Ad hair day

Creative directors often have an over-inflated sense of their contribution to the process.

Their value to the agency.

Their rapport with the creative department.

Their indispensability.

And, if you read the Revolving Door section of AgencySpy.com, apparently quite a few of them also have an over-inflated sense of hair styles.

It seems there's no middle ground. In the pictures that accompany the articles, they either look like a nice guy, or a douche who's trying way too hard. Which is a shame, because they might actually be the first one coming off as the second.

Part of the problem is too many creative directors want to make sure their clients, their department, their bosses and the viewing public know exactly how creative they are at first sight. And what better place to start than from the top down.

From perms to pigtails, curls to comb overs, I believe none of it makes the impression they think they're making.

Some of these people have worn their hair the same way for years. Ironic for an industry that waves the banners of change and disruption every chance it gets.

There is a great benefit to the readers of AgencySpy.com every time one of these pictures pops up: we get to read the comments. AS is kind of a lawsuit free zone, where readers can anonymously post any kind of disparaging, libelous, childish, defaming and derogatory comments they want. They're always a great read.

I think the lesson we can take away from all this is to dial down the judgment, and try as hard as we can not to judge a book by its cover.

After all, some of these salon-challenged people might be hair apparent to running the agency. All the more reason not to wig out at something as superficial as a hairdo.

Or hair don't.

Out to lunch

If you know anything about me, and if you've read this blog for any length of time you have no excuse not to, you know I'm pretty much of a social butterfly. I wouldn't go so far as calling myself a people person, but there are people whose company I enjoy immensely.

One way I have of showing it is by scheduling lunch with them.

Here's the thing: besides my brutal good looks, my keen insights, my Twain-like humor (I was going to say rapier wit, but sometimes that word gets misconstrued) and my keenly honed sense of modesty, I believe the most valuable thing I have to give is my time.

Well, that and my Spiro Agnew wristwatch. That reminds me, I have to check eBay later.

Anyway, there are only five lunches in a business week, so I find myself being extremely selective whom I choose to dine with. I have a small circle of repeat lunches I try to have because I enjoy them every time. You gotta eat, but you don't gotta eat with just anyone.

As fun as it would be, I'm going to show a little restraint (just to see what it feels like) and not name names. But you know who you are. You're the people who always have a standing reservation on my lunch dance card, no matter how full it is or how far away you are.

I don't mean to sound like I'm saying people should be happy and grateful they're having lunch with me. In fact, I'm saying just the opposite.

If we're having lunch, I'm the one who's thrilled to be there. I value our friendship. It's something I've carved out time for, and you can bet I've been looking forward to it since we made the plan. Sure I'll have the occasional casual lunch with someone in the outer circle, but my heart's not really in it. If there's a raspberry tart for dessert it's a little better, but still.

Not only am I giving my time, I'm aware you're giving yours. I'm flattered and honored. And if you enjoy our lunches half as much as I do, then I enjoy them twice as much as you do.

It's just that simple.

I'm screwed

I have a fairly sizable scar on my right forearm. When people see it, they always ask what happened. And every time, depending on the mood I'm in, they get a different story.

Sometimes it's the one where I was scuba diving off Catalina and a baby shark bit my arm. Other times, it's the guy who pulled a knife on me so I shot him. Rarely is it what really happened: a bad auto accident.

Decades ago, a guy in a Monte Carlo decided to run a red light just as I was going through the intersection at Crescent Heights and San Vicente (for you Angelenos). I was driving an orange '71 Super Beetle. He t-boned me, and because I wasn't wearing a seat belt (which the police said probably saved my life) I flew out of the car, wound up sanding the asphalt with my face and breaking my right radius in three places.

I know, stay out of those places.

And unlike the kind I'm used to making from jobs and relationships, it wasn't a clean break. So in order to set it properly, they had to put in the steel plate you see here.

Now when I think of medical equipment, I think of hi-tech, thin, durable composite whammy-jammy that can stay in my body unnoticed for eternity. What I don't think of is a door hinge with five screws in it.

There were some interesting things about it. When I ran my thumb over the scar, I could feel the five screw heads. I used to always set off the metal detectors at the airport. And when the weather would turn damp or cold, my arm would ache like a sonofabitch.

Eventually the arm healed. But then, in a moment of over-confidence and feeling thin, I had to go play volleyball one day with my then girlfriend, now wife, and repeatedly smack my arm until it swelled up three times its size.

That was the minute I decided I was going to have the plate taken out. I wasn't looking for a second surgery, but the arm muscles (yes, I have them) rubbing over the plate and screws all the time was just too irritating.

