More power to me

There are a lot of powers I'd like to have.

I'd like to be able to fly like Superman. It'd get me where I need to go a lot faster, I wouldn't have to deal with those pesky TSA people, and I look absolutely fabulous in a cape.

Or so I've been told.

Invisibility would also be a good one, being able to move through the world unnoticed (of course I could accomplish the same thing by having a show on NBC), slipping into places unseen by anyone. This is definitely a power I would've put to much better use in high school. Now I think I'd use it mostly to get around taking out the trash and unloading the dishwasher. "Where's dad? He was here a minute ago."

Telekinesis is a favorite. I'd love to be able to have a driver flip me off on the freeway, then be able to flip them off the road by sending their car over the side rail just by thinking about it. Seems fair.

Sadly, I don't have any of those powers. The one I will have shortly is one I hope I never have to use. Power of attorney over my son's health and affairs.

As you might know, young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the finest film schools in the country. That's the good news. The bad news, besides the tuition, is it's not in the same state as I am. So just like my weight, taxes and where my next gig is coming from, I file this power under things I don't want to think about but have to.

My boy will be a two and a half hour flight away, and that's provided the planes are leaving when I need to go. God forbid if something should happen where he's unable to make decisions for himself, either myself or my wife are going to have to make them for him. No parent ever wants to think about this. But the only thing worse than it actually occurring is not being able to do anything about it. I asked him to grant my wife and I power of attorney, and he'll have to sign documents giving it to us. As I was stumbling around trying to explain it to him, he took the opportunity to explain it to me: "It's like a fire extinguisher. You never want to use it, but it's good to have around if you need it."

Clearly he's already much more mature than I ever was at his age. Or even my age.

I'm taking this as a learning opportunity for both of us. I get to teach him to read this document - all documents - carefully before he signs them. He gets to teach me he's a capable, grown man - something I sometimes have trouble remembering (and realizing).

I finally understand why parents treat you as kids no matter how old you get. He's always going to be my baby boy no matter what state he's in or how old he is.

The other thing the wife and I are forced to consider is that plane ride I was talking about. If events were moving fast, there's the very real possibility we wouldn't be able to reach him before decisions needed to get made.

Fortunately, I have a great friend named Cameron who lives in the city where he'll be. He's graciously offered to be my son's boots on the ground while we're not there, and not just for emergency situations but for homecooked meals, advice and anything else he needs as well. Cameron's included in the legal document as the alternate after the wife and I, so there won't be any question about his authority should it ever come to that. I'll never be able to convey how much of a relief it is knowing he's there for my son, or how thankful the wife and I are.

So tomorrow morning, we sit down with our lawyer and he'll sign the papers. And I'll try not to think about what they actually mean.

I guess that is one more power I have. The power of denial.

Jean's dreams

Here's what won me over about Jean Kelley. It wasn't her voice, which is soulful and spectacular by the way. It was her humor.

When Jean appeared on this past season of The Voice, two chairs turned around for her: Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton. When the judges were fighting over her, each trying to convince her to choose them, Blake Shelton said, "I have to have you on my team." To which Jean replied, "Do you now?"

BAM! Moxie. Brass. Nerve. A Jean Kelley fan was born.

A lot of people think of these talent shows as shortcuts to fame and fortune. In fact David Grohl has a famous rant about how musicians should pay their dues first, and how a judging panel can destroy them by telling them they're not good enough. But here's the thing: every musician has been told they're not good enough - it's the price of entry if you're going to pursue it.

And as any artist who's appeared on one of these shows will tell you, it's no guarantee of anything except the moment. I have great respect for anyone who appears on them - they're putting themselves out there in the most demanding, nerve-wracking way.

While those shows weren't around when Nirvana was, if they were Dave Grohl and the band might've given it a shot. The truth is now, they're another tool in the box, a means to an end.

Still, no matter where they place in the competition, artists still have to play small clubs, rude crowds, be opening acts no one wants to hear and put all their time, money and soul into finding an audience for their music.

If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter - and seriously, there are far better people to follow - you know I've been promoting Jean's Kickstarter campaign to fund her EP and tour. As of this writing, there are 5 days left to raise the remaining $12,600 she needs to make this first part of her dream a reality.

I've written here about how great if feels helping someone's dream come true. But of course the best way to find out if that's true is to open your wallet, fire up the credit card and see for yourself.

