Let there be light

It's dark at night.

I bet that's the kind of piercing insight and keen observation you read this blog for. You can stop rolling your eyes now. I'm not talking about outside - I'm talking about inside my house.

Our living room has always been light-challenged. There are ceiling lamps off to the side in what used to be a dining room, and another off to the other side in what used to be a bedroom. But no one really likes the harshness of those lights, or the amount of coverage they offer. And yes, a lot of rooms used to be other rooms in this house. It's like Disneyland - it'll never be finished.

Anyway, we used to have lamps on the end tables on either side of the couch, which made reading comfortable and easy on the eyes.

But then, in an act of sheer hostility and defiance, the lamp on my night table in the bedroom crapped out. It started doing strange flickering things when I turned it on. It was actually a little disturbing, since there was no rhyme or reason to when it would start acting up. I was scared it was either a poltergeist or conspiring to electrocute me. Or both. So I trashed it, and moved one of the ones in the living room next to me in the bedroom.

Ever since, my living room is like the moon: half in light, half in darkness. I was going to say covered in a fine gray dust with footprints from 1969, but why open that can of worms.

The problem replacing the lamp has been trying to find one that somewhat matches the remaining one. I don't know if you know this, but there are literally thousands of lamps to scroll through online - and it's exactly as much fun as it sounds.

I'm getting to the point where I'm ready to run out to Lowe's and just buy one. The wife doesn't want me to do it, but I told her we could look forever and the perfect one might never show up.

She said, "You're telling me."

Candid camera

A lost episode of COPS? An avant-garde student film? Nope. What your looking at is my driveway, as seen from one of our closed circuit security cameras.

You might be wondering why we've taken the extreme step of installing a security system at our house, especially since the TP'ing ended years ago.

Here's the story.

A few years ago, we started noticing some strange characters coming and going from a house across the street and four down from us. Which was strange because, as far as we could tell, the people who lived there looked like fine, upstanding citizens, perhaps public servants or business professionals.

I'm just funnin' ya. They were strung out meth tweakers. People who visited the house looked like the cast of Oz, without the warmth.

One day, my wife and daughter were driving home and saw one of the tweakers walking down our driveway. They drove slowly and watched him walk back to his house, then they called the police.

Initially the police didn't want to come out to warn the guy about trespassing, but once they did they realized they were dealing with some very bad people. They came back to our house, and let my wife know they had a very long rap sheet that included drug dealing and firearms charges. They also told us to call them anytime if we noticed anything odd going on over there.

The thing is, there was always something odd going on. And as a result, the cops were at the house about twice a week, at all times of the day and night, for over a year. Sometimes it was one police car, and other times it was four or five screaming up to the house, guns drawn. It was very entertaining, and we could almost set our clocks by it.

The house was owned by a sleazy lawyer. We figured out the deal was he got them out of jail when they got busted, and he got a cut of their drug money.

By the way, I forgot to mention that neither our house or our neighbor's house (our former great neighbor and friend Sebastian - come back Sebastian!) was broken into when he was coming out our driveway. We figured the tweaker was probably window shopping both houses, but then heard Max - the world's greatest German Shepherd - start barking up a storm and high-tailed it out of there.

Right after the driveway incident, we got the closed circuit camera system for the house. We have several cameras covering the whole property, and can tune in and watch the show no matter where we are. We have a lot of footage of the FedEx guy delivering packages from Amazon, but so far no more meth heads.

Eventually, the police department called to tell us the sleazy lawyer couldn't afford the house anymore and had decided to sell it. Which, thankfully, turned out to be true.

Now, a nice family with two young kids live there. They've been renovating the house since they moved in over a year ago, and it's looking good. I'm not sure if the renovations included an exorcism, but I think it's worth considering.

As for the closed circuit camera system, together with Max and our alarm system it brings us a great deal of peace of mind.

I just have to remember not to take out the trash in my underwear.

Suit yourself

There are several ways to tell it’s not me in the picture. Let’s see if we can name them all.

First, the suit isn’t black. Complete giveaway. Next, the model is thin. Shut up. Then, my hair, although once that color, isn’t anymore (my dad went gray at 25 - I never had a chance). Finally, it's been a while since I stood in a spaceship, Frank Gehry building, stage or wherever the hell he is with a 50 Shades Of You Know What Happens Next look on my face. But in my rich fantasy life, that’s exactly how I look in a nicely tailored suit.

Which brings me to my next point: I need a suit. A real suit. A grown up suit.

