Encore: Calling in well

Five years ago I wrote this post about calling in well. Having just reread it, I think in some ways it's a timely article because of what's going on in the world right now.

Maybe, maybe not.

The point is I wanted to put up a post and I didn't want to have to write one.

Is that so wrong? Don't answer that.

Anyone can call in sick. When you’re fighting muscle aches, nausea, diarrhea and a 101-degree fever it’s a no brainer.

Of course, we’ve all been around those people who drag their sorry selves in no matter what, looking like they just finished auditioning for Contagion II. For some inexplicable reason – perhaps an overdeveloped sense of importance, a crippling fear of being fired if they miss a day, or just to get even with everyone they work with who don’t give them the recognition they deserve, they feel it’s their civic duty to keep working until they drop.

But if you ask anyone who’s ever worked with me, after they stop denying it, they’ll tell you in no uncertain terms that’s never been my problem.

Sniffles? Home for three days. That’s the spirit.

I used to work with this guy at an agency who would occasionally call in well to work. He’d wake up in the morning feeling great, optimistic, ready to take on the world. On those days, he’d call the agency, get someone on the line and say, “I won’t be in today. I feel too damn good to come to work.”

I’m all in favor of the concept.

Some shops give you a couple mental days or personal days off a year. I suppose they think you should use those if you’re going to call in well. I think it’s a matter of expanding the definition of sick. As in, it would make me sick to go into work feeling this good.

Which brings me to another point (assuming I had one in the first place): maybe it’s time to reconsider the name “sick days.” If people are going to start calling in well – as they should – the days allotted should reflect that policy.

Maybe a combination of sick and well, a term that would define and describe the days for exactly what they are. Let’s call them Swell Days™.

Although technically, that could be any day you’re not in the office.

With friends like these

Say what you will about advertising…no, really, say what you will. I’ll wait here. Okay, now that you’ve got it out of your system we’ll begin.

Advertising has lots of currencies depending on what time of day it is. Sometimes the currency is liquor. Occasionally it’s pizza. Once in awhile it’s the camaraderie that can only come from sitting in a dark, cold edit bay for 57 hours straight.

But the most valuable, most consistent currency in the biz is, always has been and always will be relationships.

There’s an old idiom (Who’re you calling an idiom? – BAM!) that tells you to be nice to people on the way up cause you’ll see the same ones on the way down.

Funny story. The other day I ran into someone where I’m working who I worked with at another agency. I haven’t seen this person in about three years, but he recognized me and greeted me like we were long lost war buddies, shaking my hand like it was an Arkansas water pump and asking how I was. He could not have been happier to see me.

I actually felt sorry for him, because - even though I'm not a doctor - I could tell immediately he was suffering from an serious case of amnesia. At that other agency, he was a creative director and I was a freelance copywriter. Many times I had occasion to present work to him, only to have it shot down in what I would consider an unnecessarily arrogant and rude manner.

Clearly, his amnesia has made him forget that when we worked together, he treated me like, oh, what’s the word…oh yes. Shit.

My guess, and I'm going out on a limb here, is that his newfound fondness for me is because he was unceremoniously fired from that other agency, and has been forced to take a sudden deep dive into the freelance pool. Waters which I've been swimming in for a long time.

But, and here's an example of how much I've grown and how mature I can be if I really try, I want to give him the same benefit of the doubt I hope anyone would give me. He may be a different person now than when we worked together. Perhaps he's grown as an individual and creative person. He might be more confident in his talents, and therefore has no reason to treat people the way he treated me in the past.

So I'm going to step up, put my big boy pants on, be the bigger man and let bygones be bygones.

I know you're waiting for the zinger put down at the end here. But not today. Today I'm about forgiveness and generosity to someone who treated me badly in the past.

Which is why I'm not telling him my day rate. It would only upset him.

Goodbye Brian Dennehy

I've mentioned before I was a theater arts major. You may have see my work in one of the early Sprint commercials. The director was Robert Lieberman, who used to be married to Mary Lou Henner. To this day, I believe I got the part because, at the time, I looked freakishly like him - so much so that everyone on the shoot thought I was his brother. It's always been a who you know town—or in my case, who you look like.

Even so, it wasn't enough to keep me from being cut from the spot before it aired. What was particularly depressing was I knew the editor who was cutting the spot, and she did everything she could to keep me in it, but no luck.

Showbiz. AmIrite?

Anyway, during those days I used to like to meet friends at The Palm for drinks. One time I arrived early, so I took a seat at the bar and ordered a screwdriver while I was waiting. Next to me, chatting with the bartender, was this big, loud, very funny guy who I heard but wasn't paying much attention to until he told a joke I couldn't help but overhear and laugh at.

