Things that annoy me: Volume 1

You know, if the world worked the way I wanted it to I wouldn’t have anything to write about in this post. Of course, after reading it you might still think I don’t, but just hold your water and reserve judgement.

I know everyone could pump out a list of things that annoy them. But, as you should already know by now, I’m an only child. So it’s a given the world revolves around moi. Which means my list of annoyances is far more important than yours.

I’m glad we got that settled.

NOT UNLOADING THE WASHER

Frustration comes in many forms. One of them is a washer loaded with wet clothes that aren’t mine. I suppose there's an argument to be made for leaving them in there all day. After all, the delicate cotton and mixed blend fabrics have just been through a traumatic event, what with that extended spin cycle and all. They're probably still in shock.

I also understand the reluctance and hesitation in moving wet, overflowing, slightly moldy smelling clothes. It takes an almost Herculean effort to place them in a dryer that's an impossible Fourteen. Inches. Away.

I’ve always said the great thing about laundry is I can do it while I'm doing something else. It's just I don’t want the something else to be moving your clothes to the dryer.

And no, I have no idea where that favorite shirt of yours went—why do you ask?

THE DOG NOT LISTENING

We have two incredibly smart, cute dogs at home. Because one of them is an energetic German Shepherd, we wanted to make sure he was well trained. We didn't want a dog that big and powerful out of control and not listening to us.

That’s the kid's job.

So when we got him from Westside German Shepherd Rescue, every weekend for what seemed like forever, we loaded him and his little friend in the back of the SUV and carted him out to the same trainer in Corona where we’d trained our first GSD.

I’m happy to say after all those weeks of training, fighting the hordes of traffic on the 91 East and spending lots of money to "work with the experts," he has been thoroughly, selectively trained. That is to say he listens when he wants to and doesn’t when he doesn’t.

This is a picture of him after I said "Heel."

Still, when he’s backlit in the front window, and someone is outside thinking about making a move, it’s the visual that says, “Maybe the next house.” So we’re willing to cut him some slack.

THINGS ON THE FLOOR

There's tripping the light fantastic. Then there's just tripping.

It's not bad enough I have to navigate area rugs everywhere that are lying in wait for me. They look innocent enough, but their rug pad is just a ruse—they slip and slide around like Crocs on a freshly watered lawn.

If rugs were the only thing, then at least I'd know the enemy. But, like magic, other things appear to create my own personal obstacle course at all hours of the day and night.

Backpacks. Shoes. Dogs. Shoes. Boxes. Shoes.

On the bright side, it is cutting down on my 2AM refrigerator runs.

Since this is only Volume 1, you know there'll be more installments to look forward to. You might even be inspired to make your own list of things that annoy you.

I'm guessing my list is the first thing on your list.

The two best days in parenting

It's no secret there are a lot of hellish days as a parent, but there are also a great many good ones. There'd have to be, or no one would ever have kids, amIrite?

Naturally there are the memorable milestones. Birthdays, graduations, proms. And all the firsts are etched in every parents memory forever. First time walking, first time speaking, first date, first kiss, first recital, first tooth. First time they break something really important to you that can't be replaced. First time they feed the dog pizza.

Part of being a parent means getting to see the world through your child's eyes as they discover everything new around them. It makes it hard to narrow days down to the best two, but I think...oh hell, no it's not. It couldn't be easier.

The best days are when they're finally toilet trained. And when they get their driver's license.

Let's start with number 2 first. It's amazing what a person can get used to. But somehow, wiping your kids' butt and changing diapers for years has a certain—how you say—je ne sais quois that never becomes appealing in any way.

Fortunately, my kids are 21 and 19 now, so they've been toilet trained for at least 5 years.

It's been awhile, but I remember juggling diapers, baby wipes and a squirming, toxic-waste smelling infant in all sorts of places not designed for it. The trunk of my car. Elevators. Airport lounges. The front lawn. The neighbor's front lawn. Restaurant booths. Concerts. Movie theater aisles. Hotel lobbies. I would've preferred to change them on changing tables and at home, but when they gotta go they gotta go.

And just to prove God has a sense of humor, the little suckers always decided to let loose at the most inconvenient times and places.

I'm not exactly sure when they realized they could do it themselves. I wasn't the parent who let them soak in it until they figured it out. I gave them instruction, they wanted to do it themselves and they did. The day it happened, I swear I heard the angels sing. It might've been the sound of the toilet flushing. In the moment, they sound the same.

The second best day comes about sixteen years later, when they get their driver's license.

It's an image that strikes terror into the heart of parents—their baby behind the wheel of an automobile. The questions come flooding in: will they drive carefully? Will they pay attention? Will they get in an accident? Will they ever pay for their own insurance?

Because we have years up on our children in dealing with crazy drivers coming out of nowhere, we know what's ahead of them and can't help worrying about their ability to dodge the crazies their first, tender years on the road.

But that worry slowly evaporates as suddenly there's more time in the day. And I didn't even have to set a clock back an hour to get it.

