Is it wrong to love an appliance?

Contrary to popular belief, necessity isn't the mother of invention.

Convenience is.

I can't imagine how, but for hundreds of years people somehow muddled through and found ways to clean dust from their homes even though relegated to primitive means like cloths and brooms.

If they'd had the Dustbuster back then, they would have thought they'd died and gone to heaven. I know I felt a little of that the first time I used one (yes, I'm that easy to please).

I remember thinking I should've bought stock in Black and Decker, because I knew this little beauty was going to be big. When I saw it, it called to me. It was plugged in, charged up and just waiting for me to get my hands on it.

Or was that my high school girlfriend? I get confused.

Anyway, once I did, it was go time. I couldn't wait to find dust. I remember saying, "I'll clean that up" more than ever. Including to my high school girlfriend.

The Dustbuster was such a revelation and joy to use, I'd actually spill things like salt and potting soil "accidentally" just so I could grab the DB and impress whoever was nearby with how effortlessly I could scoop it up.

Kitty litter? Bring it on. Too much free time? Perhaps.

As we all come to find out at one time or another though, appliance love is a fickle thing. And because it is, sometimes we just have to move on.

For me moving on meant the Braun Electric Juicer.

To me, one of life's great luxuries is fresh squeezed orange juice. But if you've ever ordered it in a restaurant, you know you need a co-signer and a notary just to get a 4 oz. glass of the stuff.

The Braun's beauty lies in it's simplicity. Press the orange down, it automatically juices it into a pitcher, which you then pour into the waiting glass. It's three, hard plastic pieces can be easily taken apart, rinsed and cleaned. Sure, I could've gone fancier with the Cuisinart or Kitchen Aid, but why? With oranges it's the juice not the juicer people are impressed by.

At least that's what I've been telling myself.

Sometimes though, you come to a place in your life where you mature (I'm still waiting to get to that place) and you find your heart can hold enough love for two appliances. So while the Braun Juicer is still near and dear, so is this.

The Black & Decker Power Screwdriver. First the Dustbuster and now this. It's like Black & Decker is reading my mind. Ever since I discovered this little tool, I've been able to maintain the illusion of household handyman. Smoke detectors, easy. Light switch plates, simple. Outdoor security lighting with motion sensors and variable lighting, call the electrician. Still, I'm able to do what I can do without the risk of repeat motion injury to the wrist. At least not from a screwdriver.

But just when I thought I was ready to settle, look who decides to roll into my life.

My Staples 12-sheet capacity cross-cut paper shredder. My conspirator, my financial protector, my confidant. Thanks to it's unique cutting sound and brute strength, it allows me to feel a sense of security none of my other appliances offer. I feel safe with it. I know it won't tell my secrets. Occasionally it jams when I try to stuff too much into it, but who amongst us doesn't?

Clearly I have an appreciation for this utilitarian kind of technology far more than I ever could've imagined. I'm emotionally involved, and I think I know why I fall so hard every time.

These days, when it seems nothing works the way it's supposed to, these simple yet devoted appliances do exactly what they've promised me they would. And I love them for it.

Is that so wrong?

Inspiration is where you find it

Even though I explain it right there under the title, many people still ask me where I got the name for my blog.

You're looking at the answer.

Each time I get asked the question, it makes me think about how inspiration is lurking all around us.

It's like the joke about the guy who's on the roof during a flood. A helicopter comes to rescue him and he says no, God is going to save him. Then a boat comes by to rescue him, but he refuses saying God is going to save him. Of course, the floodwaters rise and he dies. When he gets to heaven he asks God why he didn't save him. God says, "What do you mean? I sent you a helicopter and a boat!"

Inspiration is like that. Even though it's right in front of us, sometimes we have trouble recognizing it for what it is. I run up against this each time I sit down and think about what I want to write. But then, I open my eyes and suddenly there's no shortage of subjects to write about.

Another great thing about inspiration is that it can spur us on to accomplish things we wouldn't normally think we could. For example, this morning I saw lots of thin, healthy people out walking and jogging. And I was inspired. So I went to Starbuck's, had a large Mighty Mango smoothie and a thick slice of banana walnut bread, and thought for a long time about how tired all those thin, healthy people were going to be when they finished.

Couldn't help myself, I was inspired.

Here's another example. Just yesterday morning I saw people leaving their homes and going to work. It made me think about what it'd be like to have a full time job to go to everyday. The same office day in and day out. The same people. The same conversations, same meetings and same fights day after day, year after year. After a while, I did more than think about it. I was inspired, so I immediately changed my job title from freelance copywriter to Free Time Management Engineer, and just like that (snaps fingers) I had a full time job.

