The age old question

I've been accused of a lot of things, but being an optimist isn't one of them. And yet, for reasons unknown to me, that's what I've been feeling like lately.

If you read a newspaper (old school) or listen to the news, all signs point towards pessimism, skepticism and cynicism (they were having a sale on "ism" so I picked up a few).

But this time I'm choosing to ignore the signs.

I get this feeling so rarely, at first I thought it was just gas. But then I noticed a few uncharacteristic signs, subtle though they were.

My outlook is a little cheerier. I'm smiling a little more often. I'm not dwelling on wrongs and injustices of the past. I'm enthusiastic about what the future holds.

And while I'm not singing Put On A Happy Face, Don' Worry Be Happy or Zippity Do Da - yet - people have noticed the change.

They say things like, "What's gotten into you?" and "I hardly recognized you with that smile on your face." I think I can explain the reason for all this positivity.

I got paid. A check in the mail. A big one. One I'd been waiting for. And as any freelancer will tell you, nothing puts a smile on your face and a skip in your step like getting paid.

Any freelancer will also tell you that the money was spent long before it ever got here. But the point is it got here. Christmas in July.

I know this will sound like a pessimistic thing to say, but I don't expect this optimistic feeling to last. In fact, it already started to subside after I deposited the check today. The reason is because I realized that, while a big number with plenty of zeros, it didn't come close to covering the amount I was into Balance Plus for.

I will say it was nice while it lasted.

So as I descend back into my pessimism, and endure the endless wait for other checks for the invoices gathering dust in my accounts receivable folder, I ponder the picture here and ask, as only a pessimist can be relied upon to do, the age old question.

Who the hell drinks water out of a glass anymore?

We have Contact

The image many people have of John Hurt is of him thrashing around on the dining table of the space ship Nostromo with an alien bursting out of his chest.

Or maybe it's his grotesquely disfigured form in The Elephant Man, as he proclaims to Anthony Hopkins he is not an animal, he's a human being.

Younger moviegoers might know him as Mr. Olivander from the Harry Potter movies - including the next two of them.

But his one performance I think I enjoy most is one most people didn't see. His role as eccentric, reclusive, terminally ill billionaire industrialist S.R. Hadden in the Robert Zemeckis film Contact.

With a keen interest in space and extra-terrestrials, his character is compelling, creepy and brilliant all at the same time (not unlike a few creative directors I know).

I quote the line at the end of this scene all the time. Scares the hell out of my kids.

The new post is here! The new post is here!

Blogs are like Rosie O'Donnell at Hometown Buffet. They're never quite finished.

When I started this one, I could hardly wait to excitedly tell all my friends about it. Naturally it was my hope - dare I say expectation - they'd drop whatever insignificant thing they were doing at that particular moment and read it.

And really, why wouldn't they? I'd do it for them. But the painful truth is I've always been more of a giver and the better friend in these relationships.

I might be getting off topic here.

Could it be that blogging is now the tech equivalent of home movies? Is it possible no one really wants to read each and every post I publish? Can the technique of asking a question to get the reader more involved ever be overused?

Friends and family all try to be nice and cushion the brush-off with something polite like, "Cool. I'll take a look at it later."

It's completely understandable.

First of all, there's only so much time in the day to be reading blogs. And while at last count there were over a bazillion blogs, only a few are really saying anything worth reading.

I think that problem could be solved if it weren't so easy to start a blog.

As it is now anybody with a keyboard, an internet connection and a bad idea can have a blog up and running in minutes. It needs to be harder than that. If it were, we could thin the herd and only people who really had something to say would be blogging. We'd have a lot fewer people posting family pics and talking about what they had for breakfast and why they liked it.

After all that's what Facebook is for.

Then there's choosing a subject matter. Many blogs have a theme appealing to particular interests. Which is fine, except that kind of segmentation narrows the already over-estimated audience too much (Can you tell I'm in advertising?). I've managed to avoid that pitfall by taking a completely random approach to the subjects I post about.

Much in the same way I do with my career. Or paying my bills.

Another important thing is to have someone read over your post before you publish, for typos and to make sure it makes sense and says what you want it to say. In fact I just asked my wife to have a look at this post.

She said, "Cool. I'll take a look at it later."

