Blam! Blam! Blam!

Remember earlier in the year when I won my second LAPD Ride-Along at my kid's school fundraising auction? Of course you do. You're just that involved in my life. Thank goodness one of us is.

Anyway, tomorrow's the night.

At 7p.m., I'll be cruising the streets of South Central L.A. courtesy of the 77th Precinct, running plates, hoping for a high-speed chase and getting yet another taste of what these dedicated men and women face every day. I've already written about my experiences last time, and I'm sure I'll have more to tell the next time I post. Hopefully they'll give me a vest so there is a next time.

As you already know, having grown up on the mean streets of West L.A. (north of Wilshire), I already have some experience with dangerous criminal activity. I remember this one night there were these junior high school kids getting a little loud at the imported Italian gelato store. I'll save that story for another time.

Now that I have a sense of what it's like from last time, I'm in the be-careful-what-I-wish-for mode. The things I saw and participated in last time were fun (an odd use of the word, but I mean for a civilian) and exciting, but none of them gave me nightmares to take home. The kind of crime scenes that forever etch themselves in your memory and are out there night after night.

I think it's fair to say I'm hoping for the same this time out.

Meanwhile, if you happen to be in South Central tomorrow night and see a police car with the lights going on and off and different sirens being blasted, don't worry.

It'll just be me keeping the streets safe.

You're asking for it

Ever been with people when they fish for compliments? They'll say something like, "Doesn't this flowered hat with the lace veil look great?" Or, "Can that Tommy Bahama make great looking shirts or what?!" To me, there's always a certain sadness and desperation to it.

I feel the same way about posting birthdays on Facebook.

Now before I get the flack I already see coming from my friends who post their birthdays, let me say this: I do enjoy you giving me the opportunity to wish you a happy birthday.

I'd just rather you let me remember to do it on my own. If we're good enough friends, I will.

When you list your birthday for the world to see, my wishes for a great day mean nothing. They're lumped in with the list of birthday wishes from your other FB friends. I didn't have to remember your special day. It didn't take any effort on my part. You weren't making yourself special enough for your really good friends to think of you.

Instead, essentially, you fished for everyone to wish you a happy birthday. Wishes like that are as genuine as Mitt Romney's concern for the middle class.

As you might've guessed, my birthday isn't posted on FB. Yet on that day, on my wall, I receive birthday wishes from good friends who take the time to remember. It means the world to me because I know they've made the effort, instead of just shifting into auto-response when they saw it on the corner of their page.

It seems to me it's just one more example of Facebook revealing its true identity: anti-social network.

At any rate, please be sure to also list the date and time of your birthday party.

I'm always up for free cake with 847 of your closest friends.

Whole hell

Eating the right things takes a discipline I greatly admire and sadly lack. I'd do it more often if I could, except I fear the shock of ingesting healthy food might be too much for my body.

However, like most people, I'm not going out of my way to actively search out food loaded with pesticides, food coloring and hormones.

By the way, how do you make a hormone?

If the chickens eggs come from are free-range and cruelty-free, I'm all for it. That being said, I think we can agree that after all is said and done, it's still food. And when it comes to food, there are some things that just go against the laws of nature.

Don't pay her (read back, it'll come to you).

On the way home from lunch today, my wife wanted to stop at Whole Foods. I wanted to wait in the car. Guess who won? I don't go in there very often because all that "healthy" food just makes me feel bad on so many levels. But today I'm glad I went in, if only to reinforce my decision not to go in all the other times.

I don't think I have to tell you people how much I love bacon. I've already told you here. Just to reiterate, you know what bacon has that's good for you? Nothing. That's why it's bacon. That's why it's awesome. If I wanted my bacon to be healthy, I wouldn't be eating bacon in the first place.

So when I saw this sign, it made me sicker than the chemicals in real bacon - you know, the good bacon. No one on God's green earth is eating bacon and thinking that it's healthy for them in some way. Selling a form of it that is, or trying to make people think that way is like putting earrings on a pig.

I know, it was a long run for a short slide. But worth it.

As I walked the aisles, I found myself wondering who hurt the store's food buyer when they were a child. Obviously someone did. How else do you explain the shelves being stocked to the rafters with things that should taste good, but don't.

Case in point: Pizza. Like bacon, pizza isn't supposed to be good for you or healthy or low-fat. It's supposed to be pizza.

It's also not supposed to be called Tofurky (actually that applies to anything you eat). Non-dairy cheese? Meatless and delicious? As if these words weren't enough to make your head (and stomach) hurt, there's one word on the box that's like Kryptonite to anyone who enjoys food with...what's the word?...oh yeah, flavor.

That word, reversed out in capital letters, is VEGAN.

Now, some of my best friends are vegans. Some of my better ones aren't. And some of my friends that once were are no longer.

I can appreciate not wanting to consume animal products in any form. And I'd never advocate cruelty to animals in any way. But here's the thing: when I'm having my burger at Five Guys, the truth is the cow was dead before I got there. I'm just seeing to it that he didn't die in vain.

Alas, even Whole Foods knows their shoppers aren't always disciplined enough to stay on the straight and narrow. They know occasionally, something from a real market must make its way to the floor, if only as a bait-and-switch lure to get customers to stock up on the Kale Chips.

