Not tonight, I have a headache

If you were to listen to James Cameron (and trust me, he's going to keep talking whether you're listening or not), he'd have you believe the current rage of 3D technology has all the kinks worked out.

That the new glasses are light years ahead of the old cardboard ones I grew up with that had one red and one blue lens. And instead of giving you headaches, they give you the theatrical experience of a lifetime by bringing you right into the movie.

Well, one place they bring me into is the medicine cabinet.

For all the press about advanced 3D technology, two things are still true: I have to wear glasses to see it, and it still gives me a headache.

Oh, there's a third thing: I have to pay a third more for a 3D movie ticket. Funny how that works, especially since the new glasses are recycled and reused.

3D movies used to be a special event. But like so many other things that started out special - for example air travel or McRib sandwiches - it seems now they've become commonplace. And movies that have no reason for being made in 3D are being shot that way.

Really, are Final Destination or My Bloody Valentine any better in 3D? I suppose you could make the argument they couldn't be any worse. Okay, bad example. But you see my point.

I can't help thinking it's all a grand misuse of this headache inducing technology. Sure it's not the sledgehammer, anvil-on-the-head kind the old glasses used to cause me. But this one is more insidious, a kind of dull ache that takes an entire day to dissipate. It's just maddening.

Just like airbag technology wasn't originally designed to protect you in car accidents (it was originally designed as a way to euthanize animals), perhaps the 3D technology could be repurposed.

I hear we're not waterboarding anymore. If we flipped on Monsters & Aliens 3D, maybe the terrorists at Gitmo would start spilling the beans.

And of course when they did, they'd spill in 3D.

The Talk

All too quickly there comes a time in every parents life where you have to sit your children down and have "the talk." Which is ironic, because I'm still waiting for my parents to have the talk with me.

Anyway, today my wife and I had "the talk" with my daughter. Like most parents, we were trying to avoid it for as long as humanly possible. But there was a catalyst we just couldn't ignore: this week she's going to see "the film" that her school show girls when they begin the sex education part of the curriculum.

Before they show "the film", the school sends home a permission slip for parents to sign.  I imagine a lot of parents sign it with a huge sense of relief that the school will now be doing a job they're too embarrassed to do.

We didn't see it that way. We thought she should hear it from us first.

As we started to talk to her, my ten-year-old daughter turned red, pulled the blanket over her face and laughed a whole lot while we explained how things work and where babies come from. But a little while into it, she quieted down and really listened. Then she asked questions. Then she understood.

My invaluable contribution was teaching her important phrases, like "put it back in your pants", "zip it" and "I don't care if you're happy to see me."

So right about now the wife and I are feeling pretty proud of the mature way we tackled "the talk." If it hadn't gone so well, I was ready with Plan B.

But I guess now I can put the donuts and hot dogs away.

Everyone's a critic

There's a certain beauty and satisfaction in watching people who really know and love what they're doing. I guess it just happens so rarely, that when it does it simply commands your attention.

The first time I saw Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert argue about movies I was riveted. I'm a Hollywood brat. I was a Theater Arts major (really, what restaurant?). I have my S.A.G. card. I grew up in L.A., and as such have the requisite number of famous friends in the industry.

And I love, love, love the movies.

So when I first saw these two film-loving newspapermen on television arguing as passionately as I felt, I immediately thought their show had been created just for me. I enjoyed the knowledgeable, articulate, intelligent criticism. I loved the ping pong match: agreeing with Ebert, then agreeing with Siskel and back again. And while I always thought the thumbs up/thumbs down rating was a little beneath them, I understood that, after all, this was television and a certain leveling of the field is required.

In late 1998 I'd started to hear rumors about Gene Siskel being sick with brain cancer, and when he eventually died in 1999 I took the loss personally. Eventually Roger Ebert developed thyroid, salivary and jaw cancer and had to leave the show permanently.

It was starting to feel like the Different Strokes curse, except with brains.