After the plate was removed, it took about seven months for the five holes from the screws to completely heal.

So it's all good. I have a nice souvenir and a good story. Plus now I can walk down alleys at midnight with my sleeves rolled up and no one bothers me.

It's because of the scar, you know, the one I got when I was sky-diving and my arm caught the door just as I jumped.

Dead wrong

I believe in this election year, the Republican clown car is filled to overflowing much more so than in years past. And Donald Trump is sitting in the driver's seat.

But under the heading of even a broken clock is right twice a day, I'm going to say something I never thought I'd hear myself say. I agree completely with Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz and Donald Trump about one thing: eliminating the estate tax.

I've never been much for labels, but if I had to put one on myself (besides "do not feed" and "wash only in hot water") I'd call myself a centrist Democrat. Another thing I've never been much for? Falling in step with the party line, especially positions I don't agree with. And on this one issue, both Hilary and Bernie are dead wrong.

This isn't a new position for me. I first posted about it here a little over five years ago, although not in any great detail. But the reality for me, and I imagine a lot of other people, is that I'm not feeling particularly under-taxed. During my working life, the government hasn't missed any opportunity to reach its greedy, mismanaged, politically-motivated, oversight-free fingers into my paycheck and take my hard-earned (well, hard-earned if I had a real job) money.

Whenever the time comes, and I finally catch the last train out, there's no reason my children should be taxed on what I spent a lifetime building (and paying taxes on) so they could have a better life when I'm gone. Any person who builds a business, savings, real estate or portfolio during their lifetime - and pays taxes on it all along the way - shouldn't have it all taken away or wiped out because the government wants it's share, again, when you finally take the big dirtnap.

In 2016, estates exceeding $5,450,000 in value are currently the only ones who pay the tax, which means most people don't. But that number isn't written in stone. It's written in the legislative branch and that makes it subject to change. As you can see on the chart, Hillary and Bernie both want to lower the threshold to $3.5 million. Who's to say if the government needs a little more money, maybe the next administration lowers it even further.

Here's the truth: most of the millionaires who do have to pay it actually worked hard and earned their fortunes. They didn't inherit it. They shouldn't have to pay a penalty because they succeeded, and neither should their families. The battle cry that they can afford it so they should pay it is pure nonsense designed to create class war. Do you want the government taxing or taking away what you've earned? Didn't think so.

When it comes to government, I've been taught there are some truths we hold to be self-evident. One of them should be that it's fundamentally and morally wrong to have an estate tax in the first place. It's double taxation any way you slice it, and it de-incentivizes and deters people who would otherwise bring valuable contributions and ideas to the world. It also encourages offshore shelters and keeps money flowing out of the country.

The fact there's even an estate tax at all reminds me of a line in the movie Quiz Show, when one of the characters says, "It's not exactly Jefferson and Lincoln down there anymore."

Ain't that the truth.

Getting hosed on a new sprinkler

There are so many things I can't do. Now, contrary to popular belief, not all of them are because I don't have the brains or the ability. Some of them are merely because I just don't want to. No one's ever accused me of being an overachiever.

One of the many homeowner repair items, and one of the more common ones, that falls under the second category is sprinkler repair.

I had to take my beautiful daughter to school Tuesday morning. I know it was Tuesday, because that's one of the two days a week my city allows me to water the lawn without getting fined. No one said the drought was going to be easy.

Anyway, when I got back home from her school I noticed one of the sprinklers on my front lawn doing its impression of a knocked over fire hydrant. Or 'Ole Faithful. What I'm saying is it was a gusher.

Now, I know, you know and the American people know all that means is a sprinkler head was broken or gone, probably taken out by our gardener when he was mowing the lawn (another thing I don't want to do).

I actually do know what's involved in fixing the sprinkler. Dig up the dirt around it, unscrew the old sprinkler head, screw on a new one and replace the divot. Pretty simple.

And yet, as I like to say, no job too small for somebody else to do.

So I had a sprinkler repair company come out - ironically, they're called the Sprinkler Repair Company - and had them fix it. It took fifteen minutes start to finish. I don't even want to tell you what they charged, but at least the "making me feel stupid" was free.

Lesson learned.

From now on, I'm going to make more of an effort to do the things I don't want to do, both around the house and in the outside world, even though I damn well know how to. And maybe save a few samolians in the process.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to call and get somebody out here to change this lightbulb.

Don't care package

It seems like a good time to rerun this post I did a little over two years ago. It appears as it did then, except for a minor tweak or two here and there. After all, I don't want to strain myself.

