An apology

Late last night I put up a post, which I've been doing fairly regularly these past few weeks.

I was in a hurry to post something before midnight, although I didn't really have anything much to talk about.

I know. When has that stopped me before?

Still, it bothered me. The post was forced, poorly written, and built around an end line more stupid than clever.

I know. When's that stopped me before?

But, as Spinal Tap teaches us, there's a fine line, and I felt like I crossed it. So I did something I rarely do. I took the post down.

Every once in awhile I go back through my posts and reread them. And, without spraining my arm patting myself on the back, some of them are pretty damn good. Funny. Well-written. Insightful. Thought-provoking. Alright, maybe not. But they make good time killers, and that should at least be the price of entry.

Last nights' post was none of these.

So what I'm saying is if you were one of the unfortunate ones who actually read it while it was up, I'd like to apologize.

But if you've followed me on here for any length of time, I think you know what I'm not saying is it won't happen again.

Cool it

I love air conditioning. Which may explain why I like colder climates, like San Francisco, Portland and Seattle.

I think it's because I have a very low sweat point. Anything over 60 degrees, and people are trying to throw pennies in me and make a wish.

Anything over 70 degrees and I look like a real-life version of Albert Brooks in Broadcast News.

So of course, being a Los Angeles native and still living in southern California doesn't present me with a lot of opportunities to appreciate the cool weather. Or wear nice wool jackets. Sure there's the occasional plummet to 58 degrees, but you never know when that's coming which makes it hard to plan for.

One dream vacation of mine would be to stay a few nights in the Ice Hotel in Sweden. It's built in winter, melts in the summer and rebuilt the following winter.

The very definition of a seasonal business.

They have cool rooms like the one here, and warm rooms, which are in more permanent structures on the property. But no one goes there for the warm room.

I started this post talking about how I love air conditioning. To me, one of the greatest sensations is walking inside from a hot day into a freezing casino...er...building. I also like sliding under the bedsheets, pulling up the blanket and going to sleep in an ice-cold room.

Admittedly, it's not the most energy efficient way to live. But what I do is run my electricity at about 125% capacity. They when they ask everyone to conserve energy and cut back 20%, I dial it down to 105%. It's what I like to call a win-win.

Anyway, it's 70 degrees outside, 62 inside and a half hour before midnight. So I'm heading off to bed.

Right after I turn it down to 57.

Flush with embarrassment

Years ago, I went to New York. I don’t remember the reason for the visit, but since when does anybody need a reason to go to New York?

What I do remember is getting to the city around 6:30 a.m. and going to the apartment of my friend Susan, who was from New York but who I’d worked with in L.A.

I think it's safe to say she wasn't amused when, unannounced, I was knocking at the door of her one-and-a-half room apartment, suitcase in hand, at sunrise because my hotel room wasn’t ready.

But in spite of the fact I’d inadvertently gotten to see her without her makeup on, something she was extremely unhappy about, she let me stay a few hours until my room was ready.

The room I was waiting for was at the now long gone Biltmore Hotel on 43rd and Madison. Not only was it one of NY’s architectural landmarks since it opened on New Year’s day in 1913, it also happened to be smack in the center of the NY advertising scene (the show Mad Men gets its name from Madison Avenue), and I’d just started my first job at an agency.

I was still in awe and wonder of the magic, creativity, nice people and fun of it all.

You know, just like I am now.

Anyway, I checked in and went up to my room. What dawned on me as I was in the elevator was that I hadn’t gone to the bathroom since I’d gotten off the plane at Kennedy. So when I got to the room, I dropped my suitcase on the floor, ran to the bathroom, closed the door and then proceeded to pee like a racehorse.

Now, at this point, you might be asking yourself why I bothered to close the bathroom door when I was the only one in the room. Good question, and it’s the one I’d be asking myself in a minute.

When I was done, I washed my hands, grabbed the crystal doorknob not unlike the one you see here, turned it and pulled the door open.

Except the door didn’t open. The doorknob, stem and all, came out of the door.

For a minute I thought it was funny, and the sound of my laughter was echoing off the tile walls. That went on for awhile until I realized I needed to get out of there.

I tried several times to put the doorknob back in, but it wouldn't catch. Did I mention this was July? It was hot and disgusting outside, and getting pretty warm inside.

Since I was on a higher floor, I couldn't yell out the window for help. So I wound up doing the only thing I could do. Banging the doorknob I was holding against the door, and screaming for help like a little girl.

It was not my finest moment.

After what felt like about fifteen minutes, I'd worked up a good sweat because of the heat and humidity. At least I had water and towels to wash off.

Finally hotel security came to the door and set me free. Then they called maintenance to come fix the doorknob.

I thanked him, turned on the air conditioning as high as it would go, then flopped on the bed and slept for three hours.

When I talked to my friend Susan later in the day and told her what had happened, she reacted exactly like any New Yorker would in July.

She said, "You have air conditioning?"

That's the ticket

There are a lot of people I've seen in concert not necessarily because I'm a fan, but because I think I should see them. The reason can range anywhere from they're a living legend, like when I saw Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. at the Greek Theater, to they may not be around much longer, like when I saw Elvis at what was then the Intercontinental Hotel in Vegas (although technically my parents dragged me to that one, but I can still say I saw him).

One group that falls into both categories is The Rolling Stones.

Every time they've ever toured, I've sworn to myself I'd see them. And after hearing this morning they're going to tour for the first time since 2006, I made the promise again.

What's stopped me in the past has been money. Now, if you know anything about me, and really, we don't have any secrets, you know I'm a pampered poodle: I don't sit in the back of the plane. I don't stay in the standard hotel room. And I don't sit in the nosebleed seats at concerts, unless it's Springsteen and those are the only seats left. I'm guessing you already knew that too.

