Cut and dried

Everything in life is about managing risk. True fact—we do it everyday. Crossing the street. Flying across country. Eating sushi. Driving at rush hour. It's all a calculated roll of the dice on something not going wrong.

Up until last Saturday, I would've thought haircuts don't really qualify for that category. Come to find out I was wrong.

I usually get my haircut with Gene. He's awesome. He cuts with precision, always mindful of what I'm going for. What I'm usually going for is a cut that makes me look 40 lbs. thinner and more like George Clooney. Keep hope alive.

The point is, I have a great stylist I trust and love. The problem is, a lot of other people love him too. He's booked weeks and even months in advance with his regular customers. And even though I'm one of them, I'm not someone who can schedule haircuts every four or six weeks. It doesn't work like that for me. One day my silver locks will be looking fabulous, then suddenly overnight they're as out of control as a Trump rally in a blue state.

And they need to be stopped just as quickly.

Here's the point: I couldn't get in to see Gene Saturday, and my hair wouldn't wait. So I opted for Plan B, and went to another barber shop where I'd never been before. My son recommended them, so I figured, in that naive way of reasoning I have when I want to talk myself into something, he goes there, they have good reviews on Yelp, a really nice shop and do this for a living.

What could possibly go wrong?

App-hair-ently a lot (SWIDT?). Since I didn't have an appointment, I was shuffled off to the stylist who's only been there two months, doesn't have a regular clientele and gets to experiment on all the walk-ins. A fact I didn't realize until after the damage had been done.

I remember years ago when my son was five or six, we had to run to Bristol Farms market to pick up something. It was just before his bedtime, and he didn't want to go because he was in his pajamas, and he thought everyone would stare at him. Never one to miss a teachable moment, I confronted him with this cold, hard truth of life. "No one cares. In fact no one will even notice."

So I dragged him to the store in his pajamas. And no one cared.

I know in the other world, the one that doesn't revolve around me, it's same with my haircut.

Since I had it butchered, excuse me, cut on Saturday, I looked drastically different when I came into the office on Monday than when I'd left Friday. And even though I was extremely self-conscious about it, guess what? No one cared.

A couple people noticed I was much more aerodynamic moving through the halls than I'd been the week before, and mentioned how much they liked the cut. I smiled, said thanks, and retreated to my office to hate it even more.

The good news about my haircut is eventually time makes everything better. It's only a two week mistake at best. Just like my high school girlfriend.

I suppose I should actually be grateful. New customer, no appointment, unknown salon and a relatively new hire working on my hair.

It's only shear luck it didn't come out any worse.

Wired

The laptop I use everyday, in fact the one I'm writing this post on right now, is a 17" MacBook Pro. Or as they say in the laptop biz, a dinosaur.

I bought it the minute it was announced in January of aught 9, which for those of you doing the math means—in technology years—it's as old as dirt.

The reason I had my credit card fired up and ready to buy this laptop the first day it was announced was because of its big, beautiful screen. I have terrible vision—in fact it's even gotten worse in the time you've been reading this. The idea of a screen this large was very appealing. I thought this kind of real estate would be much easier to see and work on.

But that was then and this is now. So even though it's bigger, it's not a retina screen with impossibly great resolution. The battery drains faster than a seventy-year old with a urinary tract infection. And I can't upgrade the apps and operating system because the processor is too old and slow.

I think it's obvious to even the most skeptical readers (pauses to laugh hysterically at the thought of anyone reading this) it's about time I got myself a bitchin' new state-of-the-art, high-tech, super-expensive 15" MacBook Pro. Only because Apple discontinued the 17" version—did I mention dinosaur?

As fate would have it, before she went to college my beautiful daughter, who's getting a quality out-of-state tuition education in the middle of the Iowa cornfields, unexpectedly got a brand new 15" MacBook Pro. So she generously gave me her 13" MacBook Air she wasn't going to be using.

Now, even though it's obviously a lot smaller screen than I'm used to, it's a higher resolution so it's actually easier on my eyes. Which means I get to write sentences like that last one using the word "it's" three times.

I've also found because of the smaller size, I don't (can't) have as many windows open at once. So I don't waste a lot of time toggling between them. It forces me to focus. Turns out that's a good thing. Who knew?

Of course, the only exercise I was getting on a daily basis was lifting the 17" laptop, which weighed—true fact—350 lbs. At least it felt like it. The MacBook Air weighs next to nothing, hence the name.

So what does any of this have to do with the photo of tangled computer cables? Well, I have to get my info from the old laptop onto the new(er) one. To do that, I can connect them to each other, or the MB Air to my backup drive. Problem is I don't have the cables to do it.

In spite of my cable drawer looking like snakes on the floor in Raiders Of The Lost Ark, the one cable I need isn't among them. Because my laptop's so old, there's no USB to USB cord to be found. Or Firewire to USB cord. I'm not even sure which cable I need: Lightning, Thunderbolt, HDMI, DVI or Magnum PI (look it up).

It's a lot of tech mumbo-jumbo for a task that should be easier than getting into city college. Thanks Obama.

Anyway, the MB Air is a few years old now, so maybe it's time for me to just bite the bullet and pony up for that brand new bitchin' laptop after all.

But only if the cables are included.

Storm watch

Years ago there was a funny commercial for a now defunct airline that satirized local news and their panicky Storm Watch weather segments by showing a storm cloud that looked like this one.

Now, making fun of consistently warm and sunny weather in the City of Angels isn't exactly a new idea. But it's always a sure bet. And an easy laugh.

The minute there's a mist (a real mist, not like Stephen King's The Mist - that would be another kind of "watch" altogether) or drizzle in L.A., news programs immediately shift gears and start competing frantically for ratings.

They don't waste any time breaking out their state-of-the-art, scientific, grotesquely expensive Doppler Radar. Mega Doppler Radar. Doppler Radar 2018. And Doppler Radar So Accurate It'll Make Your Head Explode.

As I write this, it's raining outside. Not a hard rain—light and steady. Just like my high school girlfriend. And in a curious case of life imitating wanna-be art, the news weather people—excuse me, meteorologists—are all on Storm Watch for real right now.

It's as if the city was populated entirely by relatives of the Wicked Witch of the West, and newscasters feel they have to get the word out before water hits any of them.

One of the best commentaries on L.A. weather and the way residents react to it was in Steve Martin's L.A. Story. Martin played a whacky weatherman (aren't they all?) who always tried to find entertaining ways to report weather in a city where the weather never changes.

Until one day, it took a terrible turn for the worse.

Random comment: even though it has nothing to do with rain or Storm Watch, the Prius key joke in La La Land is one of my favorite L.A. jokes. Ok, back on point.

Anyway, rain. L.A. You see where I'm going here. I was thinking I'd wrap up this post by writing my way into an end line like a hard rain's gonna fall. Or who'll stop the rain. Maybe rainy days and Mondays. Something like that.

Instead I've decided to abandon the whole Storm Watch/L.A. thing, and leave you with one of my favorite rain-related songs ever.

Dry humor? You're all wet? Nice day if it doesn't rain? How about a ripped from the headlines one like Stormy Daniels. No, I didn't think so. Oh well, I tried. Not hard, but I did try.

Please to enjoy Flight of the Conchords I'm Not Crying.

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.