.

Googling (I don’t care how large that company is, it’s still a stupid looking word) the sound and my car model brought up 11,300 results - everything from transmission to power train to wheel bearings to differential to radiator cap (?) and more.

The good news is when I took my car into the dealer this morning, they gave me a loaner to drive today while they gouge, I mean, figure out what’s wrong with my car. The loaner, like the above picture, is this year’s model of my car which coincidentally I’ve been wanting to drive. And it’s a hybrid.

Now, if you know anything about me - and you should, because really, we don't have secrets between us - you know I’m not a fan of hybrid cars. But I’m just going to say it: this one is awesome. Just as much power as mine, all the new model’s gadgets and gizmos, and, most importantly, that new car smell.

I'm also in advertising and understand the meaning of upsell. I realize it's no coincidence they gave me a loaner that's a newer model of a car they already know I love, and would probably want to have the latest model of with all it's bells, whistles and new body styling.

Damn if it's not working. Ad people are the most gullible even when we know the tactics.

Anyway, while I’m hoping and praying my clunking noise turns out to be something minor and inexpensive, I’m also hoping it takes them overnight to figure it out so I can enjoy the loaner just a bit longer. Which I'm sure it will.

After all, that's how loaners turn into keepers.

Guilty pleasures Part 7: Edge Of Tomorrow

Yet another installment in the Guilty Pleasures series. If you haven’t been following it, I won't take it personally like so many other things - bad weather and heavy traffic to name a couple. Instead, I’ll just make it easy for you to catch up here, here, here, here, here and here.

But like a well written sequel (chuckles to himself for pretending to know the phrase “well written”), you don’t have to see the original to follow along with this latest installment.

Edge Of Tomorrow is part of the repeating-until-you-get-it-right genre of films. Also in the cannon are Groundhog’s Day, Looper, Source Code, Frequency, Run Lola Run and several others. It stars Tom Cruise and Emily Blunt, who clearly work well and have fun together.

Cruise plays a smarmy military PR hack who winds up getting volunteered into being a soldier and winds up having to kill the alien brain, which then kills all the aliens.

Or something like that.

The problem is he dies each time. But because he’s been exposed to the alien’s blood, he keeps rebooting his days and learning more each time out.

It’s clearly not an original concept, but it’s dished up in an extremely fun way. It’s an action and humor filled two hours of pure entertainment, which is what a summer get-the-aliens-before-they-get-us movie should be.

I’ve always liked Cruise. I don’t pay attention to the Scientology craziness, or how his marriage du jour is doing. I think he’s an extraordinarily talented actor, and a brave one.

Interview With The Vampire. Born On The Fourth Of July. Tropic Thunder. Collateral. Magnolia. Not a safe choice in the bunch. But Cruise takes them on – putting his vanity aside - and commits to the performances with an intensity not often seen in actors at any stage of their career.

He also happens to have been in several of my favorite movies: Jerry Maguire. A Few Good Men. Rain Man (where I felt he had a much more difficult role than Dustin Hoffman, who won an Oscar for his performance).

From the minute he slid across the hardwood floor in his underwear in Risky Business, Tom Cruise has been willing to do what it takes to entertain his audience.

Just like he does in Edge Of Tomorrow.