The show continued in various iterations with different, lesser (sometimes extremely lesser) critics for years until the show recently hired Michael Phillips of the Chicago Tribune and A.O. Scott from the New York Times. They brought with them all the qualities of the original Siskel and Ebert, not to mention a simple yet much more precise and meaningful rating system: see it, skip it, rent it. Their knowledge, love of film and arguements are just as thrilling to watch as the original two.

Of course, just when the show finds its feet again with these two rightful heirs, this week Disney (which produces At The Movies) cancelled it for low ratings. (Read more about it in this New York Times article:  http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/26/arts/television/26cancel.html ).

The sad part is that it's the end of intelligent film criticism on television. But I suppose if I want that, I can always read a newspaper. Oh, wait, those are going away too aren't they.

As much as I disagree with Disney's decision, I'd like to think Phillips and Scott would appreciate the fact that, thanks to The Godfather, I do understand it.

After all, it's not personal. It's business.

Slack-cutting and the art of friendship

If you're here for the usual humorous post with the witty wrap up line, this isn't it. Don't say you weren't warned.


Today was a day of introspection. Not something I usually do, because seriously, if you know me at all you know nothing good can come of it.

Regardless, I was tossing over something my neighbor said: that he tries to treat everyone as if they have a broken heart. Okay, maybe a little Hallmark-y but I still found myself thinking about it weeks after he said it.

The truth is we could all stand to be nicer to each other. We could all be more considerate of each others feelings. We could all get over ourselves for a minute and put somebody else's needs first. Then maybe we could all lock arms, start swaying and sing freakin' Kumbaya.

Now, see that last sentence right there? That was my cynical side rearing its ugly head as it so often does. Not so much out of genuine skepticism, but more of a knee-jerk reaction to situations that make me somewhat uncomfortable and suspicious. Like, say, people being nice to each other for no apparent reason. I work in advertising agencies. I'm not used to that.

Unfortunately that same cynicism sometimes spills over into my friendships.

I know I'm a really good friend. But I also know I'm not an easy friend. I'm not high maintenance, but I do take a tough love approach to friendship. I don't suffer fools lightly, and I don't cut people nearly enough slack (just ask any of my former friends). For some reason, at some point I made the decision it was perfectly acceptable to expect their kindness, consideration and unconditional understanding in my weaker moments that I could only begrudgingly give them in theirs.

Maybe it comes from being an only child. Maybe it comes from the business I'm in. Maybe it comes from growing up on the mean streets of West L.A.(north of Wilshire).

I know this reads like I'm making amends here, which I'm not. Or that something big happened that set me down this course, which it didn't. Or that I want to pull a Sally Field and start screaming "You really like me!" which I don't. I was just thinking about what my neighbor said, and that maybe I could stand to be a little nicer overall. Make a character course correction. A deposit in the kharma bank.

I'm hoping this is the emotional equivalent of the truth about bad hair days: you see how bad your hair is, but no one else does. And no one else cares.

The lesson is probably as simple as treat others as you want to be treated. In fact I'm sure it is.

Still, every once in awhile as I'm on the outside looking in, I remind myself it's a lesson I need to keep learning.

Well, I see our hour is almost up. Don't worry, I promise the next post will be funnier.

Feel like an idiot for $100 Alex

Because I don't have enough things to make me feel stupid during the course of a day, I decided to take the test to become a Jeopardy contestant.

I'll wait a minute while you stop laughing. Done? Okay.

I've watched the show forever and always thought it'd be fun to be on. In fact I already have a funny anecdote about how I met Groucho Marx (oh yes I did) ready for when Alex conducts the awkward contestant interview with me after the first commercial break.

Since I seem to do well questioning the answers when I'm watching from the comfort of my couch, I thought there was a chance I'd do just as well if I were actually on the show.

Self-delusion and denial are two of my better honed qualities.

Of course if the categories were Godfather Movies, Springsteen, Pizza, Audi, German Sheperds and Bad Parenting, I'd have it aced.

