Back to bed

I am many things. Funny. Good looking. Talented. Creative. Compassionate. Encouraging. Well read. Kind to children. Nice to the waitstaff. A catch as a husband. Someone who loves doing laundry. And loading a dishwasher. A good friend. A trusted confidante. An excellent driver. A great kisser. And definitely humble.

However one thing I am not now, nor have I ever been, is a morning person.

Mornings are just a cruel tease. Being a late night person, I rarely get to sleep before midnight or one in the morning. I say sleep in the loosest sense of the word. It's been years, literally, since I've slept eight hours straight through. I get up to pee. Or I startle awake from a dream. Sometimes I'm just restless and watch some TV at three in the morning to take the edge off (because nothing takes the edge off like skin care and exercise equipment infomercials). Occasionally my eighty-five pound German Shepherd launches himself up on the bed in the middle of the night.

That gets the old ticker going.

Oddly enough, one thing that never, and I do mean never, keeps me awake is work. I think it comes from so many years as a freelancer. But the second both feet are out of the office, I don't think about anything related to work until I have to be back the next morning.

And we know how I feel about mornings.

The point of all this, and there is one, is that right around the time the faintest sliver of sunlight starts to hit the pitch black night sky is the exact moment I actually manage to get myself back to the deep, still sleep I've been craving all night. It finally arrives just in time for sunrise. Ironically when I'm finally completely out, it's time to wake up.

There's no gradual, gentle, coming-up-from-the-bottom-of-the-pool kind of awakening for me. Because I know how deep asleep I am in the morning, the alarm has to be more than a light bell, chirping birds or a digital alarm. No, my iPhone alarm is Uptown Funk. It comes on loud, and it's a straight up jolt out of bed. In fact, I have to kiss myself I'm so pretty (see what I did there?).

So if you see me at work in the morning around nine, dragging myself around, looking somewhat foggy and I don't return your smile or your hello, don't ask how you're doing or what you're working on, please don't take it personally. I promise I will.

Sometime around eleven.

Goodbye John Hurt

British actor John Hurt died today of pancreatic cancer. In everything from Alien to The Elephant Man to three of the Harry Potter, his exceptional talent was on display in all its range and colors.

A few years ago I wrote this post—under the title of We Have Contact—about a lesser seen role of his that's always been one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy the clip of it.

The year isn't even a month old, and it's already claimed yet another one of the greats.

I'll miss John Hurt. He was one of those rare talents I always thought would be around forever. Fortunately all of his performances will.

The image many people have of John Hurt is of him thrashing around on the dining table of the space ship Nostromo with an alien bursting out of his chest.

Or maybe it's his grotesquely disfigured form in The Elephant Man, as he proclaims to Anthony Hopkins he is not an animal, he's a human being.

Younger moviegoers might know him as Mr. Olivander from the Harry Potter movies - including the next two of them.

But his one performance I think I enjoy most is one most people didn't see. His role as eccentric, reclusive, terminally ill billionaire industrialist S.R. Hadden in the Robert Zemeckis film Contact.

With a keen interest in space and extra-terrestrials, his character is compelling, creepy and brilliant all at the same time (not unlike a few creative directors I know).

I quote the line at the end of this scene all the time. Scares the hell out of my kids.

The plane truth

Hey pal, can you spare $371 million? I'll pay you back.

You're probably wondering what I want with that kind of green. I'm not gonna lie: I want my own plane, specifically a new Boeing 777.

Now I know what you're saying. Jeff you say, think of how many people we could feed with that kind of money. How many homes we could build. All the college tuitions it could pay for. Yeah yeah, sure sure. In case you haven't read a White House approved news source lately, this is the age of Trump (sorry, I just threw up a little when I typed that). And the new way we're making decisions is "What's in it for me?"

For $371 million, what's in it for me is my own plane.

I've flown commercially for too many years, and frankly, I'm tired of the massive inconvenience of it all. Getting to the airport early. Going through security, even with the TSA express line. Mechanical delays. Crew delays. And two words that should strike terror into the heart of anyone who travels by air: middle seat.

I didn't always want my own plane. However over the past couple years, I've been watching our dipshit president take-off and (unfortunately) land in his own badly painted, ugly jet. Also, the idea of a jumbo jet like Air Force One being fueled and ready to go anytime has always been appealing. But an aircraft doesn't have to be on that scale to trigger my desire for one. Drive to McCarren Airport from the Vegas strip, and you'll go past their private jet tarmac. As Springsteen sings in Cadillac Ranch, there they sit buddy just-a-gleamin' in the sun.

Private jets ready to go on a moment's notice. Or a whim.

I'm all too aware I could avoid the maintenance, cost and headaches of my own jet if I just took NetJet or other private jet sharing services. But I don't for the same reason I've never leased a car. If I'm going to be making a monthly payment on something, at the end I want to own it. (Note to self: check monthly payments on $371 million.)

I suppose there are lots of smaller, starter jets I could have for my first plane. But that would be settling. After all, they don't have a range of 8,700 nautical miles. They can't carry between 350-375 passengers. They don't have larger windows. Or twin-aisles.

You're probably wondering when I'd need to carry 375 people. Well, if you've seen my Facebook page, you know I have more than that many followers. With my brand new 777 they could follow me from the comfort of the coach section.

Buying the jet is the easy decision. There are plenty more to be made. What will the color palette be? Which designer will create the crew uniforms? Who will be the lucky chef who gets to prepare the five-star meals? I'll definitely need to take a few days and think these things through.

I'm not going to give myself a deadline for making the purchase. After all I know it'll take a little time to raise the money. But the second I have it, you'll be able to find me sitting in my favorite position.

