Coming attractions

With everything going on in the world, you may not have noticed this hasn't been what anyone would call a productive year blogpost wise for me. I suppose one could speculate on the reasons for that.

You might chalk it up to pandemic malaise.

Or being too exhausted and thought out after spending my day writing for a leading cybersecurity company.

Maybe it was the sense a lot of ground I was going to cover had been covered. I mean how many posts about Springsteen, Breaking Bad and ad agency idiocy can one person read, let alone write.

It might've been that with incredibly entertaining, thoughful, hilarious, well-written blogs like Rich Siegel's Round Seventeen, and Jeff Eaker's Kingdom of Failure readily available on the interwebs, I didn't feel the need to keep throwing my URL in the ring.

But I finally figured out the reason. And it was right there in front of me the whole time.

As Will Patton said to Griffin Dunne in After Hours— "lack of discipline."

Not saying it was a total lack of discipline. Problem was it was the exact same amount I apply to my new year's resolutions to diet, exercise, get through my ever rising tower of unread books, clean the garage and, did I mention my diet?

You see where I'm going.

But like disco and eating at Five Guys, that's all behind me now.

I've gotten my second wind, and here at Rotation and Balance headquarters we're going to be ramping up the line.

Normally I don't like to tip my hand, show my cards, spill the beans or whatever the fuck that saying is. But because you may recall I've made this promise once or twice before here, I wanted to give you a little sneak preview of the topics that will be coming up in the next couple weeks for your reading and time-wasting pleasure.

There will be a fine piece on how I recently came out to my car one morning only to find out it'd been broken into and ransacked.

I'll have a little rant about LAX and all the joy that implies.

You can look forward to reading what a monumental prick Matthew Perry is (could he be any more of an asshole?).

There'll be a tribute to my friend and former boss Amy who passed away recently (#fuckcancer).

And, just in time for the holiday season, I'll have my musings on my experience giving the wife not one, but two Cameo videos from some of her favorite actors.

Those are just a few on the list, but there are many more to come.

So like shoulder pads, floral wallpaper and patchwork denim, I'm back.

Besides, if I'm writing I won't be eating. So there's hope for that diet resolution yet.

Back-to-back Tonys

I’ve often said my wife has a criminal mind. She’s demonstrated that many, many times in the course of our long, solid, loving, wonderful marriage (Ding! Ding! Ding! Marriage points!).

In the traditions we’ve come to cherish as a couple, one we always look forward to every couple of years is our binge of The Sopranos. Romantic, amIrite?

We recently finished this year’s viewing, but here’s where things took a turn. The minute we saw the very last scene in the final, controversial episode, she turned to me and said, “Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me, and being married to you makes me the luckiest girl in the world!”

Nah, I’m just funnin’ ya. She said let’s watch it again. The wife wanted to watch The Sopranos start to finish again after we’d just watched it start to finish.

What’reyougonnado?

So back to the beginning we went. This time, she took a deep dive, listening to the Talking Sopranos podcast with Michael Imperioli, who played Christopher Moltesanti, and Steven Schirripa who played Bobby Baccalieri.

This allowed her to give me the play-by-play and behind-the-scenes inside story to each episode we rewatched, while we were watching it.

And who doesn't love someone telling a story and talking over the tv when you're trying to watch one of your favorite shows.

Now, as you may know if you’ve followed this blog for any amount of time — and if you have, you might want to reconsider your priorities in life — I’ve binged Breaking Bad a crazy number of times (16). But Breaking Bad is a solo binge for me, because the wife finds that show too dark.

However, she has no problem at all with the plethora of inventive murders, strangulations, cursing, dismembering, horse-burning (we still miss you Pie-O-My), car crashes, strippers, raw sex, nudity and drug addiction portrayed on The Sopranos.

Now that I think about it, that either makes me the luckiest guy in the world, or someone who needs to sleep with one eye open.

