Remembering Ann on Mother's Day

Every year I re-post this piece I wrote on the 28th anniversary of my mom's passing. It's not to bring down anybody, or dampen the spirit of the day. It's to give a snapshot of my mom, and it can't help but being one of the more powerful ones I have.

For me, every day is Mother's Day. She's always on my mind, even more so this year since her birthday was this past Sunday.

Here's the thing - love 'em while you got 'em and let them know. There's no doubt they'll frustrate you like nobody else. But they're the biggest fans and the best friends you'll ever have.

And I'd have given everything to have had brunch with my best friend and biggest fan today. Or any day.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms. We never say it enough, but we love you to the moon and back.

It's not like me to get sloppy in my beer. Alright, who're we kidding - I'm a sap. And the fact that today is 28 years since my mom died isn't helping that any.

I'm sad to say I can't remember nearly as much about my mom as I'd like.

I can still hear her laugh. Because my parents had me later in life, I can still hear her almost apologizing to me for being "an old lady."

But I never saw her that way.

She was my old lady. She was my mom. She was there, frightened and strong in the emergency room at Cedars when I'd been thrown forty-five feet out of a car and knocked unconscious in an accident (many people by the way are still waiting for me to regain consciousness).

She was there at the graduation when I walked onstage at the Hollywood Bowl to accept my diploma (yeah, I've played the Bowl).

She held me, and the bucket, after my first real experience with a little too much egg nog and bourbon.

The last meal I had with my mom was at Nibbler's on Wilshire in Beverly Hills. Coke, tuna melt, arguements. The sounds of a generation and a half older clashing with a time and world that had changed in ways they didn't completely understand, and my impatience at their lack of understanding.

Not my finest moment, and probably the first one I'd go back to change.

Three days later, it was my turn to be with her in Cedars emergency room. She had died three times in the ambulance, and had been brought back three times. There was severe brain damage, and ten days later she was gone.

I remember going into her intensive care room (can someone really be hooked up to that many wires?), and talking to her for about an hour. Trying to make my peace. Trying to say goodbye. And then, my mother opened her eyes and looked right at me. It was the first time she'd opened her eyes in ten days.

Her doctors said it was a muscle reflex, similar to a twitch. They said she wasn't really there, wasn't really seeing me.

But after a lifetime with this woman who gave me my sense of humor, sensitivity, temper, and everything I ever wanted (yes, only child), I didn't really care what the doctors said. Because I knew better.

Every day, especially today, I'm the one who's seeing her.

Bye mom. Before you know it.

Batter up

I've always been an omelette kind of guy. But when push comes to shove, I'll have to admit I enjoy the occasional flapjack.

When I was growing up, my parents used to take me to the International House of Pancakes. That's what it said right on the sign. This was before the texting-friendly abbreviation IHOP cut it down to size.

They were easy restaurants to recognize, what with their powder-blue A-frame buildings. They had bottomless coffee pots (which meant nothing to me then or now), and all kinds of different flavored syrups on the tables, even though maple was the one that was always empty.

My best memory of IHOP - I'll call it that for expediency - wasn't the Half-Dollar pancakes, the sticky tabletops or the orange aprons the waitresses wore. It's the time I had breakfast there with Tommy Smothers.

Bet you didn't see that coming.

I'd met Tommy at a release party for Groucho's album, An Evening With Groucho. It was a star-studded release party in Beverly Hills, and my friend David Weitz and I were hired to dress as Groucho and work the room (if you're wondering how I met Groucho, you can read about it here).

At that party, I'd also met and spoken to Tommy Smothers. He was in fact the nicest person there. Fast forward months later. I walked into the IHOP on Fairfax just north of Wilshire, and sitting at a table by himself was Tommy Smothers. I debated for a second about bothering him. But then I realized this situation would never present itself again, so I went for it.

I introduced myself to him, and reminded him we'd met at the Groucho album release. Tommy invited me to sit and have breakfast with him.

I ordered, and we talked about the party, the Smothers Brothers and the state of comedy and television. It was an extraordinary morning. When the check came, he insisted on paying for my breakfast.

In the years since, I've been lucky enough to see the Smothers Brothers perform at both a private function, as well as the Cerritos Theater of Performing Arts. Sadly, since they're now retired, I won't have the chance again.

Since he joined Twitter, I've actually had a few exchanges with Dick Smothers. I asked Dick one time why Tommy wasn't online, and he told me Tommy is too busy with their vineyard and other things.

Whatever he's up to, I hope he's happy and healthy. I'll never forget my breakfast with him.

I'm not really sure who their mom liked best. But in my book, they're both great.

Flying with your eyes closed

I was at lunch with one old and one new friend yesterday, and one of the topics that came up was the ability to sleep on planes.

