Short in the tooth

As anyone who’s done it will tell you, working in close proximity to others has its advantages and disadvantages.

For example, my desk is—for now—in an office with three other people. I consider myself lucky I have an office at all, since there’s a remodel coming that’ll convert most of the agency to an open office space floorplan. Did they read any of the articles and studies saying open office plans do exactly the opposite of what they’re intended to do? Do they care it makes people less productive and discourages collaboration? Don’t they realize it may be cheaper than individual offices in the short run, but the cost of replacing personnel as people leave due to lack of human interaction and difficulty concentrating on their work actually make it more expensive? Did they ask me if they should do it? The answer to all of the above is no. No they did not.

Don’t get me started.

Where was I? Oh, right. So my office isn’t really big enough for four people, but everyone likes each other and we work well together. Bonus for me: it means I always have an audience to try out new material. So win-win.

Anyway, our office is situated next to some desks in the hallway right outside it that have become a social gathering place for people in my group to hang out and talk about a variety of things. Some really annoying, some extremely entertaining.

Case in point: today someone was talking about their tiny lower teeth. I filed it under entertaining.

As I read this over, it occurs to me it's probably going to be one of those “you had to be there” posts. But it was hilarious. Not so much the fact this person had a lower row of teeth that would have self-esteem issues around a box of tiny Chiclets, but the fact the conversation just went on and on. And on.

Smiles. Retainers. Teasing as a child. Trouble chewing. It had everything. Plus while he was yapping on, and on, about his Shetland teeth, I was providing running commentary to my audience...er...officemates who couldn't help but also overhear the conversation.

This is the point where I usually try to wrap things up with a snappy little line. I was thinking something about biting satire. Finishing the post by the skin of my teeth. Fighting tooth and nail. Sinking my teeth into the post. But somehow none of them seemed quite right.

I might have to chew on it for awhile longer.

Ass scratchin' nomad

Before I tell you how "ass scratchin' nomad" became my new favorite saying, let's talk about the picture.

If you're a regular reader—and if you are you should get out more often—you know each post usually has a large, relevant photo centered at the top.

But I felt, and I believe you will too, that no one needed to see this particular picture any larger than it is.

Just so you know, the photo isn't of the person I'll be talking about. Butt the action is (see what I did there?).

Because our agency has grown so fast, there are now more people than there is space for them all (still waiting for them to ask me for recommendations about who to tie the can to-don't get me started). Anyway, an individual at my agency, who doesn't have an actual desk or workspace to call his own, wanders around from desk to desk and person to person doing whatever the fuck it is he does there.

So get this: apparently while he was discussing business with someone at the agency, he was leaning on the end of their desk, with his elbows in front of him, and his low-riding blue-jeaned derriere sticking out in the aisle between desks.

And while that may have been a comfortable position for him to discuss business, it wasn't exactly the best view for the individual sitting at the desk directly behind him.

Little did they know the view was about to get a lot worse.

Apparently Mr. No Office had an itch to scratch. So, being cultured and part of polite society, he quickly excused himself, went to find some privacy in the men's room, and discreetly attended to the need.

I'm just messin' with you. He crammed his hand down his pants, under the waistband, and scratched his sweaty, unwashed ass for longer than anyone wanted to watch.

It's the kind of slick move legends are made of. It's also the kind of story that spreads like wildfire through an agency.

I share an office just down the way from where the ass-scratching incident occurred. With me in our one-window, no-view office are three roommates. One of them happens to be an extremely funny writer. Wait, I meant another extremely funny writer.

When the story of the ass scratching eventually made its way to our office, my fellow writer was mortified. She couldn't believe someone would do that kind of thing out in the open for everyone to see. I don't remember her exact words, but it was something to the effect of, "As if the job isn't hard enough, now I have to worry about seeing some ass-scratchin' nomad when I'm walking in the office."

BAM! My new favorite phrase was born.

If you know anything about me, you know I'll often take a phrase or joke I like, hang on to it like a rodeo rider and run it into the ground until people know I'm going to say it before I do. If you think I'm kidding, go back through my posts and see if you can count how many times you see the words "high school girlfriend."

