Walt's Wharf

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Then, sometimes, you want to go where no one knows your name but you want to go there anyway.

I like to think of myself as someone who likes to mix it up every now and again. Who maintains an air of unpredictability. An edge of danger. I keep spontenaity alive.

I also like to think of myself as six-foot three, one eighty, blond and ripped. But that's not happening either.

Come to find out I'm actually a creature of habit. Today we met some friends for lunch at one of my favorite places, Walt's Wharf in Seal Beach. It's been there forever, and it's always great. At least what I always order is. Because despite a wide variety of fresh seafood, and a wine selection second to none, I have the exact same meal every time I eat there.

Cup of clam chowder with Tabasco. Small Walt's salad with a salmon filet on top. Iced tea. I wanted you to know in case you're buying.

It's a sure thing every time. The problem is I feel like I should try something else. Logic would tell me if my usual choice is so good, other items must be just as good if not better. On the heels of that, I think this meal makes me happy and what am I so worried about.

Besides, since when did I start living my life according to logic? Not a Vulcan, hello.

I'm not going to say feeling bad for having the same great meal at a nice seafood restaurant is a first world problem, but, you know, draw your own conclusions.

Here's what I'm trying to say. If you want to meet me for lunch at Walt's, and you happen to be in a hurry, don't worry. I know what I'm having.

Say my McName

SPOILER ALERT: If you didn't see last Thursdays's Grey's Anatomy, and by some miracle haven't heard about it, don't read this until you see it. Important plot points revealed.

As some of you may already know, my nickname in high school was McDreamy. I believe it was because of my rugged good looks, silky smooth hair, razor-sharp sense of humor, keen insights and rugged good looks. Did I mention that?

But that all changed when Shonda Rhimes, creator of Grey's Anatomy, decided to also have Patrick Demsey's character Derek Shepard go by the nickname McDreamy.

As you can imagine, it was a confusing time for my friends and family.

I was hopeful after seeing last Thursday's episode, where an eighteen-wheeler and some ill-prepared hospital residents send Derek Shepard off to take the big dirtnap after eleven years on the show, that I'd be able to once again enjoy the moniker that was rightfully mine.

But like my acting career and engagement to Scarlett Johansson, it was not to be.

After all this time, the power of network television has rendered the name McDreamy solidly associated with Patrick Demsey's character. And even though he's gone from the show, I'm sure there will be flashbacks, daydreams and hallucinations that include him in coming episodes. I'm afraid I have to face the reality that the nickname McDreamy, the one that was mine first, is going to die with him when he's eventually gone for good.

In spite of my rugged good looks.

Anyway, we move forward. Today begins the search for a new nickname I can be proud of. One that reflects my true being, my inner self, and, say it with me, my rugged good looks.

So far the only contender is something along the lines of McJeffy.

I'm already sorry I wrote that.

The pleasure that is Platt

There's an entire class of actors I feel are underrated. They're usually something more than character actors, yet somewhat less than lead actors.

It's in this sweet spot that Oliver Platt lives. He's been one of my favorites for years.

Whether it's White House lead counsel in The West Wing, Warren Beatty's nervous, cocaine-fueled campaign manager in Bulworth, acidic restaurant critic Ramsey Michel in last year's Chef or Cameron's gay bowling adversary on last night's Modern Family, Platt's characters are fully realized, unique and completely organic. He couldn't make a false move if he tried.

Full disclosure: years ago I started writing a television show for Platt before my complete lack of discipline did me in. Again. I'm working on it, okay? Back off.

Anyway, it was about two lawyers who were also brothers. One went to prestigious Harvard law school, and the other went to the Saul Goodman law school in Samoa. Through a series of events, they wind up in practice together, and the néer-do-well brother winds up teaching his Harvard grad broheim a thing or two about the real meaning of the law.

Along the way, hilarity ensues.

Like so many other projects of mine languishing in a drawer or on a disc somewhere, I never finished writing it. But each time I see Oliver Platt onscreen, my muse is rekindled and I start thinking about maybe easing into working on it again.

He deserves a great show of his own, and I'd like to be the one to create it for him.

Like Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Gene Hackman, John Cazale, Jon Polito, Michael McKean and a dozen more, Oliver Platt's presence in a project elevates it far beyond where it would've been without him.

Of course now that I've spilled the beans on the lawyer/brother idea, I'll have to come up with something else.

I'll do my best to make it worthy of him.

Shame the shamers

I saw this on the news last night.

There's this asshat riding around on his bicycle in some city in California. Every time he sees someone watering the lawn, or water runoff, or a leaking hose spout, he yells at them and takes pictures of the alleged offense. Then he posts them online.

He knows nothing about water conservation, the new state conservation laws, what government department to report them to or much of anything else. But that doesn't stop him from water shaming these people.

It's only a matter of time before someone has the good sense to turn a fire hose on him and knock him off his tricycle into the next zip code.

For some reason, the act of shaming people for things we don't like is the newest sport. People are shamed for how fat they are. The color of their skin. Their hair. Their religion. The number of people they've slept with. Their sexual orientation.

There are less damaging forms of shaming, like late shaming (always arriving late). Or selfie shaming (chastising people for taking and posting too many selfies - alright, that one may be legit).

Bullies shame people for being weak. Democrats shame people for being Republicans, which is ridiculous because any right-thinking (see what I did there?) Republican is already ashamed.

