Stop me if you've read this one before

I have a bad habit. Well, I have more than one. But I’m not talking about my addiction to virtually any kind of bread, how I leave near-empty food containers in the fridge or my compulsion to binge Breaking Bad whenever I have a free minute.

No, the one I’m talking about is repeating myself.

The one I’m talking about is repeating myself.

See what I did there?

Case in point. I just put up a post called Drive Time about the agency I’m at, the fact it’s at the beach and how nice the commute is. Come to find out the problem is I’ve put up nearly the exact same post two other times – Tsunami Adjacent and Mourning The Commute. In fact, I've even used the exact same photo a couple of times.

Granted, it’s a good story, but let's be honest for minute—although I've never figured out the upside of doing that—it's not that good. And I’m just a little embarrassed I’ve told it here three times.

I worry that I repeat subjects. Being who I am, I think it may be symptomatic, an early form of dementia setting in and I'll be the last one to know. But then it occurs to me I’ve been cranking out this blog for years, and the truth of the matter is occasionally I run out of topics I think are worth ranting and raving about. Apparently when that happens, I unintentionally go back to the same well and write about something I've already written about. Not that it's always a bad thing. After all, some things are worth repeating.

Although I'm pretty sure this isn't one of them.

I know the nine people who read this on their iPads while they’re sitting on the toilet probably aren’t paying that much attention, and had I not pointed it out, wouldn’t have even known I was telling the same story again and again.

But you’re all paying good money for this, and I didn’t want you to…wait a minute, you’re not paying any money for this. Suddenly I don’t feel so bad.

Anyway, I'll try not to repeat myself as often. And if I do, I’ll try to keep it to the most interesting and popular subjects only.

By the way, don’t miss tomorrow’s post on how I sometimes repeat myself. It’ll be a good one.

Drive time

A good commute can be the difference between happy Jeff, and his evil twin – pissed off, short-fused, grudge-holding, horn-honking, lane-changing, one finger saluting, swearing like a drunk longshoreman Jeff.

So what makes a good commute? Well, for starters—and this should come as no surprise—distance.

For a long time, in what I believe was a very strange coincidence—or was it?—my commute to the agencies I was working at was exactly 26 miles each way. It seemed to be my travel threshold.

Even though 26 miles doesn’t sound like a lot, you can do the math - and if you can't then I believe it's a damning indictment of our public education system. Don't get me started. Where was I? Oh, right. It's 52 miles round trip. But at 8:30 a.m. or 6 p.m. going against traffic on the 405, they feel like dog miles. It may as well be a 1000.

All this to say my commute now is spectacular. The agency I’m currently at is right at the beach (or as I called it the last time I wrote about it, tsunami adjacent). I don’t have to get on a freeway to get there, I just cruise down Pacific Coast Highway from my house. There’s never any traffic on that stretch of PCH at that time of day, and it takes me about 20 to 25 minutes to arrive unstressed and un-pissed off at work.

Which brings me to the second component in a good commute: the destination.

I’ve worked for a few agencies in San Francisco over the years. They all have the same politics, personalities and British-accented, insight spouting, knit-cap wearing planners every other agency has. Here’s the difference: at the end of the day, I’d open the door to leave, and I’d be in San Francisco. It made up for a lot of ills. Flight and all, my commute to the San Francisco shops from my house was often faster than my commute to Orange County.

Another item that makes for a good commute is the scenery. You can have a short commute where you get to work in no time, but if it takes you through the senseless murder district coming and going, it’s still not very pleasant.

Since my commute du jour runs down PCH, I get to see the ocean, surfers, joggers and beach rats while I drive there and back. If I’m working a little later (stops to laugh at the thought of working later), I can even manage to catch a summer sunset. Like the old saying goes, getting there is half the fun.

Of course, depending which agency you're commuting to, it just may be all the fun.

Ghostwriter

The wide and raging river of taglines, headlines, subheads, subject lines, pre-headers, bold lead-ins, body copy, banner ads, manifestos, landing pages, social media posts, positioning statements and concept write-ups seems to flow on endlessly no matter which ad agency I happen to find myself at.

This of course is an excellent situation for a freelancer, because when the river dries up so does the bank account.

But as any copywriter will tell you, occasionally you have to deal with a bout of what real writer’s who aren’t creating a legacy of garbage (Legacy Of Garbage ©Janice MacLeod) refer to as writer’s block. For whatever reason, sometimes the words that make America buy just aren’t there when you need them.

Which is fine if you’re writing a snarky little blog only nine people read, and then only when reruns of the Bachelorette aren’t on. But when you’re a hired gun up against a deadline, there are no excuses. If the words aren’t there you have to go out and find them.

Fortunately I know just where to look. To my son James.