Upright and locked.

The midnight hour

It sounds like something out of science fiction, but sadly it's not. The Doomsday Clock.

The DC is a symbolic clock face kept by the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists that has the joyful job of counting down the minutes to a worldwide catastrophe. Events like that can be caused by more things than anyone's comfortable with.

At the top of the list is global nuclear war, but ever since 2007, climate change is also up there.

Currently, the clock is set at three minutes to midnight, where it's been for the last couple years. That's alarmingly close, considering way back in 1991 it was set at seventeen minutes to midnight, the furthest it's ever been since its inception. That was because the US and USSR had signed the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty (START), and in December of that year the Soviet Union was dissolved along with much of the threat.

But as Bob Dylan said, the times they are a changin'.

Nowadays (I'm bringing that word back), seems like every country regardless of size either has or is working on developing a device. The world's an increasingly dangerous place. Sure, you could get hit by a car crossing the street, but at least you wouldn't take the other three billion people with you.

But just for fun, let's say, hypothetically, between the Science and Security Board's last meeting to set the clock and their next one, we elected a temper-mentally, judgmentally, thin-skinned, ignorant, vindictive, arrogant, stupid, childish, unqualified individual for President. Someone who has no control over what comes out of his mouth, and complete control of the nuclear arsenal.

It's a scary thought, right?

In a scenario like that, it's fair to assume the scientists might tick the clock forward a minute or two, since a President like that would definitely be, without putting too much hyperbole on it, a threat to our very existence.

For all our sakes, let's hope the big hand on the clock stays where it is, or even pray for some development that allows it to move backwards a few minutes.

Because while the clock itself is metaphorical, the danger is very real.

The race is on

As of noon today, Donald Trump joined the President's Club. I know, I've been nauseous all day too. And as if that weren't enough to make you throw up like Mr. Creosote, this ignorant, unqualified, cesspool of a human being holds the fate of the entire world population in his tiny little baby hands.

Of course I speak of the nuclear codes. Boom.

This means that if someone tweets something he doesn't like, looks at him the wrong way, insults him somehow, his tiny little fuse (which came as a set with his hands) might go off. Then, with absolutely no checks or balances, he could launch a nuclear strike against them.

As if that weren't scary enough, Trump decided to raise the stakes by saying more countries should go nuclear. The more the better. With complete ignorance of policy, protocol, precedent, strategy or capability, Trump encouraged a nuclear arms race with the same tone you'd use to get people to join in a game of tag—except in this game you don't want to be it. This casual, uninformed attitude can't help but beg the question Tom Lehrer is asking in the above video.

Anyway, it's a done deal now. As I write this, Trump is at one of three inaugural balls he's attending tonight with his mail-order bride Melania, enjoying their first dance to the tune of Sinatra's "My Way."

While the rest of us are left with "Gimme Shelter."

Annie was wrong

I don't know if you've heard, but tomorrow is the inauguration of the 45th President of the United States.

Unfortunately, much to the dismay of most of the civilized world, and over half and rising of voters here in America, it seems that in this election cycle, in what can only be described as a freak accident, Donald Trump will be sworn in to the highest, most powerful office in the world.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Tomorrow. That's when it all happens. I'm sorry, I want so much to share her optimism and believe Annie when she says the sun'll come out tomorrow. But I just can't find any reason to. In my heart I believe, as I imagine does every person burdened with conscious and a sense of right and wrong, that the sun won't come out tomorrow.

In fact, just the opposite.

I believe we're going to be plunged into an era of political and dictatorial darkness, where all the progress made over the last fifty or so years—certainly the last eight—will be reversed by the most mentally, intellectually, experientially, temperamentally, judgmentally and morally unqualified person to ever hold the office, along with his band of equally corrupt billionaire friends.

It's a con inside a sham inside a fraud.

The idea by his supporters that this narcissistic, money-grubbing, self-centered, thin-skinned, selfish, crass, tasteless, indecent, disgusting, offensive billionaire has any concern for them is the greatest trick of all time. But then you know what they say:

So while the sun may not come out tomorrow, protesters around the world will. I plan to join them, to be part of the resistance to the ugliness that already is the Trump administration.

With any luck, the next four years that start tomorrow will only seem like a couple months at best. And if we're really lucky, and congress and reasonable Republicans come to their senses, maybe that's all it will be.

That's when the sun'll come out again.

Bombs away

It doesn't take much to figure out what the incoming administration's foreign policy will be.

Speak loudly, in incomplete sentences that make no sense, repeat words like "tremendously" and "bigly" several times, make it sound like total gibberish and carry a big stick.

If you can lift it with those tiny baby hands.

It's clear that with this dipshit elect we're stuck with, whoever looks at us the wrong way, or tweets something he doesn't like is going to get what's coming to them. There's nothing subtle about it. It's right there in the open, almost mob-like in its approach.

"Hey Angela Merkel, noticed you didn't agree with me on Paris climate change agreement. You know, Germany's a nice country. Be a shame somethin' happened to it."

He's a humorless, thin-skinned bully and a thug. And his sons Uday and Qusay are no better.

What I find interesting is way back in 1972, whether it was a premonition, prediction or some other word that starts with a "P", Randy Newman called it. Forty-five years ago he basically laid out in song what the dipshit elect's foreign policy is going to look like.

Back then it was a funny, harmless, politically astute song with a catchy melody that had anyone who heard it singing along on the first listen.

I've seen Randy Newman many times over the years, everywhere from the Troubadour to Royce Hall at UCLA. I've always loved him, and it's still a great song.

It's just not so funny anymore.