He turned to me and said, "You liked that one?" It was Brian Dennehy.

Even before that encounter I was a fan of his. He was what I like to call a money-in-the-bank actor. Meaning you could never go wrong casting him in anything.

The wife and I had the extraordinary pleasure of seeing his towering performance as Willie Loman in Arthur Miller's Death Of A Salesman. I don't remember how many years ago it was, but the performance still haunts me. He won a Tony for it. He should have won all of them.

Brian Dennehy died a few days ago, and it didn't get nearly the press it would have if not for the virus that's taking up the news cycle 24/7. But if you've ever seen him in Cocoon, First Blood, Tommy Boy, Presumed Innocent or many others, you already know how big a talent has been lost.

Thank you for sharing your talent, and for the conversation at the bar. I'll never forget either.

Rest in peace.

Back to bed. Again.

Sometime about three years ago, I posted this piece about my disdain for morning and almost everything related to it. I thought it might be a good time to revisit it because now, in this strange time, I can sleep in as late as I like and I'm able.

I have great admiration for all those working from home and maintaining their morning routines of early to rise, then getting dressed and ready for work so they look sharp and alert for their morning Zoom conference call.

I know we're all in this together, and I want you know I stand with you.

On everything but this part.

I am many things. Funny. Good looking. Talented. Creative. Compassionate. Encouraging. Well read. Kind to children. Nice to the waitstaff. A catch as a husband. Someone who loves doing laundry. And loading a dishwasher. A good friend. A trusted confidante. An excellent driver. A great kisser. And definitely humble.

However one thing I am not now, nor have I ever been, is a morning person.

Mornings are just a cruel tease. Being a late night person, I rarely get to sleep before midnight or one in the morning. I say sleep in the loosest sense of the word. It's been years, literally, since I've slept eight hours straight through. I get up to pee. Or I startle awake from a dream. Sometimes I'm just restless and watch some TV at three in the morning to take the edge off (because nothing takes the edge off like skin care and exercise equipment infomercials). Occasionally my eighty-five pound German Shepherd launches himself up on the bed in the middle of the night.

That gets the old ticker going.

Oddly enough, one thing that never, and I do mean never, keeps me awake is work. I think it comes from so many years as a freelancer. But the second both feet are out of the office, I don't think about anything related to work until I have to be back the next morning.

And we know how I feel about mornings.

The point of all this, and there is one, is that right around the time the faintest sliver of sunlight starts to hit the pitch black night sky is the exact moment I actually manage to get myself back to the deep, still sleep I've been craving all night. It finally arrives just in time for sunrise. Ironically when I'm finally completely out, it's time to wake up.

There's no gradual, gentle, coming-up-from-the-bottom-of-the-pool kind of awakening for me. Because I know how deep asleep I am in the morning, the alarm has to be more than a light bell, chirping birds or a digital alarm. No, my iPhone alarm is Uptown Funk. It comes on loud, and it's a straight up jolt out of bed. In fact, I have to kiss myself I'm so pretty (see what I did there?).

So if you see me at work in the morning around nine, dragging myself around, looking somewhat foggy and I don't return your smile or your hello, don't ask how you're doing or what you're working on, please don't take it personally. I promise I will.

Sometime around eleven.

Roll 'em Roll 'em Roll 'em - again

Here's the thing. In the never ending journey to be productive during the lockdown, I decided to start rolling all the spare change I have cluttering up my dresser top, jean pockets and random dishes around the house.

Then I thought it might be a fun blogpost. That's when I remembered it was a fun blogpost because I wrote about this very subject about five years ago.

And of course, being big on not reinventing the wheel and wanting to get back to bingeing Breaking Bad (again), instead of writing a whole new post I thought you'd enjoy reliving the joy, humor and insight of this one. I know I will.

It's the blogpost that keeps on giving. Don't be surprised if you see it again when we're in month six of self-quarantining. Please to enjoy.

They're everywhere. In jars on the bookshelf, glass bowls on the dresser, the bottom of drawers and jean pockets.

Pennies. The Fredo of the coin world.

I've always been a big proponent of change (SWIDT?). Especially since I drive a car that has a special compartment for it. Armed with quarters, nickels and dimes, I fear no parking meter.

The problem is the thing I use change for the most I can't use pennies for. I know there's a movement to do away with the penny. But I'm not for it.

After all, what will we leave for the next person in that little plastic dish at the car wash and liquor store if we banish the penny? It's a cheap way of feeling like you're doing something good for someone else without actually doing anything good for them.