Dreaming at midnight

Sadly there's no shortage of things in the course of a day that make me feel stupid. I don't usually seek these things out, because, you know, who wants to feel stupid? Maybe stupid people. But they're too stupid to know they're feeling that way.

I'm way off topic here.

Anyway, I went with my friend, my son and his friend to the midnight show of Inception last night. And guess how I felt after seeing it? Two words: stu pid.

I'll admit no one forced me to be one of the first to see it. I signed up for it - volunteered like it was the Midnight Mission on Christmas Eve.

All the telltale signs of seeing a midnight show were evident. The late dinner. The waiting (and waiting) in line. The run for the seats. The new trailers. Then, finally, the movie.

I don't want to say too much in case you haven't seen it yet (a good chance since it just came out today). You already know from the trailer it's about dreams within dreams within dreams. It plays hide-and-seek with you between what's a dream and what's real - as if I didn't have enough trouble telling them apart already.

It's visually stunning in many parts, but if my life depended on it I couldn't exactly tell you what was happening at any given point.

Maybe I'll see it again to figure it out.

Meanwhile, at the risk of Leonardo Di Caprio stealing my innermost thoughts, I'm taking a nap.

Out of context

This is how the double take happened.

Today I was sitting in Noah's Bagels, catching up with my friend Mardel who I haven't seen in a long while. Well into our third hour yammering away, in walks this attractive brunette with her boyfriend.

I glance over. She stops. Her eyes widen. She gives me a smile. I return the smile as I turn back to my friend, immediately realizing there's only one possible way to read the situation: clearly she's just with this guy for cover, and she actually goes for older, overweight, married, Jewish men with gray hair and kids.

Before I even complete the turn back to my friend, it dawns on me I know her and my head spins back over to look at her again. Hence the double take. Turns out she's my favorite barista at the Starbuck's where I do much of my freelance work (my branch office). I see her every time I'm there, and we usually talk a bit before we both get back to work.

Even though this is someone I know, someone I like, someone I see often, it took me a moment to recognize her. It was surprising to see her out of context.

After a while, I realized the context she was out of was mine, not hers. She was just as surprised to see me.

Maybe because I'm an only child, and the world does in fact revolve around me, I never think about the people I talk to in the course of a day having real lives beyond the circumstances I encounter them in. Which of course they all do.

Growing up in L.A., over the years I've seen many celebrities, people I went to high school with, ex-girlfriends and neighbors out of context.

It's always surprising. And it's usually fun.

If you run into me somewhere unexpected, don't worry. I'll be easy to recognize. I'll be the one in black.

Try not to look so surprised.

The companies I keep

Remember that scene in the Da Vinci Code where Silas - the murderous albino monk - is flogging himself with a metal cilice until his back bleeds? That's what it feels like dealing with some of the companies I deal with almost every day.


I know, I know. I don't actually have to deal with them. I choose to deal with them. I suppose I could choose to deal with different companies. Better companies. Nicer companies. The kind of companies that actually encourage customer service and feedback. That are courteous and responsive to my needs and concerns regarding the service I'm paying them to provide.

I'd be much happier bringing my hard earned dollars to companies like that. If I had any hard earned dollars.

Being a customer of these three companies in particular is like being in a bad relationship: you want to leave, but it's just easier to stay. The known evil is better than the unknown one, even though in my heart of hearts I can't believe the unknown ones could be any worse (Bank Of America customers please hold your comments until the end).

The thing about these companies is that each of them sucks in a different way. Nah, I'm just kidding. Charter and at&t suck exactly the same way. They sell you a service you can't see or hear because their technology is so unbelievably bad.

I used to have a joke about at&t offering free call-dropping. The problem is since I've had my iPhone, it isn't so funny anymore.

When the Charter technician came to our house because the picture on our digital cable was tiling and locking up (which it still is), he actually said the reason for it was squirrels running on the cable lines. Maybe the squirrels know how to fix it.(Let the record show I didn't go for the "nuts" joke. Even though I wanted to.)

