Glass slipper

While it's not a picture of my foot, it may as well be. Here's what happened.

About nine days ago, I woke up in the middle of the night with a craving for cold, clear, healthy water from the dispenser in our refrigerator. I'm absolutely sure it had nothing to do with the leftover cheesecake that was also in there. No one's under oath here. Anyway, somewhere on the well worn path between the bedroom and kitchen, I stepped on a small piece of glass. Funny how that'll wake you right up.

I reached down, pulled it out of my foot, threw it away and continued on to the cheesecake. Excuse me, water.

Fast forward to last night. I came home from having lunch with my great friend Carrie (Petros in Manhattan Beach - chicken souvlaki is the hot tip), got out of the car, set my foot down and could barely walk. I managed to make it into the house, fell into one of our living room chairs (the one without the dog on it), and stayed there most of the night.

Since the glass stepping happened a week and half ago, and I'd been fine since, I didn't give it a second thought. Instead, I figured it was the new orthotics I'd gotten about five days ago and was still getting used to.

Whatever it was, it hurt like hell. And the bad news is that I was supposed to leave with young Mr. Spielberg for Comic Con this morning.

However, it was not the pain-free foot morning I'd hoped for. I was going to tough it out and just go - always a good idea with four days of walking and standing in lines ahead - but the wife put her foot down (SWIDT?), insisting I call my podiatrist and get it seen.

So my son drove down to Comic Con with his friend Austin at 7 this morning, and I saw my doctor at 10.

My foot was clearly swollen, with a redness emanating out in a circle from one spot on my foot. He pressed the center of the spot, and I believe there may still be a hole in his ceiling where I went through.

So he decided to scrape my foot, which is exactly what it sounds like.

Scraping skin off the bottom of my foot, he wasn't having any luck finding anything. Then, he stopped for a moment and said, "Ah, there it is - don't move." I didn't move, and he got a tweezer-looking thing and pulled out a small chunk of the glass I'd stepped on nine days ago.

I couldn't believe it. He said if I'd come down here to the Con with it, I probably would've wound up in the ER with a fever and nasty infection. Instead, he got it out, gave me an antibiotic to take if it didn't feel better by the end of today (which it does) and suggested I soak it in hot water with epsom salt (just finished my second soaking).

Fortunately tonight was Preview Night at Comic Con, so I didn't miss much except walking the exhibition hall, which I couldn't have done anyway.

My son and his friend scored tickets to the world premiere of Star Trek: Beyond, so that's where they are tonight. My excellent friend Dale is here, so he met me at the Fox Sports Grill in the hotel and we had dinner (it didn't involve walking, just an elevator ride).

With my foot feeling considerably better, the Con will start for real for me tomorrow.

I still don't know what broke in our house or where that piece of glass came from.

But I think the lesson is don't have cheesecake leftovers, and I won't have to walk to the kitchen.

Packing for the Con. Again.

If this post has a familiar ring to it, then you probably read it just about a year ago when it was first published. I rarely repost on here, but this post says everything I want to say about Comic Con starting tomorrow. And my preparations for it tonight.

So, enjoy it, again, and excuse my taking the easy way out by reposting. But if it ain't broke don't fix it. And besides, that Game Of Thrones costume isn't going to pack itself.

Tomorrow is the day it all starts. Well, the night actually.

Even though Comic Con doesn't officially begin until Thursday, tomorrow night is Preview Night. The costumed crowds get admitted to the Convention Center in the early evening to get a jump on the weekend crowds walking the floor and picking up some merchandise.

Of course I'll be there.

So that means tonight I have to pack. It's something I've never quite learned to do right. You'd think being in advertising and with all the boondoggles...er...business trips I've taken I'd be better at it. I'm not unskilled in the sense I don't know how to organize a suitcase. It's my approach to the job.

I pack on the Just In Case theory. You know, just in case there's a hurricane or blizzard in San Diego. Just in case we're hit by a tornado. Just in case we're invaded by aliens, which at Comic Con is a definite possibility.

Here's what's happened every year I've gone: I drag my overstuffed suitcase to the hotel, and proceed to wear the same pair of shorts for four days. All I really need is four t-shirts (yes Rich, black ones), four pairs of underwear, four pairs of socks, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Maybe a clean pair of jeans, a nice pair of shoes and a collared shirt if I want to go eat somewhere nice.

But when you're in restaurants during Comic Con, and finally seated after a two and a half hour wait, it's not unusual at all to find yourself sitting next to Spartans, Batman, those guys from Game Of Thrones and Loki. Dressing nice becomes a relative term.

So I'll give it another shot this year, with the hope I can be a little more economical in how much I take with me.

Frankly, I think the bigger challenge will be closing the suitcase with this in it.

Pack it in

Arthur Schopenhauer once said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that the reason we buy so many books is because we believe we're actually buying the time to read them.

I believe the same holds true for luggage. We buy it because it holds the promise of travel.

I'm a big fan of luggage, which I briefly mentioned here.

The wife and I have been in need of some new luggage for awhile now. We have a whole passel of carry on bags, all of which are black except the pink/plaid one my daughter insisted I buy her at Target.

The Swiss Army carry on is the family favorite, and when we all travel somewhere together, or we're traveling to different destinations at the same time, it's the one everyone wants to use. So we augmented the collection with a few more - all black, none of them Swiss Army.

We completed the set with a medium-sized Boyt suitcase, and another massive, stupid large Boyt we could pack the house in. We found the large Boyt at a luggage store in Rockefeller Center about twenty-five years ago, and had it shipped back to Santa Monica where we lived at the time.

Apparently we hadn't figured out there were luggage stores in Los Angeles.

