Guilty pleasures Part 12: Rampage

It's been awhile since I posted my Guilty Pleasures series which, ironically, is a guilty pleasure in itself. The last one, I don't have to tell you, was Paddington 2. It was a fine addition to others in the Guilty Pleasures universe, keeping good company with films like the Final Destination movies, Breakdown, The Faculty, Carrie, Devil's Advocate and the ever popular Three Stooges.

Anyway, as much as they all might want to, the truth is not every movie will qualify for the honor. But while all of them got there for different reasons, the chances of being included are exponentially increased if the film has plenty of B movie dialog, A movie action, big budget special effects and a well-known character actor who wanders into critical scenes just in time to crack wise.

This one meets all the criteria—including the last thanks to Jeffrey Dean Morgan—without breaking an action/adventure sweat. I'm talking about Rampage.

For those keeping track, Rampage is the second Dwayne Johnson film to make it into the GP series. The first was San Andreas. I don't know exactly what it is about Dwayne Johnson, besides the fact we're so similarly built. It's like looking in a mirror.

Anyway, the beginning of the movie sounds like the start of a joke: an albino gorilla, an alligator and a wolf walk into canisters from outer space. Seems there was illegal testing by a gene-editing company that was so wrong, it had to be done in the space station. But of course, as we learned years ago, in space no one can hear you scream.

When one of the experiments goes south, the last surviving crew member makes a weightless dash for the escape pod—but not before she's instructed by her evil overloads to bring the merchandise they were testing back with her.

I know this will come as a surprise, but the journey home doesn't go exactly as planned. The samples come crashing back to earth, the gorilla, alligator and wolf get a whiff of whatever's leaking out of them, then all hell breaks loose. All three start growing faster than Baywatch was pulled from theaters. Fortunately, Dwayne works in something like CSI: Primate for the San Diego Zoo where the gorilla escaped from, and already has a relationship (not that kind) with him.

By the way, the gorilla's name is George. Curious isn't it?

I won't spoil much more of it. But if you're thinking these oversized plush toys wreak havoc on the city, kill lots of people, flip a lot of cars and can only be stopped by Dwayne Johnson, you're not too far off. See it during the day, pay matinee prices and go be mindlessly entertained for a couple hours.

I'd tell you what it's more fun than, but I have a feeling you already know.

Dead band walking

Before The Walking Dead, 28 Days and World War Z, The Zombies had already arrived.

See if this sounds familiar: do do do aaahhh do do do aaahhh. I knew you'd recognize it. Time Of The Season was The Zombies first big hit in the states. The British band started in 1958, and 60 years later, they're still singing it.

The best part is it still sounds great.

The clip above is from The Tonight Show a few years ago. Aside from the vocals which are surprisingly strong and confident, the organ solo is killer. And if Steve Rodford isn't the most relaxed drummer I've ever seen I don't know who is.

The Zombies had two other big hits: She's Not There, and Tell Her No. They're right here for your viewing and listening pleasure. I think there's something hopeful and encouraging about people so good at what they do, doing it for so long.

It doesn't take any brains to know rock and roll will always get older. But it'll never die.

Don't ask: Working the weekend

This being Friday night, I started thinking about all the things I have to get done this weekend. And how I'm going to have plenty of time to do them. Know why? Cause I won't be working.

Everyone needs a philosophy to live by. I actually have a few of them, and one is if God wanted me to work on weekends he would've called those days Monday 1 and Monday 2. But he didn't, and I don't.

Anyway, there are plenty of times writing these posts feels like work. You know, the same way you feel when you read them. So since tonight is the official start of my weekend, it's pencils (keyboard) down.

In that spirit, I've opted for a re-post from my critically acclaimed, almost award-winning, fan favorite "Don't Ask" series. I think it'll be a perfectly swell start to your weekend.

Please to enjoy.

I know what you're thinking: why haven't I posted a new installment of my ever popular Don't Ask series - the one that brought you such widely read and revered gems like Don't Ask: Moving, Don't Ask: Picking Up At The Airport, Don't Ask: Loaning You Money, Don't Ask: Sharing A Hotel Room, Don't Ask: Writing A Letter For You and the perennial Don't Ask: Sharing My Food.

Well, tonight's your lucky night. I'm posting my latest in the series, and it's about a particular nuisance that effects every creative person in the business: working the weekend.

Jay Chiat of Chiat/Day fame had a quote that's been misquoted and bounced around ad agencies ever since he said it. If you're in advertising, you're already saying it to yourself: "If you're not here on Saturday, don't bother coming in on Sunday."

Looks like I won't be seeing you Sunday.

Agencies are notorious for their outsized and aggressive disregard for both working smart and your life. If they did the first one, working weekends wouldn't happen nearly as often as it does. Which would mean you'd get some of your life back.

Since I believe agencies will start working smart and utilizing their time more efficiently about the same time I ride my unicorn to Xanadu while drinking from the Holy Grail, I've chosen not to wait. I'm taking it back. Weekends are personal time. They're days of rest by definition. They are non-work days. Here's what I do on weekends. I spend time with my kids. I go out with the wife. I get things done around the house. I veg and binge Breaking Bad again.

Know what I don't do? Work.

Maybe if there were fewer 12-person meetings to kick-off the latest banner ad, not as many mandatory attendance pep talks to rally the troops, and less presentations to the staff from the Executive Group Specialist In Experimental Branding Strategy & Innovative Demographic Search Engine Optimization Solutions, there'd be enough time during the week to get the actual, bill-paying, income producing work done.

