Forehead expansion project

I thought about calling this post "Hair today, gone tomorrow." But I decided not to. You're welcome. Okay, even though I've tipped my hand as to where this is going, and it's definitely going, let's go.

It’s always sad when it happens, but whether I like it or not, there’s a reckoning coming. A once-trusty companion, a lifelong friend, something I relied on and was always there for me has taken the first step towards the long goodbye.

We’ve been through so much together. The great bowl cut fiasco of ‘95. The gel overdose incident of ‘05. Even a brief flirtation with a color not found in nature.

It’s sad but true. My hair, like my father’s hair before me, has begun a slow retreat.

It started innocently enough. Just a slight thinning in the front (at least something on me is getting thinner). “Nothing to worry about,” I thought. “It’s just my forehead... stretching.”

But as the years roll on, it’s becoming clear to me my hair is saying, “Shecky, get the limo—we’re outta here!”

Some men might panic at this development, and turn to desperate measures to turn back time: toupees. Miracle creams. Snake-oil cures. Dyes. Plugs. Transplants. Baseball caps. Combovers. The Hair Club for Men. Thanks, but no thanks.

I’ve decided to go the dignified route (I know, so uncharacteristic) and embrace my very slowly receding hairline with open arms. After all, why fight a battle I’m destined to lose?

In the meantime, I’m trying to stay focused on the positives. My time at the barber shop—don’t really need a salon at this point—will go a lot faster. Showers are definitely quicker. Shampoo expenses are down. I’m sleeker, more aerodynamic and move through the world just a little easier.

And the silver lining—literally, fortunately—is the pace of the retreat seems to be happening exceptionally slowly. I’m not even close to the Lester Holt/Jude Law/Nic Cage/Sting loss leaders yet. In fact if I hadn’t brought it up, you might not have even noticed. So, time is on my side. Even if my hair isn’t.

To anyone else facing the issue, my advice is own it. Laugh about it. And if you’re entrepreneurial like me, monetize it. My once-full head of hair might just be my next big business venture.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to measure my forehead for ad dimensions. Super Bowl Sunday is just around the corner, and I’ve got prime real estate to sell.

New Year's Eve and keeping hope alive

New Year’s Eve promises so much—a fresh start, a blank slate, a chance to look at the tangled mess of our lives and say, “This year, I’ll get it together. No, really.”

But before we pop the champagne and make resolutions we have no intention of keeping, let’s pause a moment to honor the often unappreciated beauty of a quiet New Year’s Eve, where glitter and champagne are optional.

We’ve all been there. Midnight strikes, and suddenly, you’re promising to quit carbs, learn French and train for a marathon. It feels exhilarating in the moment, but then reality smacks you in the face and calls you Sally. And through your champagne haze you remember croissants are delicious, French is exhausting, and running hurts.

But this annual exercise of overpromise is actually an act of hope. A reminder we can still believe in the power of change.

Maybe it’s naive. Maybe it’s human. Maybe it’s the champagne talking.

As in years past, the wife and I will definitely not be spending New Year’s Eve out on the town. We’ll have an early-ish dinner at a restaurant we love in Newport Beach, and be back home with plenty of time to spare before the ball drops. Because for us, the true magic of NYE is staying in and not participating in the demolition derby that happens on the roads one minute after midnight.

Also, neither of us look good in gold party hats.

While we try to remain optimistic, sadly we face challenges guaranteed to wreak havoc in the coming year. Cadet Bone Spurs incoming administration—back for a sequel no one wanted but we’re all forced to watch—feels like a cruel cosmic joke.

But New Year’s isn’t just about personal resolutions. It’s about collective resolve. Whether you’re marching, organizing, donating, or simply staying informed, every action matters. Progress is messy, slow, and sometimes heartbreakingly incomplete. But always worth fighting for.

So let’s take the spirit of New Year’s Eve—the hope, defiance and determination to do better—and channel it into something bigger than ourselves.

Because while resolutions come and go, resistance is evergreen.

Here’s to a New Year filled with small victories, big dreams, and the strength to face whatever comes our way.