True to form, every day since I heard it, I've been trying to work "ass scratchin' nomad" into my office conversation at least once a day.

So thank you to my writer roommate for a line I'm having immense fun with, and that cracks me up every time I think about it.

When we were discussing the event, someone said the moral of the story is if you're going to scratch an itch like that, maybe you ought to find a more discreet place to do it. But I think that's all wrong.

The moral of the story is don't shake hands with him.

Garry Shandling: In the beginning

Last night HBO aired the first part of a two-part series called The Zen Diaries of Garry Shandling. It's produced and directed by Garry's close friend Judd Apatow, and it is magnificent.

A beautiful documentary about the legendary writer and comedian, it takes us back to the beginning and Shandling's roots while exploring the life events—like the death of his brother from cystic fibrosis, a meeting with George Carlin and hosting The Tonight Show—that left indelible impressions and defined him throughout his life.

Told through a series of interviews with his friends, family and fellow comedians, it doesn't take long at all to realize Shandling was indisputably one of the greats. His reach, influence and genius continues to be felt in every standup comic working and many of your favorite television shows.

Years ago, I had the great pleasure of meeting Shandling at a lunch with my friend Kevin. I wrote about it in this post I did when he passed away unexpectedly a couple years ago.

Since HBO is running the special (which you most definitely should see), and he's on my mind in a much more profound way than ever before, now felt like a good time to repost this.

"My friends say I have an intimacy problem, but they don't really know me." - Garry Shandling

Please to enjoy.

I had lunch with Garry Shandling in New York.

Years ago, the wife and I had gone back to visit our friend Kevin, who was living there and working on SNL at the time. We were going to meet him and his wife at the time for lunch at the now defunct Cafe Des Artistes. When we were confirming lunch, Kevin said, "I hope you don't mind, but I invited Shandling and one of his writers to join us."

We were good with it.

We all met at the restaurant, and there was an additional person at the table who I didn't know. Come to find out later he was the president of PETA, which Kevin's wife was very involved with.

Shandling sat next to my wife, and, either not knowing or not caring, spent most of the lunch talking to her and hitting on her. As you might imagine, it was hysterical.

I don't remember many of the lines, but at one point, obviously for the PETA president's benefit, he asked my wife, "I want to get a new haircut, but I'm nervous about how it'll look so I want to try it out on my dog first. Is that considered animal testing?"

A few weeks later, the wife and I were shopping on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica (where we lived at the time), and we wandered into this antique furniture store. We were looking at one of those two-person desks when Shandling walked in. We reminded him we'd all had lunch in New York, and had a nice conversation with him for about twenty minutes.

Here are a couple things he told us: he started out as a copywriter in New York, and ironically had written on Suntory Whiskey - an account I'd worked on at Wells Rich Greene early in my career (stops to laugh hysterically for using the word "career").

Early in 1998, I sat down and wrote two episodes of his influential and landmark Larry Sanders Show. I thought they were pretty good, and I asked Kevin if he'd read them and, if he liked them, would he mind passing them on to Garry.

Well, there's good news and bad news. The good news is Kevin liked the scripts. The bad news was it was right at the point when Garry was pulling the plug on the show. In comedy, timing is everything.

A couple years ago, the wife and I saw Shandling again at Kevin's birthday party. While it was a star-studded affair, we both felt a personal connection to him. We didn't know him well, but we'd been fortunate enough to spend time on the receiving end of his remarkable humor and unmistakable kindness.

I could go on about how revolutionary both It's Garry Shandling's Show and The Larry Sanders Show were, but you'll be hearing and reading a lot about that in the coming days. Besides, the work speaks for itself.

Sadly, and all too soon, as of this morning the world is a far less funny place. However, if you know anyone in heaven, you might want to let them know there's going to be a killer set tonight around 9pm at The Laff Stop on Cloud 9. Two drink minimum. Look for the brick wall and the mic.

You're in our hearts forever. Goodbye Garry. Rest in peace.

