Sunday, August 23, 2015

Taking measure

It's been a few days since I've put up a post, but it looks like your luck has just run out. Here we go.

What you're looking at above is the floorplan of my son's new dorm room. It's a standard issue, college dorm floorpan for two. Sadly, the illustration is close to actual size. You're probably thinking to yourself, "Ok, but where's the bathroom?" The answer is down the hall.

Being my son, you'd have thought he'd have chosen a room with a private bathroom. I know it's what I would've done. But here's why he's so much smarter than I am. If you have a private bathroom, you're responsible for keeping it clean and stocked with supplies. However if you share a community bathroom, the school cleans and stocks it twice a day every day.

Plus, by a total luck of the draw, the bathroom is literally ten steps outside his door. His first class doesn't start until eleven, so he misses the bathroom rush hour.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: being an only child, the concept of sharing - rooms, food, cars - is completely lost on me. And never having lived in a dorm, so is the concept of a small room with a roommate.

Of course, being the backer of this entire "college thing," I more than anyone appreciate the economy of doing it the way he's chosen to do it. He's already demonstrating a financial savvy, and classes haven't even started yet.

Still, being the pampered poodle I am, if it'd been up to me, I'd have gone in a slightly different direction with the dorm room.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Conflict

I'll keep it short tonight for a couple of reasons. One is I have to travel early tomorrow. The other is I feel like I've visited this well a little too often and you, dear reader, may be yearning for another subject.

To which I say, see the "Next Blog" link at the top left there? Have at it. My blog, my subject.

And tonight's subject, as you can probably tell already, is conflict.

My son leaves for college tomorrow. On one hand, I couldn't be more proud and excited for him as he starts this next season of his life. Not to get too Seussian, but oh the places he'll go. The adventures he'll have. The friends he'll make. It will be rewarding for him in ways neither of us can even imagine.

On the other hand, my baby boy is leaving home. For eighteen years I've lived with him and quite frankly I don't know how to live without him. If you follow me on Facebook, you know I posted a link to an article Rob Lowe wrote about sending his son to college. He absolutely nails it. The experience is as joyous as it is heartbreaking.

I've tried, and admittedly done a lousy job, to keep a game face around him (my son, not Rob Lowe). I don't want him to feel like he can't leave me because I'll be reduced to a blubbering puddle of tears. Which I will, but he doesn't have to see it.

Anyway, tonight's post has been brought to you by Vent. Vent, when you just need to ramble on about it.

On a personal note, I know he doesn't read every single thing I post on here (thank God). But James, if you're reading this one, pack this in your suitcase: I love you and have always loved you more than either of us will ever know. You're more talented in more ways than any hundred people I know. And your heart is bigger than the state you're moving to - and that's saying something. I know I've told you already, but I just can't seem to stop saying it: I'm beyond proud, and can't wait to see the great things I know you're going to accomplish. You done good.

I like to think it's good parenting.

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Pampered poodle

I've been accused - more than once - of being a pampered poodle. It's okay, I'm used to it. It doesn't exactly surprise me. I have a good idea where it comes from.

In fact, as I was getting my pedicure this afternoon, it dawned on me people who call me that, you know, the ones with long toenails and callused feet, may have a point.

There are several telltale signs that are dead giveaways. For instance I like going to the spa for a massage. My favorite spa happens to be the Canyon Ranch Spa at the Palazzo in Las Vegas. So it's a win-win-win right from the start.

When I don't feel like bending over to clip my toenails, or they start looking like I'm doing an uncanny Howard Hughes impression, I head down to the nail boutique for a pedicure. If it's on a day I can't find the clippers I'll get a paraffin wax manicure along with it. Can your hands ever be too smooth? I think not.

Besides, I do want them to look pretty while I'm typing all that copy.

Getting all gussied up isn't the only tell. When it comes to aluminum tubes going six-hundred miles an hour, I like to sit in the front of the plane. I prefer suites over regular hotel rooms, because as anyone who knows me will tell you, I like a big room. I do however enjoy looking at that retro, hipster barber shop I pass on the way to my salon.

One time I was holding hands with this girl (before I met my wife - you can all relax), and she said, "Wow. Your hands are so smooth. It's like you've never worked a day in your life."

I'm a copywriter. It's not exactly breaking rocks.

Anyway, occasionally budget and disposable income does become an obstacle. But like most people in advertising, I like a good challenge.

Like finding a cheaper nail salon.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Party major

As we get ready to send young Mr. Spielberg to his out-of-state film school, I find myself enrolled in a continuing education course about his university of choice.

For example, I just learned last year the Princeton Review rated his university number eleven on the list of party schools. However this year, it didn't even make the top twenty.

Not to sound like a parent, but I consider that an improvement. If I'd wanted him to go to a party school, I would've sent him to UCSB. Or any school in Arizona.

The timing was curious, because I learned this just as his school started emailing me information about alcohol abuse, and how to talk to my student about it.

It's enough to drive you to drink.

There are two things I know about my son: he has never liked alcohol, the smell of it, the thought of it, the effects of it. And he likes to keep his wits about him. There's nothing attractive to him about hugging the porcelain throne after a night of keggers, chasers and beer pong.

Of course, he did say he'd like to moderate a film festival screening Days Of Wine & Roses, Barfly, The World's End, The Hangover, Leaving Las Vegas, Sideways and The Lost Weekend.

But he's going to be a director, so I know he understands things like motivation.

Like if he screws up, his tab is closed.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

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.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

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.

Monday, August 10, 2015

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.