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But I don’t have an apple tree, because it attracts rats to the backyard and I have a black thumb and would probably kill it anyway. And who wants to eat apples that fall off a rat-infested tree into the dirt. There’s not enough Dawn and Brillo to get them clean enough for me to eat. Don't get me started on the worms.

I may have wandered off track here.

My son is a great writer. He's unburdened by strategy briefs, client concerns, nervous account people, award-whore creative directors, account planners whispering sweet nothing in his ear – and I do mean nothing. He just likes to make up fun lines. So on those rare occasions when I need to get a fresh, untarnished perspective because my brain has gone into vapor lock, I just give him a call and tell him what I need.

Give me some car headlines that talk about performance. Knock out a few lines for this video game. I need something for a hotel in half an hour.

He always delivers.

I'd like to think he gets his writing talent from my side of the family, but I think it's just who he is. Screenwriting major, hello? This is a kid who's not afraid of throwing it out there and seeing what happens.

So, to the agencies I work for now, and will in the future, rest assured that when it comes to writing copy for your prestigious clients, and even your lesser ones, I'm going to give it everything I've got. Including my first born.

Stardate 7202016

It's the most recognizable starship in the fleet. And in July, it's docking in San Diego. Well, on the big screen anyway.

July 20th, the next installment of the franchise - Star Trek Beyond - is going to have its world premiere at Comic Con. And, if you know anything about me, you know that when it comes to Star Trek vs. Star Wars, while having great appreciation and affection for the latter, I've always been Team Kirk first and foremost.

I've also had a lifetime worth of Comic Cons. I've been to the last ten or eleven of them, and at this point, as the kids say, been there done that.

The problem is I have a film major living with me for the summer, and Comic Con is like breathing to him. So, despite the same reluctance I have every year, come July we'll be packing up the energy bars, the Stark Industries t-shirts, the camera and the credit cards and heading down San Diego way.

I wasn't excited about it until I heard about the premiere. I've actually been to one world premiere at Comic Con. That's the good news. The bad news is it was Cowboys & Aliens. The movie wasn't as bad as the critics made it out to be, but in the end it just didn't work (Note to Chung: it was still better than Interstellar). However, Harrison Ford sat in front of us and Daniel Craig was ten seats down in our row, so it wasn't a total wash.

At this point they haven't announced how the tickets will be distributed or who will get them. Maybe a lottery. Maybe lining up days ahead of time. Maybe a last minute announcement and a mad dash to the theater.

Oh, speaking of the theater, did I mention it's going to be screened at an outdoor IMAX theater, with Michael Giacchino conducting the San Diego Symphony orchestra, performing his score along side the screening? True fact. It's going to be worth it, no matter what we have to go through to get there.

Unless it's drinking Romulan ale. I hate that stuff.

My home boy

My friend, fellow blogger and professional Orca trainer Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen published a post the other day about the joy and resulting consequences of his two daughters returning home from college.

It is the season.

His post hit home because, like the swans trying to return to Capistrano through the radioactive air of San Onofre, my college boy also pulled up stakes and managed to find his way back home from the Lone Star state. Alright, it's not exactly like the swallows and Capistrano, but you get what I was going for.

Anyway, last Thursday night I returned from picking him up at the airport. His 6pm arrival pulled up to the gate at 10:04pm - a four-hour mechanical delay was the culprit. It was a monumental inconvenience, and eviscerated any plans we had for the night. But frankly, I'd much rather the plane be deemed airworthy while it's still on the ground.

When he set foot in the house, he was beyond tired. After a four-hour delay and a two-hour time difference he's lived with for ten months, young Mr. Spielberg was a wee bit cranky. Completely understandable.

The good news is it's like riding a bicycle - a bicycle that's an eating, cash swallowing machine - the imprinted routine of living at home comes rushing back as if he'd never left.

So despite the laundry I know will pile up, the dishes that will inevitably have to be bussed by me, the floorspace that'll be taken up while he plays Arkham Knight again on the Playstation and the never-ending juggling of cars so he can visit with friends he hasn't seen in ten months, I am beyond happy he's home.

I'm happy for another reason which I'm not at liberty to talk about, but let's just say - for reasons that are nothing but good - he may not be spending his sophomore year in Texas. Not that missing the Campus Carry Law going into effect is going to bother me too much.

Side note: when I asked him a while ago what he thought about Campus Carry and if everyone at school was talking about it, he looked at me and said, "Dad, no one's talking about it. It's Texas. Everyone's already carrying a gun."

I'm really happy he's home.

Brace yourself

Way back in January, I was taking my son somewhere. I don't remember exactly where, but knowing him it was probably a movie, a panel discussion about a movie or to meet friends so they could go see a movie.

Anyway, I forgot something in the house, so I bounded up the four brick steps on our walkway, then caught my foot on the top step and went down faster than a My Big Fat Greek Wedding sequel.