All these years later, the large suitcase finally gave out. The interior lining, and the glue that held it together, came undone when my son packed it up and I brought it back from Austin for him. All this to say we needed some new luggage.

If you know anything about me - and really, are there any secrets left? - you know I'm all about easy. And dragging a suitcase with two wheels around the airport was just too much effort. So we went looking for what the luggage industry calls spinners: suitcases with four wheels that spin 360° with just a feather touch.

There's a luggage store in Irvine I used to work across from, and they have an extensive collection of every brand, size and price you could want. So that's where we went. We did our due diligence, opening the suitcases up on the little demonstration tables they had, comparing suitcase to suitcase. Victorinox has this feature, but Briggs & Riley has this one. TravelPro looks a little clunky, but it's the one pilots use the most, and they know a thing or two about packing and travel.

After a long talk with Paul the sales person, who was from Texas and told us about the 6600 sq.ft. house he had custom built on five acres that he paid $151,000 for eighteen years ago, we made our decision right there. We need to take a second look at Texas real estate.

As far as suitcases, we wound up buying two Victorinox (Swiss Army) 27" suitcases. God help me, I love that new suitcase smell.

So now we're working on where the first trips will be where we can put them through their paces. I'll be at Comic Con with the son this week for a few days (post to come), so that'll be the first trip for one of 'em. And I have an idea where the next trip will be, but I'm not saying just yet.

For now I'm just enjoying traveling from the front of the house to the back, effortlessly rolling the whisper-quiet spinners around on the hardwood floor.

It's my way of checking them out before I check them in.

Headline story

Every copywriter has one. A headline they want to use, wish they'd used or are waiting to use. Usually these headlines, often never presented or sold, do nothing more than amuse the writer to no end. But here's the deal. If you work in an agency owned by a holding company (almost all are), with knit-capped, British-accented account planners droning on about consumer insights ("they want to 'engage' with the product - is social here?"), where every third word in kick-off meetings is disruption, then sometimes a good laugh is all you can hope for.

At one of the many agencies I work at fairly frequently that has a Japanese car account and is near a mall (no, not that one- the other one), I went out to lunch with a couple of my fellow copywriters. We went to this sushi place I can never remember the name of. It's one of two sushi places we lunch at. There's gas station sushi, the restaurant in the strip mall behind the Arco station with no parking, then there's the expensive sushi place in the industrial park with lots of parking. Who needs names? The expensive sushi place is where we were when this exchange took place.

The three of us wound up in a discussion of headlines we've always wanted to use. We all tossed out ones we'd thought of, and then my copywriter friend Victoria had one that still makes me laugh just thinking about it.

"What's wrong with you?" I almost did a spit-take.

I know, onscreen it probably doesn't come off that funny, and you did have to be there because ninety-percent of it was the way she delivered it. Without missing a beat, and with that annoyed I'm-asking-you-honestly-because-I-can't-figure-out-what-the-hell-you're doing-or-saying tone of voice. Plus the fact it just struck me as a perfect line for any client or product.

I don't usually invite my readers (pauses to laugh for imagining this blog has readers) to chime in, but I'd love to know some headlines you've always wanted to use. Post them here in the comments, or on my Facebook page where you probably linked from.

Just to make it interesting, when I get a good number of lines - assuming I get any - I'll put 'em to a vote. The writer whose headline gets the most votes wins a free lunch at the expensive sushi place with the good parking.

It's not like you were going to be using them anyway. So dust 'em off and send 'em in. If you don't, it means Victoria's going to be enjoying another sushi lunch.

And I'll be sitting here waiting to ask you one question.

Everyone has one

I was watching, well, not so much watching as listening, well, not so much listening as tolerating the Today Show which was on while I was getting ready for work this morning.

By the way, getting ready for work consists of repeating, “I’ve got another 15 minutes before I have to get out of bed.” about four or five times after the alarm has gone off. And by alarm, I mean my German Shepherd or whatever the hell Lucy is barking at sunrise.

Anyway, apparently there’s a controversy I was totally unaware of, that was “shaking up the internet” and was important enough to merit time on a national television broadcast.

Today show co-anchor Savannah Guthrie was rattling on about a picture of Victoria Beckham kissing her young daughter on the lips, and the subsequent firestorm of controversy and discussion it started. I imagine the people discussing it are the same brain trust that leaves comments below every article about anything online.

Frankly I’d be more concerned if she was kissing someone else’s kid on the lips. Ah, who’re we kidding here. Actually, I wouldn’t. I have no opinion on the matter. I don’t care.

In the age of photos going viral, and people with too little brains and too much time on their hands having access to technology that transmits their stupidity around the world in a nanosecond, people feel they have to have an opinion about everything, merited or not.

Is Jennifer Aniston pregnant. Madonna’s road rage. Dolly Parton’s secrets. Honey Boo Boo growing up. Jaden Smith. Anything about a Kardashian. I was going to call this post Who Gives A Shit, but after all it is a family blog.

There are too many real issues in the world, especially this year, that people need to reflect on, apply some critical thinking against, get the facts and actually form a well-conisdered opinion about. None of them include watching alleged "journalists" embarrass themselves discussing the way Victoria Beckham innocently, like parents all over the world, like we have, kisses her kid on her birthday.

The worst part is producers of morning shows like Today want it both ways. In one breath, Savannah Guthrie shares our frustration about the insignificance of this story by telling us it's a topic we shouldn’t even be discussing. In the next breath, she's inviting the audience to go online to the Today website and give their opinion in a poll about parents kissing kids on the lips.

I never thought I'd be longing for the days of the Martha Stewart cooking segments, but after all, these are desperate times.

Of course that's just my opinion.

Shop talk

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.

We both like to use my credit card.

Blowin' in the wind

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.

Space Mountain and the Matterhorn.