Vegans like barley and oats, right?

Think different

One thing ad agencies - I mean integrated marketing communication collectives - are supposed to do, in fact the main thing, is differentiate their clients' product from competing products. Even if the competing products are exactly the same.

Yet it seems agencies aren't able to carve out any real differentiation between themselves. It's a little like the cobblers' kids not having shoes. Well, maybe not. But you see where I'm going.

I'm not talking about the work. From agency to agency, it can be vastly different. I'm talking about the way they position themselves on their websites to clients looking for agencies.

One agency with some letters in its name has "...a process that welds together creativity and accountability to produce ideas that deliver a return..." Fair enough.

An older Madison Avenue shop that's constantly trying to reinvent itself says "...we refuse to take a backseat to the creativity of any competitor when it comes to the impact of our work." If you have to say it...

Yet another says, "We deliver the precise and most powerful combination of talents and resources, customized for superior execution." I'm sorry, I dozed off at the beginning of that description.

One big westside shop is just "a group of hard-working, independent-minded, and passionate problem solvers who live to build brands.."

Yeah yeah. Sure sure.

In many ways, like cars and laundry detergents, agencies are parity products. They all do essentially the same thing. They all have essentially the same players. It's how they do it - meaning the work (and the thinking but I'm including that since the thinking results in the work) that sets them apart.

But when an agency is able to differentiate themselves on philosophy, in a way that gives you a genuine sense there are actually people using it as a northern star guiding the work they do, it's hard to ignore.

I read a lot of agency sites for this post. And the only one I could find that did what I'm talking about was Venables Bell & Partners.

I don't have any stake in naming them. They don't know who I am. I'm damn sure they don't read this blog. I've never worked there, and I don't know if I ever will. I don't even know anyone who does.

What I do know is after reading their philosophy, I'd like to.

The itch

I go to Vegas at least once a year for SEMA. But truth be told, it's not nearly enough (I mean Vegas, not SEMA: three days of that is plenty).

Every once in awhile, like now, I get the itch. To feel the dice rattling in my hand before I roll them down the crap table. To get that jolt of adrenaline when I hit the point. To be in a town that understands you should be able to get a watered-down screwdriver 24 hours a day.

When I talk to friends of mine about going, what I hear a lot is, "I have to see if my wife'll let me go." Fortunately I'm blessed with a wife who says, "Get out of here. And bring back a little for me will ya?" I love that woman.

I like to think that I base my friendships on more substantial and meaningful things. That's why I have some friends that don't care for Vegas. But I have better ones that do.

My friend Mardel and I have gone to Vegas for years, and in the same way the tables run hot and cold, so have our trips.

However one of the great times we had was a few years ago when we were there for the Consumer Electronics Show. It's one of the biggest conventions held every year in Vegas, and an excellent excuse, er, reason to go there.

This trip, Mardel and I found ourselves at a crap table at Treasure Island at three in the morning (I know, I was as shocked as you are). Mardel was the shooter, and he was on a smokin' hot streak. He must've had the dice for over forty minutes.

We noticed on the other side of the table was a heavy hitter, betting A LOT of money. In fact at one point, they had to stop the game so they could bring this guy another rack of chips to play with.

I don't know how much money he had down on hard six, but Mardel rolled it. The roar was deafening. The gambler on the other side won $25,000 off that one roll.

I turned to Mardel and said, "If that guy had any class he'd tip you $100." As I was saying it, the stickman handed Mardel a $500 chip and said, "This is from the gentleman over there."

As I recall, there were drinks and more gambling. I'm not sure how long that money lasted, but it was sure fun while it did.

Those things don't happen every time I go to Vegas, but they happen just often enough to keep hope alive.

Of course, there are other things that happen there. But you know the saying.

Father's Day

Since today is Father's Day, I thought I'd take a minute to pay tribute to the great dads of our time. No, not the real ones, the tv ones.

It occurred to me as I was looking for these pictures that the fictional dads are as varied as the real-life ones are.

The difference is that they make great decisions almost all the time. And even when they don't, they get to resolve the situation properly in a half hour or an hour.

Sometimes they're just as much a mystery as the real ones are. For example when they appear to us after they've died and we've crashed on an island. As they so often will.

And sometimes, the people you think are least equipped to be a dad turn out to be great ones.

I used to joke that ninety percent of the job was just showing up. But two teenagers later - while it's still a big part of it - I've learned the percentage is way off.

To all the real world dads, who need more than thirty or sixty minutes to make things right, who are there for their kids at breakfast, after school, after dinner and in the middle of the night, doing their best day in and day out to provide everything and more for their kids, Happy Father's Day.

Plastics

FADE UP:

We see a four car garage attached to a large, white, modern mansion on the side of a hill in Malibu. It overlooks the Pacific Ocean. From inside, we hear a car door close.

The garage door rattles opens. As it rises, we see a pool of blackness inside.

Suddenly, two, low red lights peer at us like bloodshot eyes out of the darkness, and a throaty roar of a sports car engine blasts our ears. White reverse lights come on, and as the car backs out the morning sunlight hits it.

It is a perfectly mint, red 1967 Alpha Romeo Spider. The driver is Benjamin Braddock, Chairman and CEO of Braddock Plastics..

He turns the car and drives out of frