Something is afoot

If you know anything about me, you know when it comes to doctors I like to go to the top guy or gal. In fact I'm the person always being asked for recommendations by friends and family.

Note to self: write memo on finder's commission.

Anyway, I have a support system—I’d say life support system but that might give you the wrong idea—of medical professionals that are tops in their fields, and there when and if I need them.

One of them happens to be my podiatrist, Doug Richie. He's seen me through all my foot woes: plantar fasciitis, broken toes, stepping on glass, orthotics, sprained ankles, in-grown toenail, neuropathy. As far as I'm concerned, he's the top guy in podiatry.

And the fact he has a picture in his office with Jerry Seinfeld in no way influences that opinion. “What is it with the little toe? Exactly what is his job?”

Sadly for me and my tootsies, while on his website today I found out he’s retiring at the end of the year. After practicing 37 years (slacker), he’s handing (footing) the practice over to his two associates, who I’m sure are just fine or they wouldn’t be working with him.

But it won't be the same.

I have a relationship with Doug that’s developed over the years. I trust him completely. We have mutual friends, and we actually live in the same neighborhood. In fact occasionally I see him jogging down our street, and I always think the same thing: I hope he’s wearing the proper running shoes.

And speaking of running shoes, Doug holds patents—5 but who's counting—on footwear and ankle braces he's designed and invented. How many patents does your podiatrist have?

I thought so.

So Doug, thank you for everything. I always looked forward to seeing you, and I never minded footing the bill (I know, sorry). Regardless of the circumstances (although I'm not gonna lie: the cortisone shots for the plantar fasciitis weren't my favorite part), I always knew my feet were in good hands. I know you'll still be extremely active, and I wish you nothing but the best in your new season.

When you run past our house, be sure and wave.

Taking one for the team

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Of all the snappy little phrases that get tossed around in ad agencies, and God knows there are plenty of ‘em, the one I like least is “team player.”

Now, before you start getting your panties in a bunch, wagging your finger, stammering and screaming, “I knew it!” you might want to hear me out. Then again you might not.

My life will go on either way.

Anyway, just because I don’t like the term doesn’t mean I’m not one. For instance, I’m also not a fan of the phrase “slightly overweight” or "distinguished gray" but, well, never mind. Bad examples. The point is, as much as it goes against my grain, I’m a team player when I need to be.

New business presentations? My sleeves are rolled up, and I’m banging out manifestos and taglines faster than Bret Kavanaugh driving to a liquor store at closing time.

Client meetings? Point me towards the bagels and let me loose. I love presenting, the bigger the room the better. I have a slightly different way of measuring if it’s been a good meeting. Here it is: If I get the big laugh, it was a successful meeting. I know some people think if we sell the work or get the account that’s actually the measure of success.

Whatever. To each their own.

The off-campus pep talk/morale boosting/team building meetings? You don't have to ask me twice. I’d be there even if there weren’t luxury buses to shuttle me, and free food and liquor after. I just wouldn’t stay as long.

Where I seem to be unable to muster up one for the team is Halloween. To me, October 31st at agencies is like personalized license plates: once you’ve seen the costumes, the joke’s over. What starts out at 9 with everyone oohing and ahhhing over the costume you made winds up with everyone tired of looking at it by 9:30.

However, I have nothing but love for the team I work with. So when they decided our group would dress up as characters from iconic 90's movies, even though all my Jedi instincts were screaming no, I decided I'd do it.

I thought it would be good for me to get over my bad attitude and insecurities—and I know what you're thinking: besides my weight, bank balance, increased memory loss, receding hairline, bad skin tone, limited wardrobe, nine-year old car, complete inability to fix the simplest things around the house, having to wear glasses, feeling like an outsider, not liking sports and, did I mention weight, what do I have to be insecure about?

Perhaps I've said too much. You never read this.

The point is I eventually decided to come to work as one of my favorite characters and perpetual profile photo on Facebook—The Dude from The Big Lebowski.

I found an exact match for the Dude's bathrobe. I went not to a pop up Halloween store, but to a professional wig shop and got my long hair locks like the Dude. I bought L'Oreal Light Brown Root Control spray to match the Dude's hair color (I'll probably be hanging on to that). I bought the sunglasses and brown flip-flops to complete the look.

I was ready and set, but I didn't go. I just couldn't do it.

Was it that the look wasn't as exact and perfect as I wanted it to be? Or was it that I couldn't get past the image of me wearing a white t-shirt under the robe that, well, remember the "slightly overweight" phrase? Talk amongst yourselves.

And despite the fact I could've legitimately gotten wasted downing White Russians all day, told my creative director "Well, that's just your opinion man" and said things like "That rug really tied the room together" to stay in character, it wasn't enough for me to suit up.

But not wanting to let my colleagues down, I did finally decide to come in dressed as an older, overweight, gray-haired, married Jewish guy with kids.