Yet another skill I can add to the list of ones I don't have, along with card counting, lion taming and crowd estimating.

It's an eclectic list.

I have nothing but admiration for people who can do it. It must be nice to fall asleep as the plane is taking off in L.A., and open your eyes just as you're landing in New York.

Of course then you don't get to pick out all the hidden nuclear missile silos in the middle of the country (Here's a hint: the big circles with no crops around them).

My wife is blessed, and not just by being married to me. She has the talent, skill and God-given ability to close her eyes and sleep no matter where she is. When we fly places, she's literally out before the plane pulls out of the gate. Me? I keep busy making sure the in-flight entertainment has Comedy Central and I have enough magazines to get me across country.

On some flights, I can manage to get as far as drowsy. But I just can't go all the way. Which reminds me of something my high school girlfriend used to tell me.

Anyway, kudos to those of you who can dream of clouds while your head's in them. I wish I could do it.

If we're ever flying together and I have the window seat, I'll try not to wake you when I have to crawl over you to get to the bathroom.

And if I do, I'll just say you were dreaming.

Anger management

It's hard to know exactly what makes people angry. It's different for everyone. But I have one friend in particular who, because I've known him so well for so long, I know exactly what trips his trigger.

Everything.

It must be a tough place to be. For as long as I've known him, he's been the angriest person I've ever known. It never ends. His rage is like bottomless glasses of lemonade at Islands.

You'd think some ambitious young turk out of Anger University, ready to be royally pissed off at the world, would come along and steal the title. But year after year, he manages to hold on to it as if it were a point of pride.

I've seen the toll it takes on him. I know it takes a toll on those around him. I've offered many times in the past to help him in various ways, but he's never accepted. And I've been at this point for awhile where, in a life that gets more and more demanding, I simply don't have room or desire to be witness and occasional target of his anger and nastiness any longer. It's a negative drain and it's exhausting. And life really is too short.

I'm not sure exactly when it was, but somewhere along the line I asked myself what I was getting out of the friendship at this point. When I couldn't think of anything, I knew it was time to cut ties.

I used to feel bad about it, but I don't any more.

Clearly running his blood pressure up forty points every five minutes at some perceived slight would indicate his survival instincts aren't kicking in. But mine are.

When I used to read his rants about the tiniest, most insignificant things that would normally be a surface nuisance at best, but for some reason set him off completely beyond the pale, it just made me sad.

This is a smart, talented guy in so many ways. He'd be better off showing that side of himself to the world instead of the Mr. Fury side on display at the drop of a hat ("Why the f&%# are you dropping that hat!?")

He's reached out to me a few times with bizarre, sad messages that don't deserve a response. They're anger (and alcohol) fueled, and I'm not taking the bait.

I sincerely wish him well. Maybe somewhere down the road we'll reconnect.

But it sure as hell won't be until he realizes he has a lot less to be angry about than he thinks.

Glad to help

There's a reason I'm showing you the three books you're looking at. And here it is.

Each one of them was written by a very talented friend of mine. And each one of those friends decided to thank or acknowledge me by name in their book.

It's very flattering. Not to mention very inspiring. Unfortunately not inspiring enough to write a book of my own. That's just crazy talk.

Kidding. Okay, they've inspired me to write a book, or at least finish the several I've started or had ideas for. If for no other reason than I'd be able to return the favor and thank them.

If you recall, and why wouldn't you, I actually wrote a post to thank my one time office wife Janice MacLeod for making me the very first thank you in her spectacular book, Paris Letters. You should make a point to read that post, then read Janice's book if you haven't already. After you do your first instinct will be to thank me for the recommendation. I suggest you write a book of your own and thank me there. You know how much I like that.

I've known my good friend (producer, professor, singer, actress, musician) Rona Edwards for over thirty years. She was kind enough to thank me in her book "I Liked It, Didn't Love It" which takes readers through the process, and arms aspiring screenwriters for the labyrinth that is screenplay development.

It's a road she's traveled often and successfully.

I like to think it's my clear understanding of plot and story, my keen insight into what an audience wants and my ability to punch up a script that motivated her to mention me in her book.

Nah, just messin' with ya. I have no idea why she thanked me, other than the fact she's a kind and generous person, as well as one of my oldest (in terms of time) friends.

I've known my friend Josh Weltman for twenty-nine years. We've been partners at agencies we've worked at. And a little known fact is I've flown more with Josh than anyone else thanks to a freelance gig we had at Foote, Cone & Belding in San Francisco for about nine months.

Josh wrote a recently released book called Seducing Strangers: How To Get People To Buy What You're Selling based on his years in the business, and his time as a co-producer on the show Mad Men.

