College boxing

I spent a lot of time today looking at stores with names like The Box Store, The Box Zone and The Box Spot.

As y'all may know, one week from today my son is shuffling off to a blue dot in a red state to attend film school.

So, completely counter-intuitively and not reflective at all of our track record, we decided not to wait until the last minute to get him packed and ready. Hence my shopping in the aforementioned stores.

The final take was five book boxes, and four flat wardrobe boxes. And I still think it's way too much. Our house has a large room in back that was added on - not by us - before we bought it. It's my son's bedroom, and he's used to having a lot of space for his stuff. He's also used to having a lot of stuff. So not surprisingly, he wants to take a lot of it with him.

We're trying to impress on him the fact that a) he won't have nearly the room he's used to when he gets to his dorm, b) whatever little space he has will be cut in half thanks to his roommate and whatever he's planning on bringing, and c) if he gets there and has room for more we can always send it to him later.

But for now it's a matter of culling the numbers, curating the items and thinning the herd. None of which is easy, for him or us.

Every object we pick up has a memory attached to it. That toy he played with as a kid. The picture of me holding him minutes after he was born. A book I made for him, filled with pictures of one of our many trips to Comic Con.

What am I saying? I'm saying there are two reasons he'll need to pack light. First is the small space he'll be working with when he gets there. And second is if he leaves most of his stuff here, I know he'll be back for it.

Until he is, those memories are mine to hold.

Gimme shelter, or not

Back in the mission accomplished, strategery, fool me once days of the George W. Bush presidency, everyone had a great time making fun of the way W mispronounced the word nuclear. It never mattered much to me. I say nuclear, you say nucular. Either way we're toast.

Lucy, our one-year old Sock Finder terrier absconded with a tasty argyle the other day and hid it, poorly, in her den which is under the dining room table. I had to go under there and retrieve it (who's the retriever now?), and in a flash (SWIDT?) it reminded me of the drop drills we did in elementary school.

We'd be sitting there, either doing school work or counting the minutes until we could get home and watch Engineer Bill or Sheriff John, and suddenly the teacher would yell "Drop!" We'd all hit the deck under our desks, as if that was going to prevent us from looking like one of Johnny Depp's ash trays on a Saturday night.

It's a lot like when a potential client is about to tour the agency, and the account guy yells "Look busy!" The difference is at the agency nothing changes.

Anyway, with enough nuclear bombs on submarines alone to take out the world, and the Stay-Puft dictator in North Korea shooting off his firecrackers towards Malibu, I started thinking about preparations I need to make in the event of the event.

There's this very informative website that tells how to prepare for a nuclear blast. And while there are a lot of helpful tips on it, I have a few of my own I think will come in handy should we get close to that edge.

First, get to Vegas.

For almost four decades, the U.S. Department of Energy did above-ground testing of over a thousand nuclear bombs at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-five miles northwest of Vegas.

And to no ones' surprise, Vegas did what they do best: turned the detonations into a tourist attraction.

It's where the saying, "It ain't the heat, it's the radiation." originated. My point is if they're going to drop the big one, shouldn't there be swimming pools and free drinks involved?

Who's with me?

Next, run up the credit cards.

The minute the news shows interrupt the season finale of The Bachelorette and start tossing up the Breaking News banner to report on on tensions getting higher between nuclear-armed third-world nations, and we're reaching a point of no return, reach for the credit cards.

A quick shopping spree is better than none at all, and you'll probably have a few days at least before the big boom. Those things you always wanted? Buy 'em. Enjoy 'em. Even if only for a little while.

Just because you're going to die soon in a flash of brilliant white light doesn't mean you have to do it with regrets. 82-inch flatscreen, hello?

Then, grab someone you've always wanted to kiss and plant one.

To some, the impending end of all life on earth might be the time to reflect on what your friends and family mean to you, and to tell them in a heartfelt final conversation so they can vaporize knowing how much you loved them.

Here's the thing: if they don't know by now, you really don't have time to explain it.

Instead, find someone you've always wanted to kiss, grab 'em and plant one on 'em. They'll be startled, maybe in shock to the point where they won't even know what to say. Which is when you say, "I'm so sorry. What I actually meant to do was this." Then plant another one.

Will they be mad? Maybe. Will they report you? Who cares. You can stay out of sight for a couple days until we're all gone.

Remember the part about no regrets?

Finally, remember to smile.

You don't want to look like those people from Pompeii when it's over. They were turned to stone and ash, and not a one of them looked happy about it. At least in the pictures.

If on the chance you wind up charred and not vaporized, you want to have a smile on your face when you go. It projects confidence, joy, a certain je ne sais quoi that says, "Even 500 kilotons of fissionable material can't harsh my buzz."

It lets them know you were having a party while you were here, and you're planning on a great time where you're going.

Years - and I mean a lot of years - from now, when they discover your preserved remains and see the smile, they'll wonder what you had to be so happy about at that particular moment. They'll do documentaries about you. Scholars will debate that look on your face. And if you're lucky, your remains might actually get to go on a national museum tour just like King Tut did.

And of course, on the off chance politicians somehow manage to head off the attack at the eleventh hour, you won't want to miss my next post about right ways to apologize and strategies for debt reduction.

Thriller

I was in Vegas this past weekend.

Usually when I'm there, I can be found in my natural habitat - the end of a crap table rolling the bones.

But this time it was a family weekend, the last one before young Mr. Spielberg heads off to one of the best film schools in the country, and the pricey tuition that implies (I was hoping to win part of his tuition playing craps, but was forced to move on to Plan B - working the rest of my life).

Anyway, to celebrate the start of his film career we decided to see a couple of shows. One of them was the Cirque du Soleil production of Michael Jackson ONE.

Now I always liked a lot of his music, but I never would've called myself a fan. But man, slap me twice and call me Sally, this show was spectacular. Music blaring, dancers gyrating, lasers flashing, it had all the flash and spectacle you'd expect from Jackson and Vegas.

It's a multi-media show, and during a lot of it you have no idea where to look because there's so much going on. Then suddenly, there's one heartbreaking clip that almost takes your breath away: young Michael, in the Jackson 5 days, singing I'll Be There. It's a lump in your throat, not a dry eye in the house moment that doesn't let go.

There was also the first time the world saw him break out his signature moonwalk move on the 25th Anniversary of Motown special. In case you'd forgotten what an electric performer he was.

For all the energy and precision the onstage dancers moved with - and it was considerable - it was an impossible job to ask them to keep up with the footage of Jackson dancing with the intensity and deliberateness he did. He simply moved in a way that can't be duplicated.

No doubt because of his personal life and predilections there are many reasons to dislike Michael Jackson. And one great production doesn't make any of them go away.

But for one incredibly entertaining night, for the first time, I was a fan.

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.