I don’t have much occasion to wear one, although I have been going to more funerals than I’d like the past few years. Part of the problem is I work in advertising, an industry which lets me dress like a fifteen-year boy old most of the time. On the rare occasion I have a reason to dress up at work, it just means tucking my shirt in my jeans, and wearing the black New Balance sneakers instead of the yellow ones.

However, besides the funerals, there've also been some weddings as of late. Or as I like to call them, a waste of a perfectly good Saturday. Plus, I’m also a member of the Magic Castle, which, in its quaint, throwback ways still maintains a dress code. And while I’ve managed to get away with wearing an old suit I have, it’s so long out of style I may as well be dressed for my bar mitzvah.

By the way, the jacket I wore to my bar mitzvah was blue. At the age of thirteen, I hadn’t developed my affinity for a black wardrobe yet. I also hadn’t developed any affinity for Hebrew school, but did that stop my parents from sending me there? No it did not.

Anyway, the point is I can’t keep wearing the same out-of-style suit to functions and venues that require one. I need a new suit.

The ones I’ve always liked are made by Hugo Boss. I remember years ago, there used to be an advertising awards show in Southern California called the Beldings, and early on they used to be black-tie. I’d go out, rent a tuxedo and show up looking quite snazzy while I was losing in every category.

Nothing feels quite as good as losing in rented clothes.

This one time, as I was trying on my tux at Gary’s Tuxedo in Santa Monica, I noticed one of the mannequins wearing a Hugo Boss tuxedo. You know you’re in trouble when the mannequin looks better in a tux than you do. Why not – he had the nicer tux.

I asked how much it was, and at the time it was around $1700. So I did some cypherin’ and figured out if I rented a tux at a hundred bucks a shot seventeen times, I could own that Hugo Boss (alright, so the math wasn’t that hard).

Well, you know how this story ends. At the time I didn’t have the foresight to see how I’d ever have seventeen occasions to dress up, so I didn’t pull the trigger on the purchase. Of course I’ve needed one many more times than that in the intervening years.

Which brings me back to my point: I need a suit. My strategy is to lose a little weight first (which has been my strategy since 1985), then go out and buy myself a stylish little Hugo Boss number.

Can you guess what color I'll get?

Direct deposit

Not long ago, I was freelancing at this agency that had a national car account, and wasn't too far from the beach. Which describes almost all of the agencies I freelance at.

But at this particular one, they had a little service they offered freelancers that others didn't. One that made my life easier. Ask anyone that knows me - I'm all about easy.

As far as I was concerned, this service was pure magic both in its concept as well as execution.

I speak of the freelancer's little helper, Direct Deposit.

Being a little compulsive, and always liking to keep a close eye on my money, for years I'd get a paycheck then make a mad dash to get to the bank before closing time and deposit it. But not anymore.

Now, I sign up whenever and wherever I can. Magically, my money appears in my account a day before payday. I can see it online. I can write checks against it. I can talk to it late at night, tell it my hopes, my dreams, my fears.

I might be getting off topic here.

The point is I used to be afraid of giant corporations being able to get their big corrupt hands on my bank account, and now I'm not. That's true for a lot of things in my life. Flying. Sushi. Adam Sandler movies.

Alright, I'm still afraid of Adam Sandler movies.

If you have the opportunity to get Direct Deposit where you work, I strongly suggest you do. It's nice when your company makes money appear in your account.

Of course, it'd be better if they could do it as fast as I make it disappear.

Through the looking glasses

I got new glasses over the weekend. This may not seem like a particularly big deal to you, but the fact is I’ve worn my same glasses for more years than I can remember.

It’s not that I’m slow to change, it’s just I have a hard time finding a pair of frames I like.

My old ones were smaller on my face. Not John Lennon granny-glasses small, but small. However over the years, my face - along with the rest of me - has gotten, shall we say, fuller. And my old glasses were looking less like glasses and more like a vise squeezing my head to pop my brains out.

At least that's how I saw them.

Fortunately for me, bigger frames are all the rage now, so I finally found a pair of Ray Ban 5225’s that fit me perfectly. Big, wide lenses. Stylish design. Distant borrowed cool from Risky Business. Cheap as hell on Amazon. Everything I was looking for.

When I came in to work today, I have to say I was expecting much more of a reaction than I got. After all, I’d worn the same glasses for years, and the new ones were distinctly different. Everyone seems to notice when I get a haircut. Or a new shirt. Even new shoes. Since they notice those little things, I was braced for a barrage of complimentary comments about my new glasses. I mean they’re right there on my face.