I hadn't seen Josh in quite a while, until we ran into each other at a mutual friend's funeral a couple years ago. So you can imagine my surprise when I saw my name in the acknowledgements in his book.

Given the time that's passed, it was a nice surprise and appreciated kindness on his part.

Of course, you should know now that I've somewhat committed to writing a book of my own, there'll be many more thank you's in it than just the people here. Many of my friends have been encouraging, supportive, critical in the best sense of the word and patient while I've used this blog as an excuse for doing some real writing.

But now that it seems like everyone I know is popping out a book, I guess I'll have to get going on mine.

So thanks for that.

Cinderella

Slipper? I hardly knew her. Sorry, I had to get that out of my system.

I had a little moment of indecision about what heading to place this post under. At first I was going to publish it as part of my wildly successful, universally acclaimed and almost award-winning Guilty Pleasures series. But then I reminded myself that my macho self-esteem is well intact, and there was no reason to post it there. It deserves to be highlighted on its own.

So here's the bottom line: two days ago I saw Cinderella. And I loved it. It is a spectacular film and a welcome return to form for Disney Studios.

The Cinderella story has always been derided by feminists for many reasons, not the least of which is that Cinderella waits for a man to take her away from her stepmother, evil stepsisters and horrible life she's living.

The movie I saw was about acceptance, forgiveness, empowerment, staying true to your values and choosing the life you want to lead. Cinderella stays at her home because it's her home. It's also the last place where her father was, and it has great sentimental and emotional value to her.

She stays true to the values she learned from her dying mother - have courage, be kind - even under the most punishing test of them doled out by her stepmother (played by the unfairly talented Cate Blanchett).

She doesn't go to the ball looking for a man or a husband. She goes to escape her circumstances for one magical evening, and to reconnect with the man she met in the forest and obviously had great chemistry with.

The movie is pitch perfect in its tone, not an easy thing to accomplish considering how easily fairy tales can devolve into sugary pap. The emotion of it all sneaks up on you, although, full disclosure, I am a sap and a pushover for romance.

The film makes its points in its own way, without being preachy or trying to be politically correct. It's also a stunningly beautiful movie to watch. You could literally take any frame and hang it as a painting. It is lush, detailed and magical. Kenneth Branaugh has done an outstanding job directing.

Contrary to what you might think, it's not a chick-flick. It's a story with powerful lessons for both sexes about character, commitment, self-respect and what's really important in life.

I can't wait to see it again.

Hopefully before midnight. I hear things get a little strange any later than that.

Bad form

I hate form letters, regardless what form they come in.

I just received one from someone I used to work for. It starts off, "Hi Jeff, my name is (HIS NAME) and as one of my connections I wanted to connect with you..." Blah blah blah.

I wouldn't have used the word connect so close to the word connections. That's just me.

Because this person does know me, I think a better idea would've been to cull through his network and personalize his communication to the people he actually knows. I've known him twelve years. I worked for him. He unceremoniously let me go, then washed his hands of it. Then he didn't bother returning any of my calls or emails.

Does he really think I forgot his name?

Don't get me started.

Anyway, I don't like form letters from faceless corporations, and I like them even less from people I know. They're just one more way the world is depersonalizing communication, while trying to give the impression it's very personal. Meant just for you.

It's the direct mail piece you're holding that addresses you by name. You know, the one five-hundred thousand other people got. It's the human-sounding software that uses voice-recognition to get your credit card balance and answer your questions.

Form letters are the equivalent of saying, "I don't really care, but I want to look like I do." They're a lot like my high school girlfriend that way.

Over the years, like all of us, I've received form letters from publishers rejecting my work, banks rejecting my loan application and potential employers rejecting my resume. I've also gotten them from publishers telling me I might already be a winner, credit card companies telling me I'm pre-approved and politicians earnestly trying to have a conversation with me one-on-one.

Actually one-on-twenty million.

In order for a letter not to be a form letter, the sender has to know you. Not know something about you that can be gleaned from your spending habits or website visits. But know you.

I think the feeling they're shooting for is the one you get when you eat at your local coffee shop and they ask, "The usual?" I'm pretty sure they're not going for, "Your hold time will be seventeen minutes."

I understand the convenience of a form letter, especially when you have hundreds of connections. It's the easy way out. And while I don't like being on the receiving end, more than most people I appreciate easy.

So anyway dear (NAME), I want to thank your for taking your valuable time to read this post. I know you're busy with raising (NUMBER) children, maintaining (NUMBER) cars and traveling (NUMBER) miles to work and back each day. I hope you'll find time on (DAY & DATE) to read my next post.

Feels good, doesn't it?