And, not bragging here, I'm damn good at it.

I hope this post has inspired you to look around, take in what you see, create ideas and then put them into action through words and deeds. I know just writing it has inspired me.

I'm going to take a nap.

Pssst! Want to know a secret?

Hey, guess why some things are called Top Secret? You can figure it out pretty easily, right?

Apparently a lot of people can't.

There's been rampant speculation and rumor regarding the Air Force's classified space airplane, the X-37B.

Hey, guess why some things are called classified?

It looks like a mini space shuttle, and can stay in orbit for 270 days (big deal - with enough vodka and orange juice I can do the same thing). It seems like everyone wants to know why the Air Force isn't telling us every single detail about it. What it does. What they're planning on using it for. Who we'll use it against. Can we even use it that way.

Okay, here's the thing. We don't really need to know.

Yes I know our tax dollars are paying for it. Yes I know many people want every branch of the military to be totally transparent. Yes I know there's a certain mindset that says if we don't watchdog the military at every step we risk losing our freedom to it. But I also know no matter how badly people like Victoria Sampson of the Secure World Foundation - clearly named by someone who appreciates irony - wring their hands, go on CNN and say things like, "They just won't tell us anything." it's still none of their business.

I don't know whether Victoria and her pals have noticed, but defending and protecting the nation just isn't as easy as it used to be. Sure, we've got Rosie O'Donnell and Glenn Beck to scare people away, but these days that just isn't enough. Whatever advantage we can gain, for example not spilling every secret to those who'd like to see us all taking the big dirtnap, I'm for it.

I understand the concern about the militarization of space, but frankly, that satellite left the barn a long time ago. Between spy satellites, navigational satellites for military ships and aircraft, secure communications satellites, satellites that detect the launch of missiles and satellites that monitor the movement of military equipment (theirs, not ours), it's a little late to be worrying about that.

For me, it comes down to a balancing act. Us having enough information to keep the military on the up and up, and them being allowed enough secrecy to do the job we ask them to do.

Every once in awhile I find myself operating on a need-to-know basis.

And for the moment, in this particular instance, I don't need to know.

It's not a flaw. It's a lifestyle.

Here's the truth: I'm without a doubt the least disciplined writer I know. In fact, I'm the least disciplined writer you know.

And more often than not, to the surprise of anyone with a real job - and by real job I mean anything not in an ad agency - this usually frowned upon character trait has served me quite well.

When you work in an ad agency (wait, did I say ad agency again? Sorry. I meant integrated marketing company), hurry up and wait is standard operating procedure.

It consists of long stretches of unbearable boredom and frustration waiting for yet another meeting to start or work order to get written, interrupted by sudden loud bursts of, "What the f#&k do you mean you don't have it!? We promised they'd have it yesterday!"

There ought to be a law agencies only have decaf in the coffee room.

Anyway, time and time again I've found that if you just wait long enough before starting, like the rabbit in the hat, the assignment vanishes into thin air. Disappears. Poof! You don't feel bad about it, because you haven't lost all that time and wasted all those brain cells creating something brilliant, perfect and exactly right and timely for the client that will never see the light of day.

You do enough of that on the jobs that actually do happen.

I feel like I'm just getting started here, and there's so much more I want to say about this.

Maybe later.

The bucket stops here

What you're looking at to the left might seem like simply a large plastic bucket.

Actually, it's a security blanket.

My daughter came into our bedroom at 12:30 this morning with a bad stomach and feeling a little clammy. She decided maybe she needed to - with out getting too clinical here - empty the chamber.

But being the little multi-tasker she is, she also thought she might have to toss her cookies. And whenever she feels that way, she asks for the bucket.

Just holding the bucket makes her feel better. It represents a unique kind of okay-ness whether beets are heaved or not. For my daughter, knowing it's there is almost as comforting as having us there reassuring her everything is going to be fine.

When the feeling finally passed, she came into our room and spent the remainder of the night with us, just in case.

While most kids would cling to their teddy bears to make themselves feel better, she had her bucket right where she wanted it - within arms reach at the foot of the bed.

As I think about having to wash our duvet cover at three in the morning, I realize she's not the only one being comforted by it.

Say goodbye to Broadway

Here's how most customer/waiter exchanges have gone since the day the Broadway Deli opened:

Customer: I'm ready to order.

Waiter: I'll get that right after my audition.