When did treating people like shit become acceptable? It doesn't come from any real desire to point out what you perceive as something that can help them improve. Shaming is strictly for making the shamer feel superior to the shamee.

Here's the thing: enough. Let's stop tearing people down, making them feel bad for who they are - and about some things they can't do anything about - just to make ourselves feel better.

Unless it's trying to shame your kids into cleaning their rooms. Then it's for a good and righteous cause. But it still doesn't work.

It's hard enough trying to carve out the life you want in a world that's so demanding, increasingly frightening and moving so fast. No one needs to be shamed by some stranger on a bicycle. Or worse yet, friends.

Even the word shaming has taken on the feeling of a fad that was so fifteen minutes ago. Try to be a better person. Show a little restraint and resist the douchebaggery of the moment. Rise above it.

If you can't do it because you're a decent person, then do it because idiot shaming is probably next. And if you haven't stopped by the time it gets here, you're on the list.

Sew I say

This one starts a little over eighteen years ago.

The wife was very pregnant with my son, and we were shopping for all the baby things everyone gets. The crib. The glider chair. The changing table. These are the things we agreed on.

What we didn't agree on was the fabric for the padded liner on the inside of the crib. While we were looking at bolts of fabric, I came across some Elvis patterned fabric I thought would be awesome. It wasn't the fabric in the picture, but that doesn't matter - it was Elvis.

Suffice it to say the wife didn't have quite the enthusiasm for the Elvis liner as I did. She leaned towards the light blue one, with clouds, cowboys and trains. But since she vetoed Elvis, I vetoed that one.

In the end we agreed on one with a deep blue background, yellow stars and moons, a black terrier and a black and white checked border. It was a great pattern: visually stimulating, colorful, calming.

But, you know, it wasn't Elvis.

That Elvis pattern has stuck with me these past eighteen years, and I still can see it in my head as I write about it. At the time, I thought as an alternative to the crib liner, I'd make Elvis pillows. This fabric had to get out in the world. The problem was I didn't have any idea how to sew.

That was then and this is now.

As we speak - or read - I'm currently enrolled in a beginning sewing class. Tonight, I pinned the pattern for the apron I'm making, which is the first class project. I also cut the fabric, marked the loops, and reinforced the pockets. It was slow, sometimes frustrating and painful work what with stabbing myself about a thousand times while I was pinning. I suppose it would've been a lot easier if I'd taken Home Ec in school.

Nonetheless it's a means to an end: the Elvis pillows I've been dreaming about for years are going to become a reality. Sure, they're already a reality if you Google "Elvis pillows" or go shopping for them on Etsy. But those aren't made from a dream that's been kept alive for years.

Oh sure, laugh now. But when you get your Elvis throw pillow for Christmas this year, not only will you love it, I know exactly what you're going to say.

Thank you very much.

Release the hounds

If you follow this blog with any regularity, and if you do you really need to develop some healthier reading habits, then you know this about me for certain: I loves me a high-speed chase.

And while one of the things I love is the inevitable surrender (usually) of the suspect, what I enjoy even more is watching a K-9 officer take down a suspect who's not cooperating.

I think we can paint with broad strokes here and say perpetrators who lead the police on these chases aren't nearly as smart as the trained German Shepherds who occasionally have to ply their trade.

Of course, as you know, I have a German Shepherd to call my own. I remember when I first got him, one of the asshat neighbors referred to him as a police dog. I didn't like it then, but I'd take it as a compliment now.

Although between you and me, Max hasn't read the German Shepherd manual. He'd never make it through the academy.

Anyway, last night there was a slow-speed chase through Orange County, and once out of the car, the suspect wasn't complying. You can tell from the middle right side of the picture above what happens next, but if you want to see for yourself, just click here.

You know the old saying, "His bark is worse than his bite."

Not this time.

On tour

It got here much faster than I expected. I mean, one minute I'm changing his diaper, trying to dodge his impression of Old Faithful, and the next minute I'm taking him on college tours.

As any parent who's made the tour circuit will tell you, college means one very important thing. Not that they'll get a quality education and a well-paying job in the profession of their choice. That's just crazy talk.

It means I'll be working a lot longer than I planned.

While junior is out partying Saturday nights, telling me he's studying for finals, and wondering whose kegger to hit next, I'll be long past my prime earning years, clearing dishes at Coco's on weeknights and scraping together my minimum wage earnings so he can have the education he so rightly deserves.

As we tour these institutions of higher education, it makes me realize perhaps my teachers' comment, the one I got year after year, might've had a tinge of truth to it.

"Jeff's a smart boy, but he needs to apply himself more."

Admittedly all this touring makes me want to go back to school. Maybe it's because I'm visiting campuses I never saw before. Or because I realize if I'd had a better education I wouldn't be writing banner ads and sitting through endless meetings about...well, I never actually figured out what they're about.

Still, I make considerably more a day than the average Harvard grad, so there's that.

But the biggest lesson he can learn is it's not all about the money. It's about loving what you do. And I love making money. BAM!

So anyway, applications are out, and a few results are in. He's in at some, out at others. And even though he has plenty of options and will no doubt have more soon, we still have some college sight-seeing left to do. I can't predict the next stop on the tour. It depends on a lot of things. Wherever it is, I know I'll be looking forward to it. I want my son to take it all in, to appreciate the grandeur of these institutions, and participate in the traditions that've made them great.

The scholarly ambiance. The manicured lawns. The stately libraries. The hallowed halls.

There'll be plenty of time later for toga parties, hazing and drug testing.