Climate change

If climate change deniers need proof it exists, all they had to do was watch the first day of hearings to name Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court.

The mood, between Republicans in the room anyway, was warm and amiable. They were praising Brett Kavanaugh's judicial experience, his good character as a family man and his track record in over one thousand court cases.

When they took a break, Kavanaugh stood up and the first person to talk to him was Fred Guttenberg, who tragically lost his daughter Jaime in the Parkland shooting. As Mr. Guttenberg extended his hand in a friendly, unthreatening manner, hoping to have a conversation with the nominee, the temperature in the room instantly turned very chilly.

Kavanaugh scowled at the grieving father, then upon hearing he was the parent of a Parkland victim, turned his back on him without shaking his hand and walked out.

To add insult to injury, when the hearing reconvened, Kavanaugh talked about his daughters, their bright futures and how he loved coaching them in sports. It was painful to listen to knowing Fred Guttenberg's daughter would never realize her future.

Here's the thing: Kavanaugh is whole-heartedly endorsed by the NRA. He is against assault weapons bans, and has been vocal about it. Since the NRA is suing every state that enacts gun control laws that Guttenberg is promoting, they're hoping Kavanaugh would be an ally when the lawsuits reach the supreme court.

And despite his statements about judging cases solely on their merits and adherence to the law, he will almost assuredly be the ally the NRA is hoping for.

Money talks, and judges walk. Especially when they're confronted with the reality of gun violence.

Shuttle diplomacy

Regrets, I've had a few.

Six years ago I was freelancing at Saatchi. That's not the regret. I'd started there for what was originally a two or three week gig, and wound up being there about three or four months. That used to happen a lot because I could always be relied on to get the job done, and my freelance strategy was to just keep showing up until they told me not to. Like all freelancers, I liked when gigs went on longer than I was booked for, because if there's one thing I love it's a day rate that keeps on giving.

I happened to be freelancing at Saatchi at two different times during two memorable events. One was the day they found out Toyota was moving their headquarters to Plano, Texas. They found out about it the same way I did—they heard it on the news that morning. The agency was buzzing about it when I got there, and management held a hastily thrown together staff meeting to reassure everyone the move wouldn't happen overnight, everyone was safe and to not worry about it.

What the meeting actually did was reassure everyone management didn't have the slightest clue what was happening.

The other event was the landing of the Endeavour Space Shuttle at LAX before its drive to the California Space Center. This was a big deal for Saatchi and Toyota, because they'd sold a commercial—and ponied up some of that Toyota money they printed in the basement—where a Toyota Tundra was going to tow the shuttle a very short distance part of the way between LAX and downtown on its journey to its permanent exhibition space. This was to show that if you bought a Tundra, had a specially made hitch, connector, trailer and several NASA engineers and production assistants, you could also tow a space shuttle should the opportunity present itself. As it does.

The door to the roof of Saatchi's building was unlocked, so when the shuttle was coming into the airport on its final approach, everyone went up there to watch the landing.

Since Saatchi is in Torrance, not far from LAX, it was a great view of the NASA 747 carrying the shuttle piggyback, and the two fighter jets escorting it. Plus if you looked down, you could also see the entire shopping mall parking lot Saatchi sits in the corner of.

After seeing it land, I decided I desperately wanted to be one of the thousands lining the streets over the next few days as the orbiter was towed downtown.

I've had a few once-in-a-lifetime experiences in my time. I met and became friends with Groucho Marx. I snagged sixth row center tickets to see a certain gravel-voiced singer from Jersey in his broadway show. I had floor seats at SNL, hung out backstage and went to the after party as a guest of my friend Kevin who was one of the Not-Ready-For-Prime-Time players. I hung out with my friend Holland Taylor backstage at Lincoln Center after a Tony-nominated performance of her one woman show ANN. I played Barrel Of Monkeys with Helen Hunt at the VFW in Ponca City, Oklahoma when she was shooting Twister.

It's important in life (here comes the life advice, stop rolling your eyes) to recognize real once in a lifetime experiences when they happen. And I figured seeing the shuttle rolling down neighborhood streets was going to be one of them.

I watched the coverage on TV with my daughter, and kept telling her we should go see it in person because nothing like this was ever going to happen again. For reasons I don't remember now, I either wasn't able or decided not to go. In case you couldn't tell, that's the regret.

Today however, I was able to somewhat remedy that missed chance by going to the Science Center with the wife to see Endeavour for the first time since it arrived. I know it's been six years, but you know, life in progress. My daughter wound up seeing it years ago with her class on a field trip, and now it was my turn. Not to see it with her class, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, it was magnificent. I'm not gonna lie. I got choked up. It genuinely felt like I finally stopped denying myself something I really wanted, as well as a dream come true.