To apply you take an online test of fifty questions made up from episodes that have already aired. You have fifteen seconds to answer each one, which isn't nearly enough time for internet cheating. Or so I hear.

Once you complete the test, you never get the results. In fact you never hear from them again unless they want you to be a contestant.

Watch for my Jeopardy appearance on this date.

What is the 12th of never.

Book 'em

Every year I go with my son to Comic Con in San Diego. That's not the problem. The problem is so do 135,000 other people.

Which makes it extremely difficult to do two things: get a hotel room, and get one close enough to the event so you don't need a sherpa and seven day supply of water to get there.

Last year when Comic Con's discounted rooms became available online, I struck gold. I was on at 9AM sharp, and wound up at the new Hilton Bayfront right across the street from the Convention Center. It was particularly convenient, especially when we had to line up at 3:30 in the morning (which is worth at least 1,000 dad points) for the 10AM LOST panel. I know it's early, but when we got there we were the 400th people in line for a room that holds 6500.

It's that kind of crowd.

Having won the hotel lottery last year, I assumed I'd have similar luck this time. Except this year, Comic Con changed the way you book hotels. Last year I went online, chose my hotel, paid with a credit card and got my confirmation. Ba-da-bing!

Apparently that worked too well. So they decided to rewrite the rules.

This year I had to list 12 hotel choices in order of preference. 12 hotels - it's not Vegas, and it's not London. 12 San Diego hotels. I didn't get a confirmation until the end of the day. And while I was waiting for it I had no idea which hotel I was going to get.

I'm pretty sure you can tell by now I didn't get the one I wanted.

I called the Comic Con travel planners this morning, and expressed my unhappiness at the accommodations they booked for me. I then listened while a very calm employee, who's obviously used to fielding complaint calls from thousands of unhappy geeks dressed like Darth Maul and Wolverine, talked me off the edge. Kind of.

So now I'm on the wait list for three better, closer hotels, and I'll know in a week if I get in one of them.

I'm not sure my son appreciates all the trouble I go through to get us to this event every year.

Maybe I'll explain it to him when we're sleeping in the car.

I have more offices than you do

Whenever I decide it's time to head into the office, the first question I have to ask myself is which office will it be. Because, and I'm not bragging here, I have many branch offices all over Southern California.


And it's not just me.

I don't have anything quantitative to back me up, but from what I observe when I'm there, I'm pretty sure most freelancers work out of the same offices as I do. It's much more comfortable being greeted by the young, attractive, smiling barista when you come to work instead of the old, cranky, squinty-eyed security guard in the building lobby.

The parking is usually easier too.

The official home of worldwide headquarters for Jeff International is the one on Bellflower, next to the Verizon Wireless store and across from Weight Watcher's. It's always a good time watching the WW members doing a slow-motion speed walk over to my office for a low-fat blueberry muffin and a 500 calorie white chocolate frappuccino.

It's also down the street from Cal State Long Beach. So naturally, it's part time coffee house, part time study hall. Just like my other office across from Cerritos mall, and also near a campus: Cerritos City College.

Last night - and try not to be too jealous here - I had occasion to be in La Mirada for five hours while my kids were rehearsing a play they're doing for school. If you know anything about me, you know I don't often say this, but fortunately, I had work to do.

I knew there'd be one of my branch offices nearby where I could do my work until rehearsals were over. For the extremely low price of a grandé decaf and the wireless, my five hours in La Mirada blew by faster than I ever would've imagined (apologies to my friends that live there - you know who you are.)

I haven't always had the luxury of rolling in whenever I want, wearing shorts and t-shirts, working at my own pace and having a table all to myself. I've worked on-staff at agencies in high-rises before, and I probably will again.

Hopefully next time I do, I'll find one where the security guard wears a green apron, smiles, then charges me four bucks for something I know I could get a lot cheaper somewhere else.

It would just make me feel better.