Stones tickets have traditionally gone for between $300-$600 face value. And me being me, guess which ones I want? That's $1200 before parking if I take the wife. I've never paid that to see anyone. Okay, well maybe once I might've paid close to that (twice as much) for front row seats to Springsteen at the Christic Institute concert with Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt. But it was his first concert in years and all acoustic. Front row seats, how often's that gonna happen? It was my money, I earned it and I don't have to defend it to you dammit, so how about you back off.

Glad we settled that.

Anyway, as we all know with Ticketbastards, er, Ticketmaster, the ticket price is just the beginning.

While hotels and airlines have just recently caught on, Ticketmaster has been tacking on bullshit fees to the face cost of a ticket for years. So even if you're seeing a show with a $65 face value ticket, you could wind up paying around a $100 after the extra charges.

Bands have fought Ticketmaster. So have fans. But the bottom line is they're not about to change. They don't exactly have a monopoly, but they have a majority of contracts with the major concert venues across the country. So it's pay or stay home.

I haven't made up my mind if I'm going to pony up for the Stones tickets this time, although I'm thinking I just might. Because you can't fight the law of averages forever.

I probably spend more time contemplating this than I should. I know it's only rock and roll.

But I like it.

Agency Standard Time

You're already familiar with Pacific Standard Time, Central Standard Time and Eastern Standard Time. What you may not be acquainted with is Agency Standard Time.

It isn't tracked on a clock or a calendar. In fact, it's barely tracked at all (except for freelancer hours - those are tracked very carefully). Agency Standard Time redefines the whole time-we'll start when we're ready continuum.

In agency time, meetings are scheduled at lunch and Fridays at five. One hour meetings take two-and-a-half hours. Or fifteen minutes. Weekends are yours, unless they're not. Up is down, black is white, night is day. In agencies, time is like a gas - ever expanding to fill the space it occupies. And since gas is mostly hot air, well, you see where I'm going.

Oddly enough, the ability to carve time out for golf with the client, trips to Cannes or SXSW and filling out award entry forms from the One Show to the Effies are remarkably unaffected.

Unlike the ability to blow smoke, or convince the client "this is exactly what Apple would do..." time simply isn't a respected commodity at ad agencies.

Well, at least yours isn't.

At least it's not a Prius

I'm sure your photographic memory of all things Rotation and Balance will remind you I've already posted in the past about getting a loaner car, and a hybrid loaner at that.

Well, it's happened again.

Apparently the air conditioning in my car decided to give up its relentless pursuit of perfection just in time for some record-breaking March heat. I took it into the dealer because, you know, it was that or run down the middle of the street tearing up twenty-dollar bills and throwing them in the air. They diagnosed it as a broken blower motor (I'll wait while you insert your own joke here).

It's going to take a couple days to get the part. So the dealer, obviously sensing my green lifestyle and unwavering commitment to saving the planet, gave me, yet again, a hybrid to tool around in while I wait for my blower motor to be swapped out.

This time it's the Lexus CT200h F Sport. And against every instinct that's good and holy, I have to say it's pretty fun.

It has two modes, eco and sport - just like my high school girlfriend. BAM!

Eco is like dragging boulders uphill against a hurricane, and goes from 0 to 60 in, well, it hasn't reached 60 yet.

Sport mode however is another story. Turn the dial over to sport, and a tachometer appears on the gauge cluster, and the lighting changes from white to red. Suddenly, it's the little hybrid engine that could. And it hauls.

The picture up top doesn't do it justice. It's actually considerably more on the bad boy side of quirky looking in real life.

What I like to do is pull my fire-engine red loaner up next to a Prius. Then, when the light changes, leave them in my environmentally friendly, high mileage, low carbon emission dust.

I take my thrills where I can find them.

The car is smaller than mine. And since I'm a, um, fuller version of my younger self, the fit is a little tighter. Still, once the leather sport seat wraps its arms around me, space considerations are forgiven. I have the nicest go-cart at the track.

I'll be glad to get my own car back Monday or Tuesday. But until then, I'll be enjoying this attention-getting red hybrid in a way I never thought possible.

From behind the wheel.

Post-puke euphoria

I know a lot of you are going to think this post is beneath me, which only tells me you haven't been paying attention. After all, I've posted about pooping and throwing up before. I do understand some readers will be put off by the bluntness of the title. So if you want to stop reading here, I'll understand.

As you can see from the title, you might not want to be near mealtime when you read this. And you definitely don't want to be around food when you play the video.

It's a bit of an off-putting topic to say the least. But the other thing is it's a universal experience. A light after the darkness. The proverbial silver lining.

I speak of course of post puke euphoria.

We've all tossed our cookies at one time or another. And the ramp up is no fun whatsoever. First, the churning and low growling in Mr. Stomach. Then, that slight suspicion there may be trouble in paradise. It progresses to pacing left and right. Then rocking back and forth. As it gets worse, and the time is drawing near, soon comes a little porcelain-throne hugging.

Eventually, like a train you've been waiting for you thought would never arrive, it does. With one violent, unstoppable, inescapable, stomach-turning heave, you have liftoff.

Once you're running on empty, and it finally stops, something wonderful happens. The clouds part. You hear the angels sing. And you feel much better. Thirsty, but better.

You're experiencing post puke euphoria.

However the truth is PPE can be a cruel tease. There you are thinking you've turned the corner, the worst is over. But sometimes, Mr. Stomach is just laying in wait for the next opportune moment to say, "Hey Sparky, wake up and smell the last meal you had."

But those times when it really is over, and the euphoria lasts, you can literally feel your strength coming back. It's a good feeling.

Still, I'd recommend against celebrating with a bowl of chili and Sriracha-covered fries.