Happy New Year.

The Monday after

The Monday after a big work week or weekend—not that I know much about working on weekends—is more or less a recovery day. You're exhausted from the effort, cranky from lack of sleep and depressed about all the other ways you could've been spending that time.

That's especially true for Santa and his pointy-eared, curly-toed staff of toybuilders at the workshop.

No matter how many late nights you've put in, I'm going out on a limb and guessing your checklist didn't include working in a snowed in sub-zero environment, five billion stops in one night, having a front-row view of eight reindeer butts delivering their own special kind of presents, cramming yourself down chimneys that haven't been cleaned since ever, or eating more cookies and drinking more milk than a fat man of a certain age should even be thinking about.

BTW, I know what you thought when I said, "..fat man of a certain age." Fuck you.

The point is let's go easy on Santa and give him a break. Sure, maybe you didn't get exactly what you wanted this year. But his red bag carries a lot of gifts, and sometimes, like Amazon, FedEx or UPS, the wrong package goes to the wrong house.

Unlike Amazon however, Santa, believing everyone is entitled to a living wage and safe working coniditions, never engaged in union-busting tactics when the elves wanted to unionize.

I may be getting off topic.

Look, holly jolly and merry ole' St. Nick is a character he plays. In real life, Santa and the elves are people who were young once. They had hopes and dreams. No one wanted to be doing this job, but sometimes life's paths aren't the ones we might choose for ourselves. We play the cards we're dealt.

So if they want to blow off a little steam after a solid nights' work with a few drinks, Marlboros and, um, companionship, who're we to judge.

Have at it Santa. No matter what you do, you'll always be on my nice list.

Tony Shaloub is brilliant

I’ve been a hardcore fan of Tony Shaloub for a very long time. In fact, almost seven years ago I wrote a post here, singing his praises. What I hadn’t done until now is watch the show he’s probably most familiar to audiences for: Monk.

The wife and I have been bingeing it now for the past couple of weeks. From the first “Here’s what happened” to the last time Adrian Monk straightened a crooked picture frame, this show pulls you in like an obsessive-compulsive black hole.

Casting Tony Shalhoub as Adrian Monk was pure magic. Shalhoub doesn’t just play Monk; he becomes him. Every nervous twitch, every panic-stricken "Wipe! Wipe!" when he’s touched something questionable feels so real. And yet, Shalhoub somehow makes a man who alphabetizes his breakfast cereals deeply endearing. Sure, he has 312 phobias, but who doesn’t.

Each episode of Monk follows a classic whodunit formula. There’s a crime. There’s a suspect who seems innocent. And there’s Monk, who notices that one microscopic detail—a mismatched sock, a coffee stain, a slightly-too-perfect alibi—that cracks the case wide open.

The brilliance of Monk is it keeps surprising you, even though you know exactly how the story will go. It’s comfort food for your brain. Like mac and cheese, but with more murder.

Adrian Monk’s quirks are as relatable as they are ridiculous. Sure, most of us don’t measure our orange juice to make sure it’s precisely half a cup, but who hasn’t had a mini meltdown over an improperly loaded dishwasher? Just me? Okay. I wrote about it here. Don't judge me.

Monk’s relentless pursuit of order in a chaotic world speaks to that part of all of us that just wants everything to make sense. He’s fighting the battles we can’t, like ensuring all the chairs at the table are aligned perfectly.

Monk may be the star, but the supporting characters help make the show sing. There’s Sharona, his tough-love assistant, who somehow manages to keep her cool even as Monk spirals into a hand-washing marathon. Later, Natalie takes over, bringing her own brand of compassion (and frequent eye-rolls).

Then there’s Captain Stottlemeyer (played by Ted Levine, who you may remember as Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs), and Lieutenant Disher, who are equal parts baffled by Monk and completely reliant on him.

For a show about a man crippled by grief and paralyzed by fear, Monk is surprisingly funny. It strikes the perfect balance between comedy and drama, never making Monk the butt of the joke but still letting us laugh at his antics. One minute you’re giggling as he disinfects an entire crime scene; the next, you’re crying as he mourns his late wife, Trudy.