And I think helping to fund Jean Kelley would be a great place to start.

Linking them out

If you're anything like me - and really, let's hope you're setting your sights higher than that - you share the feeling there're more than enough things in the world to make you sad. Just turn on the news. Look at the price of gas. Adam Sandler is still making movies.

One thing that makes me especially heartbroken is seeing the name of someone I know who is since deceased pop up on the "People You May Know" section of LinkedIn.

It's happened three times now. I get it. In the midst of all the sadness and arrangements that have to be made when someone passes away, the last thing anyone is thinking about is removing their LinkedIn profile. It's not on anyone's radar.

But unlike the people themselves, those profiles live forever unless someone requests they be taken down. Which is what I've taken it upon myself to do.

All three times when a friend who's moved on to the great beyond has come up on LinkedIn, I've requested their profile be taken down. It doesn't take much. All LinkedIn needs is a date of death, link to an obituary, my relationship to the deceased, and the URL to their profile.

It's odd, but doing it seems like closure to me. A detail that if I don't do, no one will. It feels like they can finally rest in peace.

I suppose there's an argument that keeping their profiles active keeps their memory alive somehow. But if that's what it takes, then maybe their loved ones didn't make as many memories as they think.

No one asked me to do it, and I realize their profiles can always be created again. But the idea of some employer trying in vain to contact them for a job is disturbing to me, as I imagine it is to the loved ones who receive the emails and have to explain the circumstances.

If you see someone on LinkedIn you know has died, let LinkedIn know and ask that they be removed.

They don't need to worry about jobs anymore.

Don't ask: Watching your stuff

Continuing my ever popular Don't Ask series - the one that brought you such wildly popular and praised installments like Don't Ask: Moving, Don't Ask: Picking Up At The Airport, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Sharing A Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Writing A Letter For You and the perennial Don't Ask: Sharing My Food, comes this timely post dealing with my latest irritation sweeping the nation: Complete strangers who ask me to watch their stuff.

When I work on a freelance gig that doesn't require me to be at the agency (the best kind), I like to get away from the distractions of home and use whatever Starbucks I happen to be near as my local branch office. Inevitably, as you'd expect in an establishment serving coffee in cups bigger than apartments I've had, people will eventually have to make a trip to the restroom.

For some reason, when that time arrives, I'm the guy they always turn to and say, "Excuse me, can you watch my stuff?"

I usually give them a non-committal kind of half-nod that can be taken for a yes, but that I can use for a no if their stuff goes missing and we wind up in court.

I think it's flattering people think I have an honest face (if that's what they think) and feel like they can trust me with their $3500 MacBook Pros, Swiss Army backpacks and iPhone 6's for as long as it takes them to pee. But the fact is with one house, two kids, two dogs, three cars and having to finance all of them, I have enough responsibility in my life without being a security guard for your stuff.

Plus the assumption I'm going to give chase to someone who's made off with your stuff is flattering, but misplaced. The most I'll do, and only because my sense of right and wrong is so finely honed, is try to get a plate number if they're in a getaway car.

It's an odd thing to me how unlike any place else, Starbucks and other coffee houses seem to work on the honor system. You don't leave your car running at the post office and ask the stranger walking by to watch it for a minute while you run in an mail a letter. Alright, maybe not a great analogy but you get my drift.

Anyway, it doesn't matter how nice you ask - I'm not getting shanked just because you couldn't hold it anymore.

Why not just do what I do? Get up, confidently walk to the restroom, quickly do your business and get back to your table. Make the assumption whoever's about to make off with your things doesn't know if you're watching them from the line or locked in the loo.

If your stuff is gone by the time you flush, don't blame me. I told you not to ask.

Marathon man

There are plenty of reasons to look forward to holiday weekends. No work, that's a good one. Another is no work. Then of course there's also no work, which makes them extra pleasant.

One other reason, equally as good, is the annual Twilight Zone marathons.

Usually on Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends, somewhere on the six-hundred cable channels Charter overcharges me for, Rod Serling is telling me there's a place between light and shadow called the Twilight Zone. And he does it for forty-eight hours.

It's a given that at least two weekends a year I'll get to see William Shatner freaking out about a gremlin on the wing of his plane. Or about a fortune-telling machine with a devil's head on it in the booth at the diner.

I'll watch Burgess Meredith break his glasses, just as he has all the time he wants to read. I'll also get to see him square off against Fritz Weaver, explaining why he's not obsolete.

John Carradine will tell H.M. Wynant not to remove the small staff locking the door of the howling man, because he's really the devil. SPOILER ALERT: He doesn't listen and has to pay the price for it.

Captain Lutze will visit Dachau, and the ghosts of a million Jews will haunt him and eventually drive him insane.

And of course Ann Francis, as Marsha White, will go to the nonexistent ninth floor of the department store looking for a gold thimble, where she'll run into some familiar looking mannequins.

Under the guise of brilliant storytelling (Note to agencies: this is what real storytelling looks like), the Twilight Zone tackled real issues like racial prejudice, equal rights, crime and where an insatiable greed in all its forms inevitably gets you.

It's a testimony to Rod Serling's talent and imagination that decades after their original airing, the themes, stories and conclusions drawn on the Twilight Zone continue to be relevant.

Which I suppose makes it a sad commentary on us.

No Del hotel

For the first time in thirteen years, I won’t be spending part of the summer looking out at this view from our hotel room (the ocean is off camera to the left). Yes, sadly the family and I won’t be spending our annual week in August at the Hotel Del Coronado.

For starters, our great friend Donna who was the manager there has moved on to a much more rewarding position where her talent, experience and insights are being recognized and appreciated on a daily basis. We couldn't be happier for her, but the place definitely wouldn't be the same without her.

Next, with the arrival of the new general manager a couple years ago, rates at the Del – which were always stupid high – are now exhorbitant. A more cynical person might suggest jacking up the rates is an easy way for the recently installed general manager to artificially inflate the bottom line in the short term to make the numbers and himself look good to his corporate overlords in Chicago at Strategic Hotels, the latest owners of The Del.

But why bring that up at all.

I love the Del, and every summer for the last thirteen years it's been our home away from home. But for $719 a night, not only would I need a better ocean view - they’d have to bring the beach up to the room.

Last but not least, the week we’d normally go happens to be the same week we’re moving young Mr. Spielberg to his out-of-state university to attend one of the nations’ top-rated film schools. So instead of enjoying cool ocean breezes at the Del, we'll be baking in the brick oven that is August in Texas.

I suppose the truth is if we wanted to, we could probably manage to squeeze in an abbreviated trip to the Del before he's off shouting "Action!" - at least a couple days. Unfortunately if the choice is spending $719 a night on a room or putting it towards his out-of-state tuition, the room loses.

So as much as it pains me to say it, goodbye to the Del. At least for this summer.

And while there's consolation knowing the money is going towards his education, there's even more knowing that when he lands his first three-picture deal we'll be back at the Del.

In the big suite.

The Grandstands of Heaven

Every once in awhile, it occurs to me how many people I’ve lost along the way. Can you tell this isn’t going to be one of my more humorous posts?

I suppose it’s no more or less than anyone else. But on those days and nights when I let my thoughts roll around to them, it occurs to me how much I miss my dearly departed friends and family. I was trying to figure out the reason I don’t dwell on it more often than I do, and I think it’s because I still feel surrounded by them. Not in the ooo-eee-ooo kind of way, but in the “they’re never really gone, love never dies, they’re watching over me” kind of way.

I heard a great phrase the other day: the grandstands of heaven. That’s where I believe they’re all sitting, looking down and cheering me on. Of course, since they were my friends and family and probably did some traveling with me while they were here, I'm sure they're sitting in the clubhouse and not the general bleachers.

No flight too short for first class.

Right about now I’m sure some of my atheist friends are having a good laugh at this. It’ll give them something to make fun of and mock, because sometimes being content not believing in God or Heaven just isn't enough. Have at it. I love you anyway, and believe I’ll see you on the other side - even if you don’t.

Anyway, to Jim, George, Babs, Peter, Uncle Jimmy, Pete, Gommie, Jacques, Mark, Paul, Uncle Lou, Mom, Dad and the rest, since I can’t send you a thank you note (postage is outrageous) I want you to know I appreciate your continued support and love, and look forward to seeing you guys again. Not soon, but again. Save me a seat.

By the way, I heard you can eat as much of whatever you want up there and not gain weight. If that’s true, I’d appreciate one of you sending me a sign.

Maybe something like this.