Cleared for takeoff

I've scribbled here before about fundraising auctions at my kids' high school. In fact, because they were so impressively written and made such an indelible impression, you probably recall those posts about the south central L.A.P.D. ride-a-longs I won in previous auctions.

If for some odd reason your memory fails you, now might be a good time to refresh it by reading this post. Or this one. Maybe this one. Who could forget this one? Some think this one was the best. I think this one was one of my finest. And of course, this one is a classic.

I think that's enough self-promoting for one post. Let's get on with it

Last night was this year's auction for the school. Since my kid's are in college and I don't have a horse in the race anymore, I find myself not having to go to their former high school events much. But my wife does work at the school, and she likes to show me off for the trophy husband I am. Plus the auction is an event I've always liked. So we went.

There are two parts to the evening. One is after dinner, where bidders raise their assigned I.D. numbers to bid on items the auctioneer is calling. But before that is the silent auction, where you add your bid to a list for a particular item. When that auction closes, the highest bid wins.

I see it. I guess the highest bid wins in every auction.

Sadly, there were no police ride-a-longs to win this year. However, there was a 90-minute experience in a 737 flight simulator which I wanted. And when I want something bad enough, I usually figure out a way to get it. I'm like the MacGyver of school auctions.

Anyway, the way I did it this time, and every time before, was by sniping. Since it was a silent auction item, I hovered around the list of bids until about thirty seconds before the auction closed. Then, at the last second, right before pens down, I wrote my number and bid on the list—$20 higher than the last bid.

BAM! Auction closed, and I'm on my way to pretend flying a 737 somewhere in Anaheim.

It's part of my Fly But Don't Get My License tour. Years ago, I took helicopter lessons. I have about 30 hours of airtime, but never completed getting my pilot's license. It's a long story. You can read about it here.

Ok, I snuck in one more self-promoting link. So sue me.

I'll be scheduling my 737 flight later in the week. I even get to take a couple people with me. Play your cards right, and maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones to join Captain Jeff on my flight to nowhere.

I can't guarantee it'll be a smooth one, but I can promise even though it's simulated it'll still be a lot better than United.

Trial run

If there's no objection, in my opening remarks I'd like to tell you about a funny thing that happened last week.

A close friend of mine who lives on the east coast got in touch with me because he was looking for a referral to a lawyer out here to handle some business for him. Then, coincidentally, I also wound up recommending another friend to a different lawyer because he was in a situation where I thought a little legal advice would help.

Now I know what you're thinking: "Why does Jeff know so many lawyers? Is he in that much trouble? Is it a Jew thing?" The answers are because, no and maybe.

Here's the deal. When push comes to shove in certain situations, the evidence has shown it's sometimes best to have a knowledgable, take-no-prisoners legal representative in your corner.

It's no secret there's a lot of negativity and jokes about lawyers. But those are usually about the ambulance chasers and bottom feeders. My attorneys, all of them, have been stellar in representing my best interests when I've needed them to. I have nothing but gratitude and appreciation for the lawyers I work with.

And they have nothing but gratitude and appreciation for my retainer fees.

Capitalism, amIright?

My wife thinks I should go to law school and become a lawyer, because I'm quick on my feet and like the idea of standing up for justice. Actually she thinks I should do it because I'm confrontational, don't suffer fools lightly and won't sign out a library book without checking with my attorney. But for argument's sake, let's go with the justice thing.

If you find yourself in need of a lawyer—and everyone does eventually—and don't have one, give me a call. I'm pretty sure I can make the introduction.

Estate lawyer? Check. Employment and business attorney? Of course. Personal injury representation? Do you have to ask? Real estate attorney? I'll land one for you. Bankruptcy lawyer? My high school best friend is one of the top ones in the city. If I ever have to read up to Chapter 11, I know who to call.

In closing, if it please the readers (snickering....readers...good one), let me conclude by saying it's always best to settle disagreements without taking the dispute to the next level. But if you absolutely have to, it's reassuring to know I'm here to help you find an advocate, advisor and counselor who'll be looking out for your best interest.

And forty percent of your settlement.

Blog adjourned.

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.