I hurt my left wrist pretty bad and thought I'd broken it. So I went to our local urgent care and, after an X-ray and exam, learned it was just a severe sprain. They wrapped it up in a wrist brace, gave me some Advil and said to take it easy.

I didn't really think much more of that visit until I got the bill for it. The charge for the X-rays and exam were fine. It was the charge for the wrist brace that caught my eye: $307.55. Here's the funny part: this Urgent Care facility is next door - literally twenty feet - from a CVS drug store, which happens to carry the exact same wrist brace for $28.79.

This aggression will not stand man.

I called the billing department and talked to Eric. He was very understanding, and saw right away the charge for the brace was excessive. He was going to have a supervisor review it, and meanwhile he was putting my bill on hold. God love you Eric, you made this so easy.

What I found out was apparently Eric was a little lax on follow through.

Weeks later, I received another bill with the exact same charge. So I called again and spoke to Carlos this time. Clearly Carlos was a man of action. Unfortunately, it was the exact same action as Eric, which was no action at all.

Long story short, I spoke with Carlos a second time when I received yet another bill, and Aida when I received a collection letter. All of them told me, repeatedly, my bill would be on hold while the amount was being disputed.

I called one more time, and got my old pal Eric again. Eric and I go way back. He was shocked, shocked I tell you, to learn this matter hadn't been resolved. So he put me on hold, then put me on with his supervisor, Bob.

It was evident to me Bob the supervisor was suffering from a medical condition called full of shit.

The symptoms are fairly easy to diagnose, even for a layman.

Blatant lies like "that's what we pay for the wrist brace" and "we've already put it in the system, we can't reverse it" that are easy to shoot down. Unwilling to confront and accept facts, like when I told Bob he actually could reverse it and there was no way it cost that much. He then apparently had a psychotic break, telling me urgent care doctors never refer patients to CVS to get medical equipment, despite the fact I informed him I'd been directed there many times to pick up a bandage, gauze or some kind of ointment (never a fan of that word).

At the end of the conversation, Bob's condition must've flared up. He said he couldn't do anything, and I told him no, he was choosing not to do anything (my therapy dollars at work). Without any investigation of his own, he replied that yes, he wasn't going to do anything.

Clearly, Bob wasn't familiar with Jeff letters.

Moments after hanging up with Bob, I sat down and wrote the CEO of the hospital system that runs the urgent care. I explained the situation, why it was unacceptable, attached pictures of the proximity of the CVS to the urgent care center as well as copies of the numerous bills and the collection letter.

Bob didn't know it, but he'd messed with the wrong cowboy.

Within 24 hours, I received a call from the VP Director of Patient Billing. She was apologizing up and down the place for my experience with her department. Of course the charge was excessive, and she was removing it from the bill leaving a balance of zero. Then, icing on the cake, she informed me she'd already spoken with Bob, Eric, Carlos and Aida about how they could've better handled my situation.

I imagine Bob's medical condition resolved itself right through his pants when he heard she was calling.

She also asked if I'd be willing to come in and talk to her department - including the people I'd spoken to - and give a talk about the experience from a patient point of view, and make suggestions how it could be improved.

God knows, I love playing a big room, so I told her I'd be happy to.

The moral of my story is next time you get an outrageous bill, medical or otherwise, don't just whip out the check book and gripe about it. Write a letter - to the person at the top - and ask them to do something about it. You have nothing to lose. More often than not, in my experience, they'll take some sort of action to resolve the issue.

And if you wind up talking to Bob, say hi for me.

1 3 4 32 41

They're not lucky lotto numbers. They're not the numbers from LOST (silly reader, those were 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42).

No, these are the denominations of the piles of years-old stamps that have set up house in one of my desk drawers, along with years worth of free return labels from the Braille Institute, Children's Hospital and seasonally-tinged ones from the Salvation Army.

Before the post office started selling their Forever stamps - the ones immune to future postage increases no matter what price you buy them at - they used to up the rate regularly. And the only way to accommodate the new rate was to buy additional stamps to make up the price difference. Which is why the aforementioned desk drawer is lousy with unused one, three, four and five cent stamps.

When the Forever stamps arrived, self-adhesive and promotionally tied in with icons like Buzz Lightyear, James Dean and Harry Potter, the postage leftovers never stood a chance.

But it occurred to me that in my never-ending battle against clutter, piles of paper and books not organized by size or author, one mess I could easily eliminate would be these stamps that've been piling up. All I have to do is use them.

First class postage is 47 cents right now. So a 32, three 4's and a 3-center and my letter is on it's way. Of course, if you're doing the math, that's five stamps per envelope. Which is no problem if the envelope's long enough. But on the smaller one it gets a little crowded.

Using up all these stamps looks less like postage and more like a collage. If I were the recipient, I'd be very happy someone took the time to create it, and marvel at the work that went into fitting them all on there.

Unless it's one of my bills. Then I'd just marvel if the check cleared the first time.