For the first time in their lives, I'm not driving them to and from doctor's appointments. Soccer practice. Little league. School. School plays. Rehearsal for school plays. Winter formals. Playdates. Music lessons. Acting lessons. Dancing lessons. Football practice. Their friend's house. The movies. Disneyland. The beach. And a dozen more places that, for my own sanity, I've forgotten about.

My mom taught me to drive when I was fourteen, and that's when I started teaching my kids to drive (when they were fourteen, not me). Actually, I let my daughter get behind the wheel when she was thirteen. Shhhhh! Don't tell her brother. I wanted them to be ahead of the game by the time they took driving lessons. And they were. Nothing but compliments from the AAA instructors about what great and comfortable drivers they were. One of them is still pretty great, and the other has a bit of a lead foot. Not saying which one it is, but I can't imagine for the life of me where he got it from.

I don't want there to be any misunderstanding: I loved the time with my kids, the fact they relied on me and the bonding when I had to drive them everywhere. I just didn't love it as much as them driving themselves.

And as far as all the worry and those questions? The answer is that's what insurance is for.

I'm sure every parent has their best two days, but those are mine. I've heard it said the third is the day I don't have to pay tuition any more.

I'll let you know when I get there.

Don't ask: Taking the middle seat

In my ongoing Don't Ask series I've covered such hot-button issues as moving, watching your stuff, sharing a hotel room and loaning you money to name a few. In tonight's installment, I tackle a topic that makes me very uncomfortable. The middle seat.

The middle is a place I've never cared for much. Middle management. Middle America. Middle earth. Middle of the road. Thanks, but no (being a night owl, I don't mind the middle of the night, but we're going to table that for the purposes of this post).

Let's start at the movies. When I go with friends, often they like to sit dead center in the theater. Alledgedly the picture and sound are calibrated for the optimum movie-going experience in those seats. You know who doesn't have the optimum experience sitting there? Me. My comfort zone is on the aisle—right or left, center or side. Doesn't matter. I've been going to movies my whole life, and I don't feel like I've missed much by sitting on the aisle.

There's a method to my no-center-seat madness. For starters, I'm a not a small guy. I'm built for comfort, not for speed—at least that's what I used to tell my high school girlfriend. I don't like feeling crowded.

I also have the bladder of a three-year old. At some point he'll want it back, but until then I'm using it (I'll be here all week). Because of that inconvenient truth, I don't like having to crawl over strangers in the dark, potentially stepping on their toes or knocking over their stupid bag of popcorn that should've been in their lap instead of on the floor. But can I tell them that? I can't, because there's no talking during the movie. And besides, I don't have time to chat. I need to get to the bathroom.

The other place you'll never find me in the middle seat is on an airplane.

Being the pampered poodle I am, it's always my preference to fly in the front of the plane, where middle seats are imaginary, non-existent things like unicorns or responsible Republicans. People always ask me, "Isn't it really expensive to fly in the front of the plane?" I always give them the same answer: that's what the college fund is for.

But on those occasions where I do find myself in a three-seat row on the plane, my seat choice happens in this order: window, aisle or window or aisle in another row.

I don't fly in the middle seat. Ever. Not to sound mean, but I'm not switching to the middle so you can be closer to your wife who's sitting behind us. Or so you can put a little distance between you and your screaming baby. Not because you're scared of flying and my window/aisle seat would make it easier.

I used to be scared of flying, and look how good I am at it now. Know what helped me get over it? Not flying in the middle seat.

If you somehow find yourself traveling with me, or going to the movies, I promise we'll have a good time. But make sure you set your expectations ahead of time, because when it comes to where I'm sitting, there's no middle ground.

So don't ask.

New math

I have a high threshold for creepiness. I like horror movies. I want the teenagers to go into the dark cave. After the car breaks down in the rain on the deserted road, I can't wait for them to knock on the door of the creepy house. I love it when they don't know their shadows are moving independently of them. And toy clowns with eyes that follow them around the room? Yes please.

But I saw something on television this morning that creeped me out more than any movie has in a long time. This commercial for Mathnasium.

First of all, in the same way people who live in Anaheim never go to Disneyland, I almost never pay attention to commercials. However when the creepfactor is cranked up to eleven, it can't help but be a slow, drive by car wreck I can't look away from.

To quote Stefon, "This spot's got everything."

A pedestrian concept.

White-bread casting.

Bargain-basement CGI.

Needle drop music.

Giant A+ spray painted on the classroom wall (to go with the A+ on all the freakishly animated student sweaters).

Annoying voiceover.

Kid giving a thumbs up.

A token Asian cause, you know, math.

A maybe Hispanic kid and his maybe Hispanic mom.

A kid that says, "Awesome." Because that's how kids talk.

Not sure why, but for some reason for me the spot has an "It's a cookbook!" quality to it. Maybe it's the bad CGI on the badly animated students.

Here's what I think would help: if the kid at the end of the spot smiled and looked at his reflection in the car window. We'd hold for a beat, then his reflection suddenly turns into a killer clown, breaks through the glass and rips the little suckers' throat out.

I know, it probably wouldn't be good for enrollment. But you can't tell me it wouldn't add up to a much more memorable spot.

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.