Instead of a slew of comments, I only got one – from my friend and sometimes art director partner Kurt who happens to have the exact same pair I got. Except his are blue and mine are black (Surprise!).

I think the lesson here is don’t go looking for compliments or attention. I need to just be happy that - after years of trying on frames and checking the mirror to see how they looked except I couldn't see how they looked cause I need my glasses to see - I finally found some I like.

Besides, exactly when did I start giving a damn what other people think? Oh, I remember: it was the 12th of never.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, once you get past the sarcasm, cynicism and general skeptical nature, I'm basically a glass-half-full kind of guy. And I've managed to find a silver-lining to this shocking lack of attention.

Apparently I have a superpower I didn’t know I had. For only $450, I can make myself invisible.

Happy landings

At the recent D23 expo, a convention for all things Disney, chairman, CEO and personal friend of Rich Siegel Bob Iger announced the Magic Kingdom was going to get even more magical thanks to a property their Imagineers had nothing to do with. And their accountants had everything to do with.

To the delight of thousands of squealing fanboys, Iger said plans are underway to build a Star Wars land at Disneyland. I think it's safe to say the force and the lines will be strong with this one.

So it got me to thinking (in case you were wondering what it would take), what if advertising agencies were divvied up into lands of their own. They're already divided into departments: Creative, Account, Media, Strategy and Pizza After 7.

But I think we could segment the shops even more. Specifically:

Clientland

This is a magical land where nothing is as it seems. Yes means no. Start means stop. Good means bad. In Clientland, the rides start but for some reason stop half-way through. And on the ones that do finish, the journey isn't quite as much fun as you expected it to be. Still, at least you got to ride. There are people waiting in line who'll never get on.

Researchland

If words like intuition, gut feeling and common sense send a cold shiver down your spine - and the word spine does as well - you'll feel right at home in Researchland. Those people walking around in the black robes? They're call Extractors, and their job is to remove all the funny lines you liked because a mother of two who had some time to kill and needed a free meal didn't think it was funny. Researchland has lots of dark, twisting tunnels that look like they lead somewhere, but actually don't. Problem is you don't find that out until you've been through them. There are also lots of funhouse mirrors, where you can see people who come in but they can't see you. All they can do is kill your idea before they finish the ride. Sometimes you can actually pass through Researchland and no one will tell you. But if you see your spot and don't even recognize it, you've been there.

Meetingland

In Meetingland, the ride feels like it's never going end. The cars are designed like little conference tables, and oddly enough the decorative plastic bagels in the center that you use to steer taste just as good as real meeting bagels. Everyone in your car talks at the same time. And no matter how long you ride, the one thing you can count on is you'll end up exactly where you started.

Weekendland

The least happy attraction in the park is Weekendland. People are grouchy and wishing they were somewhere else. All the concession stands serve is crappy pizza. And when you're inside the rides, all you can think about is how good the weather is outside. In Weekendland, there are warning signs on all the rides: This ride may cause depression, time lost with your spouse and your children, and excessive bad attitudes.

Of course, just like the Magic Kingdom, you'd be able to buy an annual pass to all of these agency lands that's good all year round.

But after your first visit, you'll wish they were all blackout days.

Silent night

I was thinking what I could write about tonight when the tragedy in Oregon occurred. And I find myself too numb to write about anything really.

I certainly don't feel like being funny tonight (I know, why is this night different from any other night...).

I've written here how I feel about guns as it pertains to personal safety and protection for the family.

And tonight the news will be filled with all the talking heads on both sides of the issue seeing who can scream the loudest.

But while the gun lobby and gun control advocates both plot their strategies and figure out how best to politicize this, the fact remains at least ten families won't have their loved ones coming home tonight. Many if not all were students. As a parent, it brings me to tears thinking of the pain the families must be going through.

There's always the quest to understand why the shooter did what he did. Reports have said he asked people to stand up and tell him what religion they were, and if they gave the wrong answer they were shot. Survivors say after he asked the question, he just started shooting people randomly, even those who hadn't answered his question.

On social sites, posts by the shooter said, "I'm so insignificant. This is the only way I'll ever get on television." A warning and a reason at the same time.

Some people have said police should've done more to bring him in alive so he could be questioned. But fortunately, their first priority was making sure no one else got shot.

The shooter was - in police parlance - neutralized.

I can't even imagine their pain. I don't even want to try. God bless the victims and their families now and forever. I hope they eventually find some peace and their hearts begin to heal.

As for the shooter, I'm only sorry he wasn't neutralized sooner.