Just like my high school girlfriend.

The wife and I watched the Journey Into Space 3D IMAX film before walking into the Endeavour exhibit. And the idea that this, the most complicated machine ever built, that we've seen take off and land so many times over the years, has come here after having been in space orbiting around this little blue ball of a planet was almost too much to take in.

In a world that's felt like it's been crumbling since January of last year, and with ignorant, fearful men trying to convince the nation that science is something as evil as they are, looking up at Endeavour gave me a feeling I haven't had in a while: hope. It restored my faith that mankind's intelligence, ingenuity, curiosity and never ending need to keep exploring ever further might still prevail, and guide us all towards our better selves.

Just like the hope I had that Saatchi's roof door wasn't locked when it closed behind us.

Body of work

When my pal Rich Siegel first saw this picture, his reaction was I should wear a hat more often. I know (think) he was kidding, but the funny part is even though I know that fabulous looking, thin, brutally handsome, dark haired guy on the left is me, or a former version of me, in my mind's eye I see myself as the guy on the right. I have issues.

Anyway, what you're looking at would be the before picture of me. Today's after picture would be an older—and by older I mean more distinguished and attractive—grayer (my dad went gray at 25, I never stood a chance), fuller version of myself. But nowhere near as full as the gentleman on the right.

Of course I'd be wearing black in both pictures, because, you know, black.

In my head, I've always felt like I was overweight, even though much to my everlovin' surprise I keep stumbling on to more pictures that prove otherwise. So the question is if I was that thin once, could I be that thin again?

And I'm starting to think the answer is fuck yeah.

For starters, it's not like someone stuck an air hose up my ass, tattooed Goodyear on it and sent me flying. I'm carrying slightly more weight than I should be, and might I add carrying it quite well. But I am getting tired of my doctor and my pants telling me to lose a little. So I'm making small, manageable changes to my routine I think will result in slow, steady progress towards getting me back into my 32-inch 34-inch waist pants that have been hanging in back of my closet since, well, that's not important right now. I know it's an ambitious goal, but if we can put a man on the moon...

Here are a few of the steps I'm taking to look as thin as Chandler did on season 3 of Friends.

Soda is off the menu. Mostly.

I've always loved Coke. And I used to drink a lot of it, but not so much anymore. I now go almost all week long without having one, or any soda for that matter, and try to stick strictly to water (preferably lemon flavored and carbonated). Sure I might have a sip or two of my son's soda at the movies on the weekend, but he gives me the side eye when I ask, doesn't like to share, and lets out a disapproving, judgmental sigh because I know he thinks it's just hastening my demise and he doesn't know where the insurance policies are. I'm just kidding. He knows exactly where they are.

Timing is everything.

Grazing used to be a 24/7 proposition. I think the electric bills were so high because of all the times I'd stand at the refrigerator with the doors open just staring, hoping something I wanted to eat would appear since the last time I opened the doors and stared. Ten minutes ago. Now, mealtimes punch a clock. Breakfast, lunch and dinner happen, with healthy snacks in between. But when dinner is over, the diner is closed and it's only water and Lipitor until morning.

Up the down staircase.

I work on the 2nd floor of my office, but I park on P2. I'll do the math for you—it works out to six flights of stairs. I'm excellent going down them, and getting better going up them, except when the weather is hot and humid. Since I sweat like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News anytime it gets over sixty degrees, I haven't abandoned the elevator just yet. But I do try to think about Rosalind Shays in L.A. Law when I press the up button, and that seems to motivate me to make the climb manually.

Staying in for lunch.

I'm a social animal. I like going out to eat, and spending tons of money I don't have on lunch. But the lunch hours they are a changin'. For a more than reasonable price, my friend Maria prepares clean meals for me to eat everyday. If you don't know, clean meals are just like healthy ones except they have flavor, fill you up and leave you excited about the next day's meal. Other people in the office have seen the meals Maria has been making for me, and asked if she can make meals for them too. She has a built in market for her budding business, and I'm ready to pony up the bucks to invest in her commercial kitchen. She's a clean-eating food empire waiting to happen.

Skipping is a good thing.

This three meals a day, food pyramid, five food groups bullshit is just the man's way of keeping you round. I'm learning to listen to my body more, which is good cause lately it's been doing a lot of talking. And it's saying, "Hey chubby, maybe you don't need lunch today." Maybe I don't. The new rule is if I'm not hungry, I'm not eating. And if I'm only a little hungry, then I just eat a little. Then I burn off some calories getting mad at my body for calling me chubby.

In addition to those steps, I'm making it a point to exercise more. I have an expensive mountain bike with flat tires sitting in the garage. I also have an expensive air compressor sitting there with it. I don't need a roadmap to see I'm minutes away from getting back in the saddle and biking all around town. Although I won't be doing it in bike shorts. No one needs to see that.

While I'm talking about exercise, I may as well mention I'm finally joining a gym. When I used to live in Santa Monica, I'd get up at six in the morning, walk over to the legendary Gold's Gym in Venice and work out surrounded by world-class body builders and steroid abusers. In fact my former personal trainer was a Mr. Nebraska. I could've found it intimidating, but instead it was inspiring. Being the Hollywood kid I am, one of the things I loved about Gold's was the occasional celebrity I'd see working out there. During the Gold's years, I like to say I worked out with Jeff Goldblum, Laura Dern, Jennifer Connelly, Keanu Reeves and the late, great Gregory Hines to namedrop a few. I'm not sure if they bragged about working out with me, but I like to think so.

Inspiration also happens on the local level. My once and always neighbor Sebastian just lost 35 lbs. and is still going. Other friends have lost weight as well, and somehow their lives seem to be going on just fine and no one appears to be going hungry.

So there you have it. I don't usually like to share about this particular topic, but I felt the picture called for it. I'm uncharacteristically optimistic, and looking forward to the new me.

But just in case things don't work out, I did ask Mr. Red Hat where he got his pants.

Client rewrites

I'm doing something right now I'd advise anyone writing a blog not to do. I'm writing this post while I'm extremely pissed off. I know what you're thinking, "But Jeff, you're usually so funny and easygoing and levelheaded, what could possibly put you in such a foul mood?"

Well, I'll tell you. Clients who want to be copywriters.

There's a story I may have told before here, but it bears repeating. Paul Keye, who owned Keye Donna Perlstein, one of the great Los Angeles creative shops that isn't around anymore, wasn't just the creative director. He was also a copywriter, and a great one at that. He was presenting his work at a client meeting, and the client was being particularly dickish about it. Finally the client made some bullshit, insignificant, arbitrary change, like "the" to "a". He looked up at Paul and said, "What can I say Paul, I'm a frustrated copywriter."

To which Paul took a beat, then replied, "No, I'm the frustrated copywriter. You're an asshole."

Any copywriter who's been in the ad biz more than ten minutes has had the joyless experience of the client reworking their copy, with total disregard for what goes into creating it. Even when they like the copy, clients rarely get the nuance, cadence, subtlety, humor and rhythm of words well written. One of the most common places they take refuge is "I don't get it, how will any of our customers?"

Respect from clients for consumers intelligence is harder to find than a Christmas bonus.

Don't get me wrong: I'm sure occasionally a client will contribute something positive and helpful that doesn't make the copy sound like a strategy statement. Just like occasionally I believe I'll win the lottery, or Scarlett Johansson will return my calls.

If you think I'm painting clients in broad strokes and generalizations, take a look and listen to TV and radio commercials tonight. They were all client approved before they got there. We'll talk about the ratio of good to bad when you're done.

Originally this post was going to be about the subject of overthinking, but then I realized it's essentially the same thing. Clients examine copy with a magnifying glass the consumer will never use—assuming they even read the copy in the first place (you know the old saying).

It is endlessly frustrating with one client. The good news however is I have several who've been chiming in on how they think it should read. Copy by committee. Mmmm mmmm good.

Here's what I try to think about to keep it all in perspective. When Goodby had the notoriously bad Carl's Jr. account, they insisted on rewriting virtually everything that was presented to them. When asked about it, Jeff Goodby allegedly said, "It's a great deal. They write the copy and pay me." After it left, Goodby apologized to the staff for taking the business in the first place.

Whenever a creative chimes in with anything unflattering about the client, they're usually met with the fact that the client pays the bill and can have it the way they want. Thanks, but we already know this. I pay my doctor bills, but I don't get to tell him how to do the surgery. But then medicine isn't a collaborative sport like advertising. Which leads me to another thing: we're not curing cancer here. Don't get me started.

Here's the thing: this isn't my first rodeo. I know clients are always going to be changing copy, sometimes with the genuine intention of thinking they're making it better. And sometimes just because they're frustrated copywriters.

So I'll try to keep Jeff Goodby's comment in mind, along with my own personal motto.

The checks clear.

Clean machine

Having followed this blog for some time—and don't tell me if you haven't, I'm fragile right now—I bet you were expecting a picture of an In-N-Out Double Double with animal fries instead of the one you're looking at. I know. I'm as shocked as you are.

But the truth of the matter is I may have finally reached the point where I've decided to turn over a new arugula leaf.

One day I was talking to my friend Maria, who I work with, about the meal she was having. She'd prepared it herself, and not only did it look healthy, it looked delicious—two things I usually find mutually contradictory. Don't get me wrong, I suppose given enough lifetimes I could develop a taste for tofu and sprouts, but frankly I don't see it happening in this one.

Anyway, faced with going to the same five places around the office I always have lunch, and, you know, the chore of finding yet another thing to have off Wahoo's menu (the citrus slaw is overrated), I told Maria if she ever wanted to make a side gig out of it, I'd be first in line, cash American.

The good news is she took me up on it, so today is the first day of the rest of my life. Or at least the rest of my week. We've embarked on a pilot program—as a trial run, she's going to prep healthy, clean-eating lunches for me all week long, and I'm going to eat them.

Today's menu was Grilled Wild Shrimp & Veggie Quinoa salad with feta and pine nuts in a lemon vinaigrette. It was gluten free, sugar free, high protein, high fiber and low sodium.

I'll bet you feel healthier just reading that sentence.

Now look, I'm not going to go to extremes here. I'm putting off the Iron Man Marathon, the triathlon and tryouts for the 2020 Summer Olympics in Tokyo until we see how the week goes. I'll let you know.

What I will say is there are cupcakes in the kitchen at work, and after my custom-made, healthy lunch today I don't even have a hankerin' for them.

In fact, right now the only thing I'm craving is lunch tomorrow.

Everybody feng shui tonight

I was sitting with my work roommates today and for some reason, perhaps to avoid work, or maybe to avoid work, we got to discussing the Chinese pseudoscience of feng shui.

According to Wikipedia (if you can't believe them who can you believe?) feng shui "claims to use energy forces to harmonize individuals with their surrounding environment."

Whatever.

But I suppose since I was the one who started this discussion, I should probably see it through. So let's unpack this. Or at least rearrange it.

Years ago on the late great show Penn & Teller's Bullshit, they did an episode on feng shui (and by the way, feng shui has the same number of letters as bullshit—coincidence? I think not). They recruited several different feng shui "experts" and had them all work on the same room, and rearrange the same furniture to achieve maximum harmony with the environment. What's so amazing is each of them arranged the room in the exact same way, proving feng shui is real and they all knew exactly what they were doing and talking about.

I'm just funnin' ya. They were quacks, and monumentally full of, well, you know the name of the show.

Here's the thing: I'm rarely able to harmonize with anything, much less my environment. My energy flow, such as it is, gets interrupted on an hourly basis. And moving the bed out from under a window, making sure it's not directly across from a door or having it face east isn't going to change that.

In the example of feng shui you see above, apparently placing the bed over the stove is not a good idea. I'd add especially if you have a one-story house. But I think if you're sleeping on another floor, the stove is off, and the house isn't on fire, you'll be able to harmonize with your pillow just fine.

Feng shui "experts" always remind me of dog whisperers—those people who claim they can talk to dogs and tell you what they're thinking and feeling. If you've ever hired one, I can answer that for you.

You're thinking you have too much money and feeling like throwing some of it away.

At any rate, under the heading of don't knock it until you've tried it, I might just move my favorite chair closer to the patio window to bask in the morning light, align my chí and absorb all the energy of a new day filled with potential and possibilities to see how well I'm able to harmonize with my environment.

Plus I can see the TV better from there.

The polished man

It's been a little over a month since I last posted here, and judging by the endless flow of heartfelt emails and texts asking what was wrong, I've come to the conclusion I probably could've taken another month. Or two.

What I'm saying is thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

So here's the thing: when I think about other career opportunities from time to time, as many of my co-workers have suggested I do, hand model has never been high on the list. In fact it's never been on the list at all.

As you can see by the picture, unless I've underestimated the market for sausage-fingered, mildly spotted, chubby hands holding all kinds of consumer products, I'm probably going to stay where I am.

One other career I've opted out of is Photoshop artist. You can probably tell I tried to soften the visible wear-and-tear on my paws, although I'm not sure to what degree of success.

The one item that isn't photoshopped is the black nail polish on the pinky (really, what color did you think it would be?). Now I know what you're thinking, and no, I'm not going through my metrosexual stage or trying to upset my wife any more than I usually do.

There's a very worthwhile organization called Polished Man that raises awareness and money to fight violence against children. If you go to their website here, you'll get the whole story, including the reason a painted nail is the representative gesture.

Here's a fact: the reason only one nail is highlighted is because one child is a victim of violence every five minutes. It's a finger thing. And a math thing. And a sad thing.

If you want to support the cause, pamper yourself a little and get a nice manicure. And while you're there, ask them to polish one of your nails. Then go to the website and give time, money or support in any way you're able.

As far as jobs go, hand model is definitely out. But lending a hand to prevent children from being victims of violence definitely feels right.