I know, it was a stretch. But what can I tell you. I'm a team player.

The waiting is the hardest part

As the late, great Tom Petty said—God bless his rock and rollin’ heart, the waiting is the hardest part.

Tomorrow is the midterm election, and frankly I’m grateful on several fronts. First and foremost, I never thought we’d make it. I figured the shithole president would’ve had a hissy fit about ratings or someone looking at him the wrong way and hit the button by now.

Second, it’s our chance to at least partially take back our government and democracy from the self-admitted (white) nationalist president and sycophant Republicans in congress: I'm looking at you, well, all of you.

And by take back, I mean at least have checks and balances on the Liar-In-Chief. Can you say “override veto?”

But just like the general election a couple years ago, this one is going to go well into the night. With pivotal races a percentage point or two apart, they’ll be tallying their little hearts out. And every time a democrat wins, besides an angel getting their wings, I can already hear republican opponents screaming voter fraud and demanding a recount.

So lets all get out and vote, and then get lots of rest because we’re going to need it.

Not just tomorrow night, but for the next two years.

Goodbye Paula

I got a phone call this week I'd been expected for a long time. My friend Paula passed away.

I've written about her twice on this blog, both times about my visits with her at the Alzheimer's facility where she was during her final years (those posts are here and here).

My friends Alison and Michael both called to tell me she'd died. It's funny how sometimes when you see the name on the caller ID you know exactly what the call is going to be.

Timing is everything. In the last couple of weeks, I'd been telling my wife I really needed to go visit Paula. I knew it had been a while, but until I saw the date on those last posts I wrote about her, I didn't realize exactly how long. I'm sorry to say I never made it back to see her.

I wrote in more detail in those other posts about her, so I won't go into too much length about her here. Suffice it to say she was an extraordinary person, one of the best account people I'll ever work with, an unrelenting encourager and a great, great friend.

Sadly I don't have a picture of Paula, but what I do have is every great memory of her in my heart. Having seen her in her advanced stages of Alzheimer's, I can honestly say I'm happy she's been set free, fully restored and at long last reunited with her husband.

I love you Paula. Thank you for being the friend you were. Rest in peace.

The razor's edge

I realize there are a lot of important things going on in the world. The shithole president is dismantling our democracy piece by piece. There are shootings virtually every day in the news. Hurricane Florence just wreaked havoc on the Carolinas. The deficit has swelled to an unheard of $898 billion. It's a stressful time, and sometimes it feels like all it's going to take is one more thing to break us.

Well, I hate for you to find out this way, but we as a nation have reached a tipping point—a pivotal moment in time where history will judge our actions on yet one more decision that will effect all of us in one way or another.

Should Alex Trebek keep his newly grown beard, or shave it off? I know. No one said it was going to be easy.

About a week ago, Trebek bounded out onto the Jeopardy stage with a newly grown, white beard. Contrasted against his expertly tailored and extremely pricey suit, it lent him a more rugged, worldly look that was not so much that of a well-known, long-running game show host as the third runner-up in the Kern County regional Ernest Hemingway lookalike competition.

Rugged in the way he could look in the mirror now, and grip the one true thought that he was truly alone. Not wanting to, but knowing that despite the stillness of the dark, he could do nothing to prevent morning from making its appointed rounds. And it was a fine morning.

So anyway, you can go online to the Jeopardy website and cast your vote. I don't feel strongly one way or the other, but I am going to let my opinion be known.

Because if we've learned anything over the last year and a half, it's that very bad things can happen when you don't vote. This I can tell you.

What about Bob

Robert Redford has a movie coming out the end of the month. It's called The Old Man & The Gun. From the trailer, you can see Redford doing what he's always done: charming us with his talent, humor, intelligence and the twinkle that still shines in those knowing eyes.

The sad part is Redford, now a hard-to-believe 82-years old, has said he's retiring from acting after this film. Which got me to thinking that we're coming up fast on the end of an era.

Redford is one of the last of a golden generation of actors. Each time out, he gave us something different, but always intelligent whether he was in front of the camera or behind it. He never pandered to the audience, and you never got the feeling he was phoning it in for the payday. And while like all actors, some films were better than others, his instincts for quality material rarely failed him.

From Three Days of the Condor to All The President's Men to The Natural to The Way We Were to Ordinary People to Quiz Show to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and even to fluff like Indecent Proposal, we believed he was who he said he was.

Redford brought his best game every time out. And we showed up to see it.

I was talking to the wife years ago about Indecent Proposal. I said it was about someone who got to sleep with Robert Redford for a million dollars. She said, "Great. Who do I have to pay?"

I realize each generation has its own stars, but really, will we feel the same way when Bruce Willis retires from cranking out the same movie over and over again? I'm guessing we won't.

As Roy Hobbes in The Natural, Redford said, "I've got to reach for the best that's in me." Somehow he always found it.

Thank you for sharing it with us.

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.