I don't even know where to start with Wells Fargo. How about the fact that no one in the branch I've been going to for over a dozen years knows who I am. Or the way they nickel and dime me with fees on everything from overdraft protection to speaking with one of their tellers (who doesn't know me). Apparently they've learned well from all the supermarket locations they're in. It must be why there are only two teller windows open on the 15th and 30th of the month when the line looks like the one for Space Mountain. And those two tellers are trainees (who don't know me).

Anyway, just venting. No real point here other than to admit I'm too lazy or cheap to eliminate the grief these companies cause me on a daily basis. After all I did sign up for it.

The good news is at least I know it's the one thing they can deliver on.

UPDATE: Just got back from Big 5 Sporting Goods to buy new softball cleats for my daughter. Add their filthy, disorganized, absent sales people (and stupid and unknowledgeable when they do surface) to the list of companies that suck. And I say that with love.

You're out of order

Today I had my day in court. Well, actually more like my five minutes.

Without going into a lot of detail, because, my lawyer has advised me not to on here, I was sued in Small Claims court. Somebody felt I lied to them about something, then made a decision to do something that cost them money. And because they felt I lied - which I didn't - they felt I should pay for what they decided to do.

Vague enough? Then I'll continue.

If you've never seen Small Claims court in action, I'd highly recommend it. It's right up there with Disneyland and Las Vegas both in terms of people-watching and entertainment value.

First the bailiff runs down some basic rules: address all comments to the bench. No talking while court's in session. Turn off your cellphones. Don't raise your voice. Don't make a grab for my gun then go on a wild shooting rampage (alright I made that one up).

Then the court clerk, who sits in a little pen with an outdated computer right in front of the judge, has everyone in the room stand, raise their right hand and take an oath swearing to tell the truth.

Just like on Law & Order, except your hand's not on a bible.

My case wasn't being heard until 10:30a.m., but I arrived at the courtroom at 8:30. Maybe it's because I'm in advertising and have done so many presentations, I wanted to get a feel for the room I was going to be playing to. I wanted to see how it all worked. I wanted to see if I was getting a hanging judge or Judge Ito.

The funny thing is I didn't get a judge at all.

In Small Claims, you get a judge pro tem, not a regular judge but a lawyer volunteering to act as judge since there are so many cases the real judges can't hear them all. If you're okay with that, which I was, you sign a document giving your consent. If you insist on a real judge, they'll insist on rescheduling you for another day. Then there you are - all dressed up and no place to plead.

Since Small Claims is for complaints $5,000 and under ($7,500 if it's not a business), many of them were landlords/property management companies suing for back rent. And winning.

In Small Claims, like so much of life, you're on your own. You're not allowed to have a lawyer represent you (although you can have one if you lose and appeal the decision). However you can do what I did which is have your lawyer prepare a trial brief arguing the case and citing legal cases and precedent on why the judge should rule in your favor. For the amount I was being sued for, $775, having my lawyer write a trial brief seemed a little like rabbit hunting with an elephant gun. But my feeling was I'd rather be over prepared than under.

I mentioned all dressed up before because that's what my lawyer told me to do: dress slacks, nice shirt (tie optional). It shows respect to the court, and while it shouldn't affect the judges decision, how I look could definitely affect his attitude towards me. He also said I'd be shocked at what people wore to court, and he wasn't kidding.

I can't tell who I enjoyed more - the greasy, strung out forty-five year old with the Led Zepplin t-shirt, torn jean shorts and flip-flops, or his crack-friendly wife who was literally, having minor grand mal seizures (or withdrawal) about every fifteen minutes.

Then there was Mr. Ralph Lauren: deck shoes, khaki cargo shorts, polo shirt and windbreaker. Every two minutes he kept looking at his TAGHeuer watch. Apparently the yacht was double parked.

I should mention prior to today's court date, the party suing me and I worked out a fragile peace. In fact I was told the case would be dropped and not to even bother showing up. My reply was that I'd need something a little more concrete than that - say a document from the court showing the case was withdrawn. I never got it. So I showed.

The person suing me did not. I guess that was his way of dropping the case because since he didn't show it was dismissed.

After the ruling, the judge made a point of complimenting me on the trial brief, saying he didn't know many lawyers who could prepare one as thorough and well written as mine.

I think he thought I was the one who did it, and I let him think that. It's not like anyone was under oath.

Oh, wait a minute.