An encore post for Labor Day: Dig it

I thought I'd wish you all a happy Labor Day this year with an encore post from nine years ago about the late labor leader Jimmy Hoffa. As you probably already know, Jimmy Hoffa disappeared mysteriously and has never been found. There's been much speculation he's either in various pieces in different states, or wearing cement shoes at the bottom of a lake.

Or as Tony Soprano would say, "He's in 'witness protection'".

Anyway, thank you to the work force that with dedication and determination keeps this country running year in and year out. It seems like there should be more than one day to celebrate their efforts.

Whatever you're doing today, take a moment to thank them, even if quietly to yourself.

Happy Labor Day. Please to enjoy.

There are some days when I think to myself I could be putting my time to better use. Like the ones when I’m just vegging out on the couch, watching Source Code for the thousandth time on cable and doing my impression of a vacuum cleaner slamming Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies down my throat.

But then I think at least I’m not out digging a hole looking for Jimmy Hoffa.

I don’t actually think that, but I could.

Once again, the FBI has a tip about where the body of the former union leader may be buried in Detroit. And once again, they’re breaking out the backhoes, shovels and forensic kits and going looking for him.

I think we know how this expedition ends.

This time it’s thanks to a tip from a former mob underboss named Tony Zerilli. He was the second in command of the Detroit mafia when Hoffa disappeared. While he doesn’t have direct involvement in the crime since he was in jail the day Hoffa disappeared, he alleges he found out the location of his body once he got out of prison.

By the way, Zerilli is 85-years old now. I'm not in the FBI, but if I were I'd have a lot of questions about how reliable his memory is.

The other question is who gains and who loses in the search? The FBI does both. Their inability to solve the Hoffa matter has been an embarrassment to them for over forty years - that’s why they keep trying. If they find his remains, their perseverance and skills are rewarded. If it turns out to be like Geraldo and The Mystery of Al Capone’s Vaults, they lose. Again.

At this point, no one else besides them and whoever is left in Hoffa's family really cares. The chances are just as good Hoffa was tossed in an incinerator and there’s not even a body to find.

Still, it makes for good folklore and so-so movies with Jack Nicolson.

Encore post: Around the block

Almost eleven years ago to the day, I put up this post about writer's block. In that time, not a lot has changed.

It's still an urban struggle for me to get my ever widening derriere in the chair and crank out a post. Fortunately I can always fall back on Encore Posts, re-posting an old article and prefacing it with a little introductory paragraph. That way I feel like I've written something, you feel like you're reading something new (except for the fact I've already told you it's not), and I can put off the real writing for another day.

It's what I like to call a win-win.

Anyway, the wife is back with the egg sausage sandwich from Dunkin' so I have to go, uh, "write" some more. Please to enjoy.

It's not hard to tell I'm not the world's most prolific writer/blogger. I'm also not the world's thinnest, but hey, who the f#&@ asked you?

I'd like to blame it on writer's block, but that would be too easy an out. Let's just call it for what it is: I've been a slug for the last couple of weeks.

In the time since I last posted, my friend Rich posted eight times to his blog. I'm constantly amazed at not just the quantity, but the quality of his posts. A prolific, thoughtful, humorous writer saying the many things that need to be said. That or a desperate cry for attention. You make the call.

Whichever, I should probably take a page from his book (I'd have to take a page from his book cause obviously I'm not writing any books of my own). I need to post more regularly.

I think if you start a blog, there's a responsibility to keep it fresh and interesting. Give the readers something new almost every time they visit. Of course, that pre-supposes I have readers. And now that I think about it, no one but me seems particularly upset there hasn't been a post in two weeks. Crap. That's motivating.

And the pisser is it's not like there aren't things to talk about. Penn State. Ashton and Demi. Iranian nuclear facilities that Israel is going to take out. Herman "No that's not a cigar, I am happy to see you" Cain. iPad 3. iPhone 5. Chinese spacecraft (launch one capsule and in a half hour you want to launch another one). The reopened Natalie Wood death investigation. That guy who took a shot at the White House. Justin Bieber.

Okay. Maybe not Justin Bieber.

