One word too many - again

Here's the situation I find myself in tonight. I can't keep my eyes open.

Yet, being the determined professional blogger I am, I don't want to disappoint my audience of 9 and let them go an entire day without a post.

So I won't. It's just not going to be a good one. It's going to be a lazy one (so lazy I didn't add the Baby Driver poster to it - you'll see what I mean in a second).

It's not even a lot of writing, which is good because those sheep won't wait to be counted much longer. Instead it's just a silly little visual gag. The good news is it'll only take less than a minute to read it. The better news is that I didn't have to write it.

I'm going to bed now. Please to enjoy.

Is it just me, or does anyone else see a pattern here?

What Papa said

Who's up for a really passive aggressive blogpost? I knew you'd say that. Here we go.

I'm going to have to disagree with my pal Rich Siegel, wedding coordinator to the stars and proprietor of the infamous Round Seventeen blog. In one of his more recent posts, A Celebration of Birth, he makes a rather large, revealing statement near the end that sums up the difference between his approach to writing and mine.

I quote: "The thing is, I like to write."

The thing is, I do not.

Now, just so I don't sound ungrateful or unprofessional (and I may be too late already), let me clarify something right up front: I love writing for a living. You know, the kind that's creatively challenging, let's me dress like a fifteen-year old every day, surrounds me with wildly creative, funny people and pays the bills. When I say I don't like it, I'm talking more about the idea of sitting down to write as much as the actual act itself.

And of course, one man's essay is another man's agony. Rich likes it. I treat every assignment like I'm going to my execution.

I understand the best writers make it look easy. But by its nature, it's one of the most difficult of the arts.

In fact after juggling, crowd estimating and balloon animals, maybe the most difficult.

I suppose like most writers, if it came easier I'd enjoy it more. But that's Hemingway's point (I'm in no way comparing myself to Hemingway—my sentences are much longer). If you're going to reveal your true self in words, you have to be willing to go to the deepest, truest and most painful place.

I don't like going to those places. I prefer New York or Las Vegas.

If you've followed this blog for any amount of time—and really, you're never going to get those minutes back—then you know there are a few posts on here where, instead of going for the snarky laugh or easy shots, I've actually shined a light, dull though it may be, on my true self, my real life and my inner thoughts.

Not that anyone was asking for that. I know for a fact no one was paying for it.

The reason that kind of writing causes me nothing but anxiety and apprehension is because of this almost crippling fear I'll have nothing to say. In fact, a lot of people think I have over 900 posts to prove that.

My former office wife Janice MacLeod, who's written four maybe five books (who can keep count) including the fabulous Paris Letters, always told me two things. First, that venom was my best medium. I still don't believe that to be true, although that's just what someone whose best medium was venom would say. The other thing she said was just sit down, stare at the blank screen and eventually an idea for something to write about will come to me.

Again, 900 posts prove that may not always be the case.

My close, personal friend Cameron Young is always just completing or just starting a new screenplay. His enthusiasm for original ideas, story structure and writing is inspiring. Apparently not inspiring enough for me to put down the potato chips and the remote, stop bingeing Breaking Bad (again) and write a screenplay of my own. But, you know, inspiring nonetheless.

In spite of my unwavering resistance, all three of these talented, imaginative, disciplined writers are incorrigible encouragers, supporters and advocates of my writing. It is appreciated to a degree I'll never be fully able to express.

Certainly not in words.

I have another problem with opening up as a writer. And I say this with love—frankly, it's none of your business. As an only child, I've always felt the idea of sharing was just crazy talk. But I do recognize that sometimes it makes for good reading. So, you know, anything (almost) for my art.

What am I saying? That Hemingway was right. And if you think by reading my blog you somehow can glean the joy and sense of fulfillment from my words that writing brings me, I only have one thing to say.

You're reading the wrong blog.

Resist the urge

Let's say you're at the Rose Bowl with a close friend, and you have something you have to talk about with them. Something personal, private. You figure with all the hootin' and hollerin' at the game, the two of you can have the conversation fairly discreetly.

I'm guessing what you don't do is run down to the center of the field with your friend, position yourself in front of the same microphone the sixth-place runner up on The Voice from season three used to sing the Star Spangled Banner, and have that private conversation loud and clear in front of 90,000 people.

Because if you did, it'd be that kind of squirmy uncomfortable and even irritating for the thousands who paid triple scalper prices to be there to watch the game, not listen to your sad life problems.

That's more or less what it feels like when people at work hit Reply All to work emails.

First of all, I love email as much as the next guy. Alright, not so much the ones trying to sell me Viagra or send me my hundred-million dollar inheritance from an Egyptian prince once they receive my bank account and social security numbers. Who falls for that stuff?

By the way, that check should be here any day now.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Emails that aren't strictly business matters at work are for the most part unnecessary. You know the ones I mean. The one or two word ones, that, for some reason, the people sending them feel need to go out to all 245 company employees in the email directory.

"Have a good weekend!"

"Great job!"

"Did the client see it?"

"Lunch?"

"Can you believe this weather?"

"Did you see La La Land?"

"Want to go for a walk?"

How about a long one off a short plank.

For whatever reason, people are too lazy to look at which button they're hitting when they reply. At least I hope they are. It's just too sad to think they want everyone in on their conversation.

And by the way, if the two people who are engaged in the conversation and are replying to all with their personal chit chat are actually friends, can't they just pry their fat derrieres out of their ergonomically enhanced Herman Miller Aeron chair and walk fifteen feet down the hall to the long, open office seating table and talk to their friend face to face?

Don't get me started.

Don't ask: Borrowing my brush

It's actually uncanny, but I know exactly what you're thinking.

You're saying to yourself, "I wonder whatever happened to that 'Don't Ask' series of posts Jeff used to put up. They were so good! So well-written! And really, really funny!"

"And he's so humble about them."

First of all, thank you. And second of all, when you're right you're right. I know the ones you mean.

Don't Ask: Watching Your Stuff.

Don't Ask: Working the Weekend.

Don't Ask: Loaning You Money

Don't Ask: Writing a Letter For You.

Don't Ask: Sharing a Hotel Room.

Don't Ask: Picking Up at the Airport.

And the perennial Don't Ask: Moving - to this day still one of the most popular and requested of all the random posts I've put up here.

Well the Don't Ask drought is over with this post. Let's drink deep shall we.

There are personal grooming and hygiene items that were never meant to be shared. For example, you wouldn't ask to borrow my toothbrush, because you know I'd mock you relentlessly in my award-winning* Don't Ask series of posts.

You could ask to use my favorite razor, but I'd never let you. What if you cut yourself? I don't know what kind of germs are spinning out of control in your bloodstream, and I want to make sure I never find out.

Along the same lines, that's why you're not going to use my brush. I don't know what's living in that head of hair you've got. Lice? Dust? Bad coloring? Out of state relatives? Whatever it is, I hope it likes there because that's where it's staying.

There's also the issue of cleaning my brush after you're done using it. Suddenly all that loose hair that would normally live in your sink for days on end is now setting up shop in my brush. No thanks.

I was going to post a picture of a used, dirty hair brush, but there are some things you don't need to see close up.

You may not appreciate it—I know I don't—but there's a reason I'm called the Silver Fox™. It's because my distinguished mane looks clean, full and stylish all the time. You know how it gets that way? After I apply a dime-size dab of style-holding product, I brush it several times a day.

With the brush you're not going to borrow. So don't ask.

*imaginary awards are still awards.

Room with a view

Hotel room art has come a long way.

Not that long ago, you'd drag your travel weary self to your room, plop down on the hopefully bedbug free bed and look in front of you. There, bolted into the studs and secured to the wall—because apparently hotel art theft is a bigger problem than we know—would be a mass produced "painting" of the Thomas Kinkade variety. A landscape scene with two deer in the forest. Sailboats on a shimmering lake. A purple mountain's majesty range at dawn.

Generic. Expected. Predictable. Just like my high school girlfriend.

But the walls they are a changin'. From Super 8's to Four Seasons, hotel wall art has exploded into a mix of color and statement, both bold and challenging. Originally the idea was to create a calm, serene and idyllic feeling for the traveler who just wanted refuge from the big, bad outside world.

Today's traveler wants something more contemporary. Something that they actually see and enjoy, as oppose to something invisible and easy to ignore. Like my high school girlfriend.

Of course, wall art isn't the only thing that's changed in today's hospitality merchants. Towel art is suddenly all the rage as well. Like, for example, this totally non-creepy, not stuff of nightmare arrangement pictured here.

Portlandia: The Sequel

It's taken me a few years, but thanks to Jet Blue and Even More Space™, I finally made my way back to Portland.

It's one of the cities I happen to have big love for. Quirky, unexpected, innovative, creative and unbelievably great coffee everywhere you turn.

I'm staying at the Benson, which is where I stayed last time—although for a very different reason.

What I've learned so far this trip is that, in the same way people who live in San Francisco hate when tourists call it "Frisco", people in Portland aren't crazy about it being called Portlandia. Even though they love the show. Also like San Francisco and New York, they J-walk all over the place, but they feel a tiny bit bad about it.

And coffee everywhere. Did I mention that?

When I got in this afternoon, it was 37 degrees and light snow. Having been born and raised in L.A., my wardrobe is lacking when it comes to winter weather. It's also lacking in anything stylish. And clothes that fit.

Shut up.

So the first thing was to head to Nordstrom, where they carry all sorts of winter coats you can't find in Southern California. I picked up a snappy one (yes it fit), so now the cold isn't so challenging.

Which brings me to this post. It's the one I put up about my last trip here, and since I'm here again it seemed like a good time to revisit it.

It's impossible to be in this city without thinking about my late, great friend Paul Decker. When he passed away, they broke the mold. A brilliant writer, an extraordinary human being and an irreplaceable friend, I know without a doubt you would've loved Paul. Not a day goes by I don't think about him.

There's a link below to a post that goes into more detail about Paul. It'll give you much more of a sense of the kind of remarkable person he was. I think you'll like it.

In the meantime, please to enjoy this repeat post about my last trip to Portland.

I haven't been to Portland in a long time. Somewhere around nine years. And I miss it.

The last time I was there, I lived for three weeks at the Hotel Lucia downtown while I was shooting a commercial for an agency called Perceive that no longer exists (it barely existed when it did). Because we were also editing up there, I had plenty of time to explore the city. If you've ever been there, you already know it's a good walking town.

Alan Otto, my friend (currently) and creative director (at the time) would meet in the lobby every morning. Then we'd pick a direction and start walking for as long as we could before we had to be at the shoot or the edit. One morning we walked to the 97-year old Portland Luggage Company where I picked up a mid-size Boyt suitcase to complete my set and had it shipped home.

I love luggage stores. Whole other post.

Another great thing is that all of Oregon is a Powerball state. And for someone like me who's inclined to play the lottery since I won $5,000 in it once (yes I did), it was fun to play in a multi-state draw where we're talking real retirement money.

By the way, the hotel you see here isn't the Lucia. It's the Benson, just a block and a half up the street. It's one of the grand old hotels you run into, a 100-years old - the one where presidents, foreign dignitaries and celebrities stay when they come to town. In fact when we were shooting up there, at three in the morning Nic Cage was playing piano and singing to Lisa Marie Presley in the lobby.

Anyway, I imagine it'll be somewhat of a let down for them, but the Benson is where I'll be staying when I return to Portland in May. I'm looking forward to it because it's Portland, but also because the reason I'm going is for a gathering to celebrate my dear friend Paul Decker's life.

The good news is I already know what suitcase I'm taking with me.

Make some noise

My car is making a noise. It's a new noise, one it hasn't made since I've owned it.

It's a hard to describe noise. One of those "You'll know it when you hear it..." noises.

I, of course, hear it all the time.

I couldn't tell if the noise was doing damage or not, so I took it to my mechanic to have it checked out. Here's the funny part: he couldn't get the car to make the noise.

He kept it for two or three days, but it was no go. My car was as quiet as a church mouse and purring like a kitten when he drove it. So I went back, picked it up and drove it home. And guess what? It made the noise all the way home.

I thought to myself if my independent guy can't find it, maybe someone who has a lot of experience with my model car day in and day out would have better luck. So last Thursday, I drove my car to the dealer. I picked it up today. For those of you keeping count, that's six days they had to find the noise.

They couldn't find it.

Here's my theory. I believe, much like Stephen King's Christine, that my car is alive. Somehow it's found out I've been online looking at new cars to replace it, and now it's decided to punish me for it.

With a noise no one else but me can hear, it's made me think twice about selling it. I'm afraid when I'm least expecting it, the car will let the noise rip while every prospective buyer takes it for a test drive. I could always trade it in and take the financial hit, but I'm sure just as they were pulling it into the garage it would do it again and they'd offer me even less than they normally would.

As far as I can tell, I have two choices: run it into the ground, or wait and see if the noise disappears over time (just like my high school girlfriend).

Whichever road I decide to take, I'm sure you'll hear about it. If the car wants you to.