On the list of things I don’t like to do, somewhere between going to the gym, cleaning up after the dog and watching QVC, is shopping for clothes. Maybe if I was 60 lbs. thinner, could rip out a page from GQ, walk into the men’s department at Nordstrom, point at it and say, “I want that.” I’d like it a lot more.
But I’m not. I can’t. So I don’t.
Having said that, what I do love is shopping with my daughter.
She definitely doesn’t fall far from my side of the tree when it comes to sharing the same philosophy about hitting stores at the mall. Get in, get out and no one gets hurt.
We both appreciate the true fact that you can shop and shop all day long, but eventually you have to make a decision and buy something. For us, eventually comes sooner rather than later.
Neither of us has any desire to spend time in each section looking at every. single. item.. Instead we quickly find what we like, try it on, and if it fits it’s a thumbs up. If it doesn’t we move on.
Together we’re like Secret Service agents of department store shoppers – we don’t focus in on everything individually. Instead, we take in the big picture, scanning the floor looking for items that grab our interest, then we move in. We also don’t have those little wrist walkie-talkies, but I think they’d be cool.
We don’t see the point in making an entire day of looking for a shirt, a blouse or a pair of pants. There are things to do, people to see and only so many hours in a day to get it all done. Streamlining the process helps make it all possible.
There’s also another thing my daughter and I have in common when it comes to shopping.
There are some experiences in life you reflect back on fondly, through the flattering haze of nostalgia, wishing you could go back and re-live them. Then there are those other experiences, like my high school girlfriend, that you'd never go through again even if someone paid you a million dollars in 1962 money.
For me, the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway is one of the second ones.
I'd actually managed to forget I ever went on what I like to call the Tram O'Terror until this afternoon, when I was enjoying a brief respite and chocolate donut with my good friend Lori, who I'm working with at my current gig. I asked her if she had any big plans for the weekend, and she told me she was going to be in Palm Springs.
That's when it all came rushing back.
Years ago, in a galaxy far, far away before I even knew my wife, I used to go out with a girl named Anne Siegel (not my high school girlfriend). Her parents owned a condo in Palm Springs, and every few weekends we'd hop in her brown Camaro, head out there and enjoy the weather, the restaurants and the pool.
On one of our visits, we decided to ride the Tram O'Terror.
Here's something you should know about me: I'm not afraid of heights. I like flying, tall buildings and standing on top of hills looking down at the city. I took helicopter lessons for awhile, although I never flew enough hours to get my license. Altitude doesn't phase me.
What does phase me is riding in a little death cart hanging by a thread, while traveling 8500 feet up a ridiculously steep hill, swinging in the breeze all the way up.
I don't remember how long the ride actually was, but it seemed like an eternity. It was also thirty-five degrees cooler at the top than at the desert floor where we started (fortunately at the top there was a gift shop selling souvenir sweatshirts - what're the odds).
I know I took the tram back down, but I don't actually remember that either. I might've been passed out, hyperventilating too much or honing my spot on impression of a little girl screaming to really pay much attention.
At any rate I'm pretty sure that somehow, someway, that tram trip and the raw, crippling fear it sent coursing through me had something to do with the fact that now there are only two mountains I'm comfortable riding all the way to the top of.
In theory, Facebook is a good thing. I can find people I've lost touch with, catch up with celebrities and even talk to them if it’s really them posting on their page. I can follow my favorite brands for discounts and special offers, view endless vacation photos, baby pictures, inspirational sayings, favorite musician YouTube clips and German Shepherd pictures (which I personally can’t get enough of) that friends feel compelled to share with the world. It can be a fun, informative, time-killing app if used correctly.
Where it comes undone for me is the preaching, guiltifying, lecturing and cage-match quality bickering some people feel compelled to administer in the course of my Facebook feed.
I stopped getting into Facebook fights a long time ago. In fact, the post I wrote here almost five years ago was the last time I remember really losing any semblance of control, and continuing an online argument for no reason other than to hammer my point home to someone who was never going to hear it.
Oh, wait a minute. There was another time in the recent past I got into it online with a writer/director/voice-over talent/creative director/agency-owner friend I've known over thirty years. I had no idea about his extreme right wing political beliefs, but all it took to find out about them was posting something favorable about Obama and not so flattering about the way he was being treated by the Republican congress. You know, something factual he didn't want to hear.
What can you do. Some people walk around loaded for bear.
Anyway, after a certain number of back and forth posts, there comes a point in any Facebook argument where it becomes less about the topic at hand and more about energy and endurance. It forces me to ask the tough questions, like how bad do you want it kid? Will it all be worth it in the end (if it ever ends)? Am I willing to go the distance?
