Light at the end of the day. Again.

Today is the start of daylight saving time. Which means it's also the start of all the complaining tomorrow about how tired everyone is, how it feels so much earlier than it is and how you're having soooo much trouble getting used to it.

Yeah, whatever.

As you'll see in this post from a few years ago, I love DST. And now that we're in a post-shithole president world, it seems to me there are so many more important things to worry and complain about.

Not that it'll stop anyone from bitching about a few more hours of daylight.

You see where I'm going here? I think you do.

By the way, the reason you see where I'm going is because you have more daylight to see it. See what I did there?

How many times can use the word "see" in this intro? We'll see. BAM! Did it again.

Alright, enough of this foolishness. It's light out. I've got things to do. Enjoy the post. And if you have to, you can always go back to sleep after you read it.

I hope you're sitting down. I don't know how to break this to you, but my Jedi instincts tell me the best way is to just come right out and say it: there are a lot of babies and whiners on the internet.

I know, I'm as shocked as you are. Shocked.

If you've been on Facebook or Twitter in the last couple days, like me you've probably noticed an ungodly amount of posts talking about how much people hate daylight saving time. How they just. don't. understand. why we have to change the clocks at all. How they're soooooo tired because they lose one hour in 24 out of one day in 365.

I'd like to promise all of you complaining about it that this is not the worst thing that will ever happen in your life. Trust me.

As you might've guessed, I happen to be a big supporter of DST. And I can't even begin to understand why everyone else isn't. There are so many more reasons to like it than not.

Let's start at the wallet. The fact it's light until almost 9 means electric bills go down. Way down for at least six months. Who's against that? Whiners? Anyone?

Next, the hideous commute I'm up against every night seems to get a little easier, because for some odd reason drivers are able to navigate better when they can actually see the road and what's around them. Body shops don't do as well during DST, but they make it up when we Fall Back.

Finally, and this may just be me, but I seem to have more energy. The longer it's light out, the longer I think it's not time to settle in for the night. I'm out and about longer getting more done. Not just more of what I have to do, but more of what I want to do.

So for all the whiners out there bitching and moaning about switching All The Clocks In The House! ahead and losing your precious hour, I say this with love: just shut up.

You'll get your hour back in November.

Look at it this way. Now that the day's longer, you'll have more time to think of something else to complain about.

Not clowning around

Tonight's entry is not so much a blogpost as an unpaid ad for Cirque du Soleil.

I took the family to see Luzia, the latest Cirque show to tour Southern California, back around Christmas (Remember Christmas? You should be seeing decorations for it any day now) when they were at Dodger Stadium. We've seen all their shows, but this was by far, for me, the favorite.

So much so that I got us all tickets to see it again today at the Orange County Fairgrounds.

It's astonishing how creative this troupe is. A breathtaking combination of dance, art, comedy, music, song, athleticism, skill, daring, courage and discipline, Luzia is a vision. A dream. A moment out of time. A magical encounter with something true.

The beauty of Luzia is it doesn't allow anyone to be a passive viewer. It demands you feel something. Whether it's wonder, entertained, thrilled, inspired or transported, you simply can't escape its otherworldly pull.

Naturally, with all the spectacularly fit, athletic performers and lithe bodies doing incredible feats requiring uncommon strength—flying through the air, hanging from a single chord from the top of the tent, jumping from one giant swing and launching each other across the stage onto another swing —it was a lot like looking in a mirror. So much so I had to keep reminding myself I was an only child.

I don't know how much longer the show is in Orange County, but if you check the Google I'm sure you can find out. I'd check for you, but the less I type the words Orange County before the midterms the better.

At the center of the story is a clown, although not the typical Emmett Kelly clown you might picture. He is our guide through it all, and has a moment of poignancy at the end that is nothing less than beautiful.

I'm hoping to see Luzia a third time before it packs up and heads to the next city. My compulsive nature (have I mentioned Springsteen, Vegas, Breaking Bad and sushi lately?) makes me want to see it again and again.

Working in advertising agencies as long as I have, you might've heard or read where I've described them as a circus. And they definitely are.

