It really is the City of Angels

Los Angeles is no stranger to wildfires. But each time they rage, the devastation feels fresh and deeply personal. Over the past weeks, as flames consumed homes, hillsides, and dreams, we’ve witnessed destruction nothing short of heartbreaking. Families have been displaced, cherished memories reduced to ash, and once-vibrant landscapes scarred by fire. It’s a stark reminder of nature’s raw power and how fragile everything we hold dear really is.

The images are haunting. A charred skyline. A child’s teddy bear left behind in the rush to escape. Rows of houses burned to their foundations. Midnight darkness at noon. The smell of smoke has become an unwelcome constant, lingering as a reminder of what’s been lost. The pain of those directly affected is unimaginable, and our hearts break alongside them.

Yet, even in the midst of such tragedy, this city, known for its sprawling streets and diverse neighborhoods, has shown once again it’s more than a collection of people. It’s a community.

As the fires raged, so did acts of compassion and kindness. Neighbors turned into heroes offering shelter to the displaced. Strangers brought water and supplies to evacuation centers, filling tables with essentials and hope. Volunteers worked tirelessly, ensuring no one faced this crisis alone.

First responders—our firefighters, paramedics, and police officers—have gone above and beyond, risking their lives to save others. Their bravery reminds us that even in the darkest times, there are those who run toward the flames, determined to protect and serve. These individuals embody the resilience and the best of humanity.

To quote Fred Rogers, “Always look for the helpers.”

Communities have come together in ways that inspire awe. Social media has transformed into what its original intention was: a hub for connection, with people offering places to stay, donating proceeds to those in need. It’s a testament to Angelenos: when faced with adversity, we unite, we rebuild, and we rise.

This isn’t the first time L.A. has been tested by fire, and it won’t be the last. But history shows this city has a remarkable ability to recover. Los Angeles will rise again. New homes will be built. Hillsides will regrow. Families will create new memories to replace those lost.

And while scars may remain, they'll be a testament to survival, resilience, and the strength of a community that refuses to be broken.

Check please

There’s a trend happening at restaurants, and not just the trendy ones (SWIDT?). And I’m just going to say it at the top: I’m against it.

The table-side credit card swiper. While it seems like a convenient innovation, these little devices come with a not-so-tiny downside: the complete annihilation of your tipping privacy.

Picture this: you’re enjoying a nice dinner out. The food? Fantastic. The service? Good, but not quite stellar. Your water glass went unfilled for an uncomfortably long time. Your steak arrived a shade past medium-rare. But nothing outrageous. It’s the kind of performance that warrants a decent, yet not overly generous tip.

Enter the table-side swiper. Your server approaches with a smile that’s just a bit too eager, holding the device. Suddenly, you’re confronted with the digital tipping screen, complete with conveniently pre-selected options: 15%, 20%, 25%. The "Custom Tip" option dares you to choose it while your server watches.

In the old days before the table side swiper, you had time to discuss the tip, the service, the server’s attitude. But the swiper is a conversation killer.

With “Under Pressure” as the soundtrack playing in your head, eventually, inevitably, you wind up tipping more than you planned because the swiper robbed you of your ability to reflect, discuss and tip in peace.

The irony is they were probably intended to make the dining experience more seamless, less stressful. In reality, they’ve introduced a new level of awkwardness to your meal.

I don’t imagine servers are thrilled about this either. They know when a table’s vibe is off. But with swiper in hand, there’s not much they can do to change that in the moment. Smile too hard, and it’s desperate. Smile too little, and they risk looking like they’re mad about the tip before you’ve even entered it.

Also, those swipers are often tracking the server’s tip averages. Some restaurants use them to keep tabs on who’s getting the big bucks and who’s scraping by. So now, it isn’t just about your tip—it’s about their performance metrics. And those earning lower tips might not be performing as well in the eyes of management.

Here’s my solution: let the servers drop the swiper and walk away. Give everyone a moment to breathe, reflect, and tip like a decent human without feeling like they’re being judged. Or worse, tracked.

And by the way, can you warm up this coffee? Thanks.

Apple is Cooked

Apple has long positioned itself as a beacon of innovation, inclusivity, and progress. For decades, it’s been a champion of privacy, diversity, and environmental responsibility. Yet, with one bone-headed decision, Tim Cook has managed to call all of that into question.

Recently Cook, the very face of Apple, made a $1 million personal donation to Cadet Bone Spurs presidential inauguration—a figure who stands in direct opposition to so many of the values Apple purports to uphold. While Cook might argue this was a personal gesture, his position as Apple’s CEO makes it impossible to separate his actions from the image of the company he leads.

The damage to Apple’s reputation is undeniable.

Apple has always been about more than its products. The company is a lifestyle and a philosophy. With progressive messaging on issues like LGBTQ+ rights, climate change, and immigration, Apple has attracted millions of loyal customers who see the company as a force for good. IQ45’s presidency was a four-year assault on those ideals: a term marked by divisive rhetoric, anti-immigration policies, trashing science and an alarming disregard for human rights.

By financially supporting Trump’s inauguration, Cook undermines the principles Apple has worked so hard to associate with its name. The message this sends is clear: The values Apple claims to hold dear are, at best, negotiable.

One of Cook’s most celebrated moments as CEO was when he publicly came out as gay, stating, “I’m proud to be gay, and I consider being gay among the greatest gifts God has given me.” For members of the LGBTQ+ community, Cook became a symbol of progress in corporate America. How can the same Tim Cook justify donating to the inauguration of a president whose administration actively sought to roll back protections for LGBTQ+ individuals?

Perhaps Tim has forgotten Trump’s transgender military ban, his appointments of anti-LGBTQ+ judges, and his administration’s blatant attacks on equality under the guise of religious freedom. Cook’s donation wasn’t just a betrayal of Apple’s values; it was a betrayal of his own.

Apple products are used by millions of people across continents, cultures, and belief systems. Many of those customers—immigrants, Muslims, women, people of color, and members of the LGBTQ+ community—were directly harmed by the Trump administration’s policies. What must they think, knowing the man leading Apple thought it was appropriate to write a million-dollar check to celebrate Trump’s rise to power?

If Apple wants to salvage its reputation, it can’t remain silent. The company needs to publicly address Cook’s actions, and reaffirm its commitment to the values it claims to stand for. Anything less will signal to its customers that those values were nothing more than marketing spin.

As for Cook, he owes customers, shareholders and the world at large an explanation. They deserve to know why he thought it was acceptable to align himself with arguably the most divisive leader in modern history.

Cook’s $1 million donation is a betrayal. A betrayal of Apple. A betrayal of its customers. And most of all, a betrayal of the very ideals Cook himself once claimed to champion.

It’s a stain on his legacy—and Apple’s—that he won’t be able to hit delete on anytime soon.

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.