When the Broadway Deli opened in Santa Monica 20 years ago, it was an immediate hit. Huge room, coffee cups you could swim in, louder than loud, New York feel, upscale and baby-friendly (during weekend brunch, the back wall was a Peg Perego stroller parking lot).

You'd run into people you knew in real life as well as people you knew from television, movies and sports. The waitstaff was made up of actors on the prowl for anyone who could help them launch their careers, the same as at many restaurants but more so here because of the location and clientele. If your waiter had, say, Dustin Hoffman in your section the same time you were there, you could forget about seeing him or her until Dusty paid his check and left the building, hopefully with their headshot and resume in hand.

The layout of the Deli was completely conducive to lousy service. A single long row of booths ran from the front to the back of the restaurant, as did a single long counter with the exposed kitchen behind it. Instead of losing two counter seats and a booth in the middle to make access to the tables and chairs in the main dining room easy, to put in your order and serve it waiters had to go all the way around the restaurant.

Still, the experience was fun. The booths were big, and it was a great place to meet someone for lunch or dinner then go for a stroll on the Third St. Promenade after.

I'm talking about the Deli in the past tense because it looks like that's what it's going to be soon. The landlord wants to raise their rent from $55,000 a month to $100,000 a month. But of course, that's just the cover story. What they really want is to subdivide the space and have a new restaurant facing the promenade and a retail store in the other space facing Broadway. And collect two rents instead of one.

The Deli's lease is up in May, then they're on month-to-month for 90 days after that. But it looks like they're going to be forced - and that's just what it is - to close. It's a tough economy to pay almost double that kind of rent.

When it does close, it'll take a lot of memories with it.

Hank Azaria telling my wife and I how cute our newborn son was. Mike Tyson in the last booth giving me the evil tattooed eye as I walked past him. Walking in with Brooke "man is she tall" Sheilds. Catching John Mahoney on the way out to tell him how much I admired his work, not on Frasier but in Barton Fink. My wife and I trying to figure out who the old man was, then realizing it was John Cleese. Having lunch with our friends Josh and Angela when Elliott Gould was seated with a woman at the table behind us. I said, "Who's the woman with Elliott Gould?" Josh said, "The woman? Who the hell's Elliott Gould?" just loud enough for him to hear and shoot us an extremely nasty look. The day I was meeting someone for lunch, looking particularly writerly with my black-framed glasses and composition notebook in my hand, and an agent from William Morris gave me his card and said to call him. Exchanging smiles with, yes, Dustin Hoffman as he was going in and I was leaving. Taking my son to dinner there on his first birthday for a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Telling the waitress my wife was pregnant with our second child before we'd told any family members (although as often as I ate there, I considered the waiters family). Sitting at the table next to Harold Ramis and his wife while our kids and theirs played together. Not to mention the countless meals and meetings, both personal and business I've had there over the years.

If I told you there was this really loud, expensive restaurant with pretty good food and really bad service, I'm sure you wouldn't be in a hurry to eat there.

But there is. And you should. Because if you've never been to the Deli, in a hurry is how you'll have to go to experience it before it's gone.

The other Hilton sisters

Despite the fact they were conjoined twins, Daisy and Violet Hilton were considerably less freakish than the Hilton sisters we have to endure today.

Born in England in 1908, they were joined at the hips and buttocks, and were fused at the pelvis. They shared blood circulation, but no major organs. The women their mother worked for, Mary Hilton, recognized the commercial prospects of the girls and essentially bought them from her.

As you might imagine, it was a hellish life.

They were kept in control through violent physical abuse, and forced to become side show and circus performers.They never saw a cent of the money they made.

When Mary Hilton died, her husband and daughter took over "managing" the twins. In 1931, they sued their managers and won $100,000 and their independence.

They took their act - The Hilton Sisters Revue - into vaudeville. In 1932 they starred in the movie Freaks, and in 1951 made an exploitation film called Chained For Life, based loosely on their sad story.

In 1969, they died alone, such as it was, and broke.

There was a Broadway show about their life called Side Show, which though it only ran for three months managed to earn four Tony nominations.

When I think of these Hilton Sisters, it makes me never want to complain about anything in my life ever again. Which if you know anything about me is no small accomplishment.

My interest in them came after seeing my friends' extremely talented daughter and her friend perform this song from Side Show in a musical revue (God help us, he's posting show tunes).

It's titled after a question I'm sure the twins asked themselves every day of their lives.

(Speaking of freaks, my apologies that this clip is from the Rosie O'Donnell show - it's the best one I could find. When I get a video of my friends' daughter performing it, I'll post it.).