Anyway, even if it's just for my own well-being, even if supply exceeds demand, I'm going to post more often.

It's like Lawrence Kasdan said, "Being a writer is like having homework every night for the rest of your life."

I was never very good at homework either.

Life unsubscribed

If you're anything like me—smart, talented, funny and...what's the word...oh yeah, humble—you can remember there was a time when opening email was something to look forward to. Most of those emails in the past came from friends that, because they're my friends, were funny, insightful, enlightening, thought-provoking and worth the time they took to read them.

But like cheap gas, my 32-inch waist and Springsteen tickets under five-thousand dollars, it was a long time ago.

The good emails gradually got overtaken by offers from Nigerian princes, barristers in London with multi-million dollar inheritances waiting for me, hot Ukranian girls who wanted to meet me (can you blame them?) and an assortment of enhancement, diet, prostate, muscle-building and relaxation pill offers.

I never opened them. I'd see the subject line, block the sender and mark it as junk mail.

In the same way baseball, leaves changing and pumpkin spice latte are seasonal, so is email. And in case you haven't noticed, right now we're in the heart of election season.

I've always been the kind of person to put my money where my mouth is, especially when it comes to electing democratic progressives and making sure we defeat all the nazi-lovin', election-denyin', vaccine-fearin', propaganda-spreadin', fear-mongerin', insurrection-incitin', trump-followin', top secret document-sellin', fascist-lovin', cult-obsessin', crazy-lyin' candidates and their base that make up today's GQP.

And if you're not getting the picture, let me make it a little clearer by bringing it down to a personal, one-on-one level in a way you can understand: if you support, identify with, condone, contribute to, defend or in any other way align your political, spiritual or social views with those of Cadet Bone Spurs, Gym Jordan, Marjorie Traitor Greene, Moscow Mitch, Snake Oil Dr. Mehmet Oz, "Little" Marco Rubio, Lauren Bobert, Sean Hannity, Tucker Carlson, Kevin McCarthy, Lindsey Graham, Ted Cruz or any one of the other cowardly, traitorous, brainwashed Republicans trying to take down democracy, then fuck you.

Twice.

Anyway, because I've donated to people and causes I believe in, my email address has found it's way onto lists for virtually every democratic candidate running in any race anywhere in the country this season. As a result, my inbox is being flamed with political messages all with subject lines like:

"It's not looking good"

"We're short of our goal"

"Respectfully asking"

"I need your help to defeat..."

"Have you seen our TV ad"

"Your contribution will help to..."

You get the idea.

I understand money is the lifeblood of politics. And while I've gladly and enthusiastically contributed several times to Raphael Warnock in Georgia, Val Demmings in Florida, AOC in NYC, Beto in Texas, Mark Kelly in Arizona and John Fetterman in Pennsylvania among others—and will continue to whenever I'm able—I just can't keep getting 75-80 emails a day asking me to pony up. Sometimes up to ten or more from the same candidate.

"Care to make that a recurring monthly donation?" No I do not.

So I've hit my limit and hit the unsubscribe link. Hopefully this will reduce the amount of daily political hat-in-hand posts that clog my inbox and take up far too much time deleting. I know who I want to donate to and the candidates I want to win, and I'll give as much as I can and do everything I can to make sure they do.

In the meantime, they'll have to trust that I'm thinking of them even if they're not hearing back from me. Ten times a day.

What did I miss

Did you miss me? Just kidding. It's a rhetorical question. I know the answer.

I missed you too. What I didn’t miss was any of the social media I’ve been on a cleanse from for the last three weeks.

Alright, maybe I missed it a little.

But you'll be glad to hear I went against all my only child instincts, the ones that scream I can do what I want because the world revolves around me, and stayed strong. I didn’t cave to temptation. I kept my scrolling thumbs otherwise engaged with chores like typing, turning pages on actual books (I’ll never use an e-reader, don’t get me started) and of course the remote since I used some of my reclaimed time to binge The Sopranos, start The Rehearsal and finish the latest season of For All Mankind.

Now that I've tried this little experiment, I’ve learned I can live quite well without Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Having said that, there are events in the world I do want to comment on in real time. Like the can't-happen-fast-enough inevitable indictment of Cadet Bone Spurs.

So I’m moving on to what I like to call the second phase of my cleanse. Behavior modification.

While moderation and I have never made good roommates—Breaking Bad sixteen times, Springsteen over 70 times, The Godfather a gazillion times, the craps tables at the Venetian more times than I remember, Disney's Tower of Terror fourteen times in a row—I’m going to give it another go.

My new regimen, like brushing my teeth and walking the dogs, will be twice a day. Once in the morning, and again in the early evening, a few hours before bedtime to make sure I'm still not seeing the iPhone screen on the inside of my eyelids when I close my eyes to hitch a ride to dreamland (another thing I can use my thumbs for).

I’ll also be challenging myself to limit my two daily scrolls to fifteen minutes each, which to my new way of thinking gives me more than enough time to read through new posts, wish everyone happy birthday and anniversary, reply to all with the clever snark, razor-sharp wit, keen insight and borrowed memes you’ve come to expect from me. Then I'll sign off.

That’s right. To make it just a little less appealing, I'll be logging in and out each and every time I go online. No point in leaving the apps open and tempting temptation.

And if I'm bored during the hours in between—say waiting in a doctor's office, standing in line or wondering why curbside service is taking so damn long to bring my burger out to the car—I'll just find something else to occupy my time.

So it's official. Starting today, I’m back baby. Go ahead, hit the smiley emoji, read the hashtags and AMA.

Family unties

In his most recent Ad Contrarian newsletter (which you can and should subscribe to here), the great Bob Hoffman says, “Anytime you see the word journey you know you’re in for some massive bullshit.”

The same can be said anytime your employer calls a town hall meeting—inevitably at the most inconvenient time—either in the lobby or on Zoom to tell the underpaid, overworked staff they’re more than just employees working for the man: they’re family.

While this point of view occurs at client side companies I've worked at, I've heard it from literally every agency I've ever been at. For some reason, the commeraderie and casual environment, combined with the rapid-fire wit and intelligence that pervades agency hallways and open office seating is frequently mistaken by leadership for a bond and allegiance that extends beyond the paycheck.

Clearly family means different things to leadership than it does to say Merriam Webster, who defines it as a group of people who live together, or one that is similar to another related by blood, marriage, law, custom or members of one’s intimate social group.

Some greeting card companies and inspirational posters (with and without kittens) define family as people in your life who want you in theirs. The ones who accept you for who you are. Love you no matter what, and would do anything to see you smile.

When was the last time an agency gave a rat’s ass about you smiling?

The truth is when agencies and companies talk about family, it’s more along the lines of the Sopranos. As long as you’re making them money, you’re part of the family. But the minute you’re not, or decide to leave, you're dead to them.

I worked for a company for two years. A lot of that time was spent writing about their core values, with emphasis on how they cared for their employees and considered them *checks notes* family. When I gave notice, I wanted to meet with the VP of Marketing to thank him for everything. Two meetings were scheduled, two meetings were cancelled. I wrote him a nice, personal email afterwards. Never heard back.

From the minute he heard I was going, as far as he was concerned I was gone. And it was a really nice email. Oh well.

When I worked at an agency that shall go nameless—as all agencies within walking distance of the beach, Sancho's Tacos and Pacific City should—they unexpectedly and unceremoniously let a group creative director go who, unlike the executive creative director that tied the can to him, was extremely popular and well liked. True to form, it happened Sopranos style: he went out to lunch and never came back. The next day, the executive creative director sent out a bullshit email condescendingly explaining how these things happen, and we're all still family and we'll get past this sad day together.

He didn't even work up a sweat shoveling that hard.

All this is to give you an important safety tip—don't cross the streams. Work is work, and family is family.

It's easy to tell the difference. Real family doesn't need a town hall to tell you who they are.