It’s emotional whiplash in the best possible way.

And let’s not forget the iconic theme song, “It’s a Jungle Out There” by Randy Newman. Quirky and catchy, it perfectly encapsulates Monk’s worldview: the world is dangerous, unpredictable, and full of germs. Yet, somehow, it’s worth navigating anyway.

In the end, what makes Monk so irresistible is its heart. The show takes a man who could have easily been reduced to a punchline and turns him into a hero. Monk’s OCD isn’t just a quirk; it’s his superpower. His ability to see what others overlook doesn’t just solve crimes—it saves lives.

If you’ve never watched Monk, grab some hand sanitizer, straighten your remote controls, and prepare to fall in love with, thanks to the brilliance of Tony Shaloub, the world’s most charming detective.

Merry Christmas Eve

Ah, Christmas Eve. Whether you’re celebrating with a full house or spending it solo, there’s something universal about the anticipation that hangs in the air.

It’s like the entire world is holding its breath, except instead of silence, it’s the sound of wrapping paper and someone shouting, “WHO USED ALL THE BUTTER?”

Let’s not pretend Christmas Eve is all serene candlelight and cozy moments by the fire. It’s also a hotbed of last-minute panic. There’s always someone who forgot batteries, someone who just realized they wrapped a gift with last year’s “Happy Birthday” paper, and someone who thought it was a good idea to try a new cookie recipe at 10 p.m.

And yet, Christmas Eve has a way of reminding us what really matters. Maybe it’s the twinkle of lights. Maybe it’s the smell of gingerbread. Or maybe it’s just the quiet moments in between, where you catch yourself looking around and realizing how much love surrounds you—even if it’s buried under a pile of unopened Amazon boxes.

For kids, Christmas Eve is pure magic. It’s leaving cookies and milk out for Santa, wondering how he’ll fit his fat patoot down the chimney, and trying desperately to stay awake long enough to hear reindeer hooves on the roof.

For adults it’s a bit different. You’re the one eating the cookies, debating whether you’re too old for pajamas with reindeer on them, and reflecting on the year that’s nearly over.

It’s bittersweet, isn’t it? There’s joy in traditions, but there’s also a quiet acknowledgment of time passing—a reminder to hold these moments close.

Whether your tree is perfectly Instagrammable, or leaning precariously to one side, whether your gifts are meticulously wrapped or shoved into whatever bags you could find, whether your family is all together or scattered across the miles—or the heavens—Christmas Eve isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. Not presents, although those are pretty great too.

So here’s to the traditions, the chaos, and the quiet magic of Christmas Eve. May your evening be filled with laughter, love, and just the right amount of butter for those cookies.

And if you’re lucky, maybe even a little peace on Earth—or at least in your living room.

Merry Christmas Eve.

Location Location Location

Once upon a time, I was enamored with the idea of going "on location" for commercial productions.

Paris? Prague? Peoria? Okay, maybe not Peoria.

The mere mention of a destination would trigger visions of glamorous hotels with impossibly fluffy pillows, fabulous shoot locations with jaw-dropping vistas, and after-hours culinary adventures in Michelin-starred restaurants. I’d pack my suitcase with outfits I’d never actually wear ,but felt I should bring, because who knows? Maybe I’d end up at a yacht party or something.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

Fast forward to today. The idea of schlepping myself to some remote corner of the world to "capture the magic" now fills me with an existential dread rivaling that of sitting through a three-hour agency status meeting. Don’t get me wrong — I still love creating. I just don’t want to do it while battling jet lag and sketchy Wi-Fi.

Give me a soundstage in Los Angeles, a coffee cart within arm’s reach, and the sweet promise of going home to my couch by 7 p.m.

Let me paint you a picture of what "on location" really means. You wake up at 4:30 a.m. in a hotel room that smells faintly of carpet cleaner and crushed dreams. It’s pitch black outside, because the best light for your exterior shots happens at the ungodly hour of sunrise. The hotel "continental breakfast" consists of sad, cling-wrapped muffins and coffee brewed by someone who hates joy. You climb into a 15-passenger van with a crew of equally tired people, and off you go, bouncing down dirt roads not designed for motor vehicles.

Then there’s the weather. It’s either too hot, too cold, too windy, or raining sideways.

Contrast that with a soundstage in Los Angeles. You want golden hour lighting? Flip a switch. You want a sweeping mountain vista? Fire up the green screen and let the VFX team work their magic. Nobody’s getting rained on. Nobody’s asking if the porta-potties have been emptied. And nobody’s stuck in a van wondering if craft services will be set up by 6 a.m.

Soundstage life also means I can drive to work like a normal human, film some "magic," and be home in time to binge Breaking Bad for the eighteenth time. (Yes, eighteenth time. Don’t judge me.)

Sure, I’ll admit there are moments when I miss the thrill of going on location. That fleeting rush of stepping off a plane in an exotic city, the camaraderie of late-night shoots, the adventures of finding the world’s best taco stand at 2 a.m. But then I remember the other stuff — the lost luggage, the endless "hurry up and wait" routine — and my nostalgia dissolves faster than the line item for "unexpected expenses."

So here I am, praising the soundstage life. To my younger self, I say this: it’s not you, it’s the jet lag. And the weather. And the 4:30 a.m. call times. And everything else that turns capturing your creative vision into a monumental pain in the ass.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my couch, a bowl of popcorn, and Heisenberg’s greatest hits.

Ups and downs

My daughter, her husband (still have to get used to saying that) and a friend went to Disneyland today. I’m assuming while they’re enjoying the overpriced food and mouse-logo sweatshirts you need a co-signer to purchase, they’ll make time to ride the rollercoaster in Disneyland’s sister park, California Adventure.

There was a time, not all that long ago, when the sight of a rollercoaster filled me with excitement. The louder the screams from passengers, the more I wanted to be in the front row.

I was fearless. I was invincible. I was much younger.

But that was then and this is now. Today, you won’t catch me near one of those headache-inducing, nausea-promoting contraptions even if someone was bribing me with a lifetime supply of front row Springsteen tickets.

Well, maybe then.

For starters, the physics are no longer my friend. Once upon a time, the sheer force of a 60 mph corkscrew was exhilarating. But now it’s like my brain sends out a mass email to all my nerve endings saying, “Code red! We’re not 20 anymore! Shut it down!” Suddenly my head is whiplashing through loops and corkscrews.

By the way, Loops & Corkscrews was my favorite childhood cereal. SWIDT?

And another thing. What ever happened to the classic rollercoaster that just went really fast, dropped steeply, and maybe had one loop? Modern coasters flip you upside down, tilt you sideways, and sometimes even hang you face-down.

“Why is the sky on my left now?”

When I was younger, my balance was like a rock. I could spin in circles for hours and walk away like I was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Now, after one helix on a modern coaster, my inner ear stages a mutiny. Another gift of aging.

I also never want to be that rider. The person who gets off the ride looking like they survived Oceanic 815. Pale, sweaty, clutching their stomach, mumbling, “Never again.”

I’ve reached the age where I’m okay saying, “I’ll just eat a churro and watch.”

Here’s the thing: I still love thrills—just different ones. Simpler ones, like parallel parking on the first try or remembering to bring my reusable bags to Trader Joe’s. I even get a tiny adrenaline rush when my phone battery is at 2% and I find a charger in time.

Who needs 10-story drops when life is already full of heart-pounding moments?

There’s a certain wisdom that comes with age—or at least that’s what I tell myself when I pass on the rollercoaster and opt for the carousel instead. I’m happy waving from the sidelines, holding everyone’s jackets while the rest of the group screams themselves silly. At least I know I’ll be headache-free and standing upright at the end of the day.

I don’t think of my recently found rollercoaster aversion as a loss. More of a shift in priorities. I’m grounding myself and I’m okay with it.

And if you need me, I’ll be at the churro stand.