Sadly, none of them are as beautiful, artful or as magical as this one.

Hi honey

Being the perfect physical specimen I am, I've never been one to jump on health fad bandwagons. For example, you're not going to sucker me in with all that new age, unproven "eat well and exercise" propaganda. I may have been born, but it wasn't yesterday. I'm just not falling for it.

But I'll be the first to admit, every once in awhile something comes along that catches my interest, and makes me think I should get my flabby ass up out of my extremely comfortable T.V. chair and give it a go.

And if we know anything about me, it's that I do like to milkshake things up a bit (SWIDT?).

My art director partner, who eats mung bean salads, feels guilty when she doesn't go to the gym and takes long walks at lunch, decided she had to tell me—despite the fact I'm obviously in such perfect physical shape (did I mention that?)—about the wildly beneficial medicinal qualities of chocolate pound cake, black and white cookies and Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia.

No, wait. That wasn't it.

Oh right. She told me about Manuka honey.

I immediately called for a Lyft, had them drive me from my chair to my laptop and went straight to the Google to read all about it.

Come to find out Manuka honey comes from Manuka bushes (what're the odds?) which are found in New Zealand. This honey, more than any other, including the one that comes in that plastic bear bottle with the yellow cap, has been found to have all sorts of healthy and restorative benefits.

It's an anti-inflammatory.

It's rich in antibiotic properties.

Helps with low stomach acid and acid reflux.

Combats staph infections.

Treats burns, wounds and ulcers.

Prevents tooth decay and gingivitis.

Improves sore throats.

Boosts your immune system.

Helps allergies.

Improves sleep.

Because it helps sleep, it also lowers the risk of heart disease, type 2 diabetes, stroke and arthritis. And did I mention, you know, it's honey.

I could go into all the whammy-jammy about how Manuka honey is much higher in enzymes, which increases its nutritional profile by four times that of regular honey. But that's honey nerd talk, and may be a little more than anyone needs to know.

But for all the good Manuka honey does, there is some bad news: it's pricey. Very pricey.

An 8.8oz bottle rated UMF 20+ (which has the most benefits) like the one pictured above costs $64 on Amazon. And at a dosage of four teaspoons a day, it doesn't last near as long as I'd like. I suppose I could experiment with a smaller dosage. But I could also experiment with diet and exercise, and like I said before, I ain't falling into that cult.

Still, I'm going to bite the bullet, pony up and give this honey a chance.

Because if I can eliminate most of what ails me by eating a few spoonfuls of honey every day, that's a sweet deal no matter what it costs.

Bedside manner. Again

So here's how my night went.

I drove from my place of employment in Huntington Beach up to downtown Los Angeles to meet my great friend Sandy, who I've known forever, at the Water Grill for yet another one of our fabulous dinners we have from time to time.

I had every intention of posting a new article tonight when I got home, but after the day and the drive, like last night, bed is calling. And it's not taking no for an answer.

So I went into the archives, and found this sweet piece I'd written exactly five years ago To. The. Day. I know, right?

Since I've been revisiting older posts this week, I might continue the trend for the rest of the week. We'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I've got my jammies on, flipped the pillow to the cold side, set the T.V. on the sleep timer (still one of the greatest inventions since carpeting and air conditioning) and I'm ready to hit the hay.

Have a swell rest of your night, and please to enjoy this post. Again.

.

Every once in a while - a great while - my faith in humanity is momentarily restored. This is one of those times.

A while ago I had seen this letter from an emergency room doctor to a man who's wife he'd treated. Sadly she later passed away, but she'd left such an impression that this doctor felt compelled to write his first letter ever to a family member. What strikes me is the time he took to write this letter, which is clearly carefully and deliberately worded, was probably longer than he gets to spend with most of his patients.

In an age of cost cutting, managed care, debates by monkeys in congress over healthcare and the traditional distance doctors keep from the personal lives of their patients, this letter is nothing short of remarkable.

I never want myself or any member of my family to have need of an ER doctor. But if it's unavoidable, I hope they get someone as compassionate as this.

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.