I know it costs more to make a penny than the penny's worth, but I don't believe that's the issue.I believe it's an organizational problem. So I decided to be an example for my family and the nation by doing something about it.

Today I took all my pennies and dumped them on the bed. Then, counting in two's fifty-cents at a time, I rolled them into bank coin sleeves.

I wound up with $3.50. That's 350 pennies. See how easy math is with pennies?

I even found a relatively rare 1956 D penny in the pile. Depending on which eBay listing you believe, it's worth either $1.60 or $498. I choose to believe the second one.

I'd be curious to know how many people think the same way as I do about pennies.

And I'll bet you know exactly how much I'll pay for your thoughts on it.

Maskmaker Maskmaker

So I don't know about you, but since the COVID-19 pandemic has been hitting its stride, I've been alternating between devouring every bit of news about it that I can, and going days without letting myself hear a word. The second choice is the more relaxing one.

Anyway, today's been a news on day. And as a result, I've been spending a lot of time watching YouTube videos on how to make a mask—excuse me, face covering—at home without having to actually sew one.

Not that I couldn't. A couple years ago I took a sewing class with my friend Cassie, and while I never completed the apron we were making, I did learn enough to stitch up the sides of a mask. It's just that I don't want to, because I'm all about easy. I'd much prefer to have someone make one for me.

So that's the origin story of this reworked version of Matchmaker from Fiddler On The Roof.

In case you're not familiar with the song, here's the video. And once you can't get it out of your head, you'll be ready to sing the new lyrics to it below.

Meanwhile, I'll be looking to repurpose my Elvis bandana into a rockin' mask.

Maskmaker maskmaker make me a mask

Find one for me, that is your task

Maskmaker maskmaker start sewing for me

And make me the perfect mask

Maskmaker maskmaker I’ll bring the cloth

You do your work, I’ll drink some broth

Make me a mask for I’m longing to be

The envy of all I see

For papa, make it safe and effective

For mama, make it pretty and tight

For me well, I wouldn’t holler

In fact I would wear it all day and night

Maskmaker maskmaker make me a mask

Find one for me, that is your task

Day after day I don’t go out alone

So make me a mask all my own

Closing time

My heart is broken. As a result of the virus and the new world order, one of my favorite restaurants in the world is closing. I first wrote this post about five years ago to the day. And if anything, I love this place even more now than I did then. And as you'll see, I loved it a lot then.

I feel terrible for the entire Walt's Wharf family—chefs, waitstaff, hosts, bartenders. There was never one minute where I didn't feel welcomed and wanted.

It's become a perfect storm for the seafood restaurant (and many others). Because of this bitch virus, the governor's stay-at-home directive and the very real uncertainty of how long they'd have to stay closed, the business simply wasn't sustainable. So after 50 years, 50 years!, they've been forced to shut their doors for good.

I can't remember all the lunch meetings, family dinners and special occasions that were celebrated there. But I'll never forget the meals and the hospitality. I just wish I'd know the last meal I had there was going to be the last meal I had there.

In my dream life, some rich benefactor comes in and saves Walt's Wharf and it just keeps on going. But dreams are just that.

As a certain gravel-voiced singer from New Jersey I'm fond of says in one of his songs, "Is a dream a lie that don't come true, or is it something worse?"

In this case, it is.

Thanks for everything Walt's Wharf. Dining out definitely won't be the same without you.

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Then, sometimes, you want to go where no one knows your name but you want to go there anyway.

I like to think of myself as someone who likes to mix it up every now and again. Who maintains an air of unpredictability. An edge of danger. I keep spontenaity alive.

I also like to think of myself as six-foot three, one eighty, blond and ripped. But that's not happening either.

Come to find out I'm actually a creature of habit. Today we met some friends for lunch at one of my favorite places, Walt's Wharf in Seal Beach. It's been there forever, and it's always great. At least what I always order is. Because despite a wide variety of fresh seafood, and a wine selection second to none, I have the exact same meal every time I eat there.

Cup of clam chowder with Tabasco. Small Walt's salad with a salmon filet on top. Iced tea. I wanted you to know in case you're buying.

It's a sure thing every time. The problem is I feel like I should try something else. Logic would tell me if my usual choice is so good, other items must be just as good if not better. On the heels of that, I think this meal makes me happy and what am I so worried about.

Besides, since when did I start living my life according to logic? Not a Vulcan, hello.

I'm not going to say feeling bad for having the same great meal at a nice seafood restaurant is a first world problem, but, you know, draw your own conclusions.

Here's what I'm trying to say. If you want to meet me for lunch at Walt's, and you happen to be in a hurry, don't worry. I know what I'm having.