Not to brag, but because I have this policy of no weekends, I get my work done during the week. When I pack up Friday night, everything that needed to be done is done. Monday will bring a whole new set of challenges, and I'll get those done during the next five days too.

I know this is a radical position for a freelancer with a kid in college to take. Especially since weekends are usually double time. At a nice day rate, that can add up pretty quick. I know freelancers that hope for weekend work - something about gettin' while the gettin's good. Whatever. When your relationship with your kids turns into a Harry Chapin song, don't come crying to me.

Don't get me wrong. This is not to say I haven't worked weekends and won't again on those very few occasions it's necessary. But it usually isn't, despite the desperation, authoritative tone, insinuations about reputations and false logic that since they have to be there you have to be there. Almost as weak an argument as "If I do it for you, I have to do it for everyone else."

So go ahead, talk about how I'm too good to come in on Saturday. How I don't want to be a team player. How pissed everyone's going to be that they're at work and I'm not.

And if you want to tell me to my face, fine.

Call me. I'll be at home.

Seeing double

The same person I overheard talking in the hall about his teeth the other day was back at it again. Only today, the topic was twins.

When I first decided to slam out—I mean thoughtfully research and craft this post—I had plenty of choices when it came to the picture. It was the first thing you were going to see, so I wanted it to be good.

Sexy brothers. Attractive sisters. Older fraternal twins. Twin dogs. And cats. I decided to go with the babies because (imagine pinching their identical chubby cheeks) wook how cute the widdle babies are!

If you've followed this blog for any amount of time—and if you have you might want to consider a more productive lifestyle—you know I'm an only child. As such, I'm pretty used to the fact the world revolves around me. Just ask my wife. Or my children. Or anyone who works with me.

Growing up I never missed having a sibling, but I always thought it'd be cool if there were two of me the world could revolve around. There'd be so many advantages. My twin brother and I could share clothes, instantly doubling our wardrobe of black shirts and black pants. We wouldn't be those freaky kind of twins who dress identically all the time, but we'd do it once in awhile to mess with our parents. Or our girlfriends.

It sounds creepy, but hey, I've heard stories.

There's also the proven psychic connection twins have. They know what's happening to the other one even when they're thousands of miles apart. They finish each others sentences. They have a silent language of their own just by looking at each other.

I have a silent language, but I'm the only one who speaks it.

Many famous people are twins. Elvis had a twin brother that died. Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen are twin entrepreneurs who run a billion dollar business empire. Napoleon Dynamite himself, Jon Heder has his twin brother Dan.

I suppose one nice thing would've been having someone who understood exactly what I was going through when my parents died. I just light up a room don't I?

Sure, there would've been rivalries. One of us might've gotten accepted to a great college while the other didn't. We could've both fallen in love with the same girl, and there's no upside to that even if you're not a twin. We probably would've argued and gotten in fights once in awhile, and it would've made me feel mad at myself for being mad at myself.

But if wishes were horses beggars would ride. The fact is they broke the mold after they had me, and being a twin wasn't in the cards. So I'll just have to settle for being what I am.

One of a kind.

Zuckerbot 3000 goes to Washington

As expected, the Zuckerbot 3000 performed admirably at the senate hearings on internet privacy today.

The emotion protocol was clearly disabled, rendering the 3000 calm and collected under questioning that no doubt would've crashed last year's model. Clearly the Phase II testing, preparation and recently improved controller module integration paid off.

Far less composed and knowledgable were many of the senators questioning the 3000. They were throwing around terms they thought would make them sound tech savvy, like banner ads, personal information, instant messaging, apps and so on. It's a good thing the humor architecture build isn't too nuanced, otherwise the 3000 might've broken into a human-sounding chuckle.

Setting Zuckerbot chat in sleep mode for a bit, here's the thing: I rarely have any sympathy for Zuckerberg. While I understand and appreciate his monumental accomplishment, to me he's alway seemed like a Steve Jobs wanna-be, trading black turtlenecks for gray t-shirts, hoodies and a monotone. But watching these unfocused senators asking questions that were all over the board, from Cambridge Analytica to Russian election tampering to privacy protection, revealed how little they actually know about the very technology they're conducting hearings on.

And Zuckerberg, by contrast, knows everything. Certainly about Facebook, maybe even technology. He was far more articulate, knowledgable and impressive than the self-serving senators posturing while they made their five-minute speeches and interrupted him.

Granted being more impressive than the current crop of senators isn't exactly hard work, but still.

There was a lot of speculation about how these hearings would go, but the most dead on description was the one Bob Hoffman wrote for his blog, the Ad Contrarian. You'll find it here.

At the end of the day (yes, I said it), I'm not sure how to feel about it all. Anyone who knows me knows I'm a strong, long-time advocate of personal privacy. It took me years to use online banking. I fiercely guard my social security number. I rarely post pictures of myself or my family. And I even wear a wig and disguise when I go out in public.

No I don't. But if I did, I'd have one that used a lot of black and was very slimming.

If I seem uncharacteristically ambivalent here, it's because I understand Facebook isn't using some techno-hypnotizing-whammy-jammy to extract any information from me I don't want to give them. Everything Facebook knows about me has been volunteered. It's how they use and who they share the information with that's the issue. But again, in the name of personal responsibility and reading the small print, once I've surrendered it, it's out there.

I think the lesson for us all is if you don't want information about yourself out in the world, don't post it online. That's why I never post about my breakup with Scarlett Johansson.

It's nobody's business.

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.