First, I'd like to send my sincere thanks to everyone for all your emails, calls and notes asking why Rotation and Balance hasn't had any new posts for a few weeks. All of us here at RNB International Headquarters have been deeply touched by your demonstration of enthusiasm for our blog, and your genuine concern why we haven't been posting more often.

Nah, I'm just funnin' ya. No one gives a crap.

The truth is I could never put up another post, and the impact on your life would be zip. Zilch. Zero. And probably some other "Z" word I'm too lazy to find.

Don't feel bad, as apparently you haven't. I work in advertising - I'm used to it.

You wouldn't think it at first glance, but the product is essentially the same between this blog and advertising. When it's there, and it's clever or engaging on an emotional, humorous or intellectual level, you like seeing it.

But when it's not there you don't miss it at all.

It's a lot like my high school girlfriend that way.

At any rate, we've been undergoing an "organizational restructuring" here at the main office. Our editorial and contributing writer staff has been streamlined for better efficiency, more frequent postings and articles you can relate to that will help you find happiness in being your true self.

Oh, wait, that was the staff over at O. Disregard that.

What we've done here at RNB is fired all the planners wearing knit caps (for a good laugh, see what my pal and Round Seventeen auteur Rich Siegel thinks of knit caps). So hopefully the work should be more frequent and a lot better, even without their unique insights.

Here's hoping you'll (continue to?) enjoy the renewed, reinvigorated, recharged, re-tooled and some other "R" word Rotation and Balance.

When I get around to writing it.

Just another roll of the dice

If there's one thing I have a lot of experience at it's waiting for Springsteen tickets. I've been doing it a long time. I can even remember back to the days before the interwebs, when my friend Kim and I would line up at the now extinct Music Plus store in Westwood or the Marina, and wait in line fifteen hours with throngs of the faithful, swapping war stories and seating victories, and promising we'd all see each other at the show.

The difference between then and now is at Music Plus, you knew you were going to walk away with tickets.

This morning at 10 a.m. tickets went on sale for the March 19 show at the Los Angeles Sports Arena. I, like so many other of my Bruce tramp friends, was online the minute they did, credit card in hand. And from the very first click, Ticketmaster threw up a sign saying "No tickets available for this event." Poof, they're gone.

After hitting refresh a few times, I managed to get four tickets which the family and I will enjoy. They're not front-of-the-plane seats we've become accustomed to, but we're in the building, it's Bruce and that's all that matters.

I'm not going to give you the predictable whine about Ticketmaster. From the price gouging fees to selling directly to brokers, their evil ways have been documented time and again. My personal feeling is it doesn't matter. There's always a huge market and not much incentive for them to change.

I'm optimistic about some things, realistic about others.

The truth of the matter is I endure the wait, the frustration and the anxiety of it all every time and I'll keep doing it. Bruce tickets have always been like a box of chocolates. Fortunately, I've been in a position for many years to either afford alternative channels (brokers), or have friends with contacts wrangle some mighty fine seats for me.

But as I said, when it's Bruce, just being in the building is enough.

For thirty years, my aforementioned friend Kim has been with me at every Bruce on sale drama, and almost every show I've been to - including the very two Madison Square Garden reunion shows where his DVD Live In New York was recorded.

Over the last nineteen years, my friend Alan has traipsed up and down the California coast with me more than a couple times, and to Arizona, enduring some very sketchy hotels to follow Bruce.

And thirteen years ago, I met my red-headed woman Jessie at an agency we worked at together. Her office was plastered with Bruce posters and pictures, including one of her with him. When I was telling another person who worked there how much I like Bruce, she said, "I've got someone you have to meet." Jessie has been at all the shows with us. In fact, Jessie twisted my arm and had me get GA seats at a show in Pac Bell Park in San Francisco. We were on the rail, five feet away from Bruce - best seats ever.

I'm not exactly sure how many years I've known Chris, but he is a spectacular Bruce friend who always manages to find out everything we need to know long before anyone else does. He also manages to find the music before anyone else has heard it. Enough said.

I don't know if it's a religion or a cult, a compulsion or a necessity. Maybe it's all of them. I do know every single time, what I've gotten out of it has been more than worth everything I've had to go through to get there. And I've been there so many times I've lost count.

I'm grateful I have my Bruce tramp pals who're ready to go through it all with me unwaveringly each and every time.

Sure I wish it were easier to get good seats for the shows. But over the years all of us have been lucky enough to learn the same lesson over and over.

When it comes to the ticket train, faith will be rewarded.