What I've discovered about myself, when it comes to Facebook fights, is that I am not.
I put up a post today about the general blahs of being back at work after a holiday weekend. To my way of thinking, not very controversial. I’m pretty sure it’s a universal feeling that after a three-day weekend, no one—regardless of what industry they're in—wants to be back at work after enjoying time off. AmIright?
I got some comments agreeing, and a few likes, but I also got a comment that said, “You’re booked. You should be grateful.”
Let’s disassemble that comment, shall we?
First of all, my post was a little joke, based on a universal truth. And by the way, jokes are so much funnier when you have to explain them aren’t they?
Next, does the fact I made a joke about not wanting to be at work exclude me from being grateful to have the gig? I think not.
And while I’m on the subject, I actually don’t need people telling me what to feel and when to feel that way. I don’t accept that from strangers, I didn't accept it from my high school girlfriend and I’m certainly not going to take it from friends (well, Facebook friends, not real life friends).
I’m not saying people shouldn’t put up how they feel about things. It's a free country, free speech, your right and all that. And I recognize that by posting anything, and being a part of the Facebook community, I leave myself open to whatever comments anyone with a keyboard and access to my feed wants to make.
But, like in a nice restaurant, 90% of the game is presentation. It'd be better—and, even though it might not sway me, it'd probably make me more receptive to hear their point of view—if people commenting on my posts framed it in a way that expressed their opinion without condemning me for not sharing it.
And by the way, this idea I should or shouldn't do or feel a certain way just doesn't fly. Not a big fan of the word "should"—people "should" know better than to use it with that hand-on-hip, reprimanding, wagging-your-finger tone.
To me, it's just as frustrating and insulting as people who ask you to copy and repost what they’ve posted for one hour to prove to them you’re against cancer, bullying, parting your hair on the right or whatever. I’ve written here about how I feel about those people (“What do you mean ‘those people’” “What do you mean ‘Those people’?” - see below). How much validation does one individual need?
Besides, if you're looking for it from Facebook posts, you have bigger issues than whether or not people share your point of view.
I know you all won't agree with me, but if you do copy and paste this post on your page for one hour.
Ok, not exactly played. I've walked across the stage in front of an audience. My high school graduation was held at the Hollywood Bowl, and it might've been the most awesome part of high school except for the time I talked my Consumer Law and Economics teacher Mr. Blackman into thinking he'd lost my final term paper (if my kids are reading this, don't even think about it). He gave me an A, but I still feel bad about it.
Having grown up an L.A. kid, I've seen plenty of concerts at the Bowl, so many I can't remember them all.
I saw The Eagles take it easy. If you could read my mind you'd know I also saw Gordon Lightfoot. When school was out for summer I saw Alice Cooper.
I've seen Bruce Springsteen and Jackson Browne perform together (I know, I'm as shocked as you are) for Survival Sunday 4, an anti-nuke benefit concert.
It's getting to the point I remember Crosby Stills and Nash belting out Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. I can absolutely confirm the Go-Go's got the beat. I saw Laurie Andersen do whatever the hell it was she was doing. I've seen Steve Martin getting wild and crazy with Edie Brickell while fireworks were going off in the sky.
There have been many, many more, but you get my drift.
Not all my memories are happy ones. There was the night my pal David Weitz and I were driving in my 1965 Plymouth Fury. Highland Avenue was jammed because of the show at the Bowl, so we turned up into the surrounding hills to see if we could find a shortcut around it. Out of nowhere, a police car appeared behind us, lights flashing. The officers told us through the speakers to get out of the car slowly with our hands up. We were young, but we weren't stupid. We knew this was serious.
Once we were out of the car, hands up, they got out of their car with guns drawn and pointed right at us. They told me to open the trunk, which I did slowly and with my hands in sight at all times. They didn't find whatever they were looking for, and after checking our I.D.'s, they let us go. Apparently we fit the description of two guys who'd been robbing the hillside homes recently. I figured the description was brutally handsome and incredibly funny.
Anyway, the reason my mind's on the Bowl is because a week from tonight, I'll be there again, not on stage, but watching the first J.J. Abrams' Star Trek with the Los Angeles Philharmonic playing the score alongside the movie. It should be a great night.
If you've never been there, or it's been awhile, you owe it to yourself to go. It truly is one of the greatest venues, in one of the most beautiful settings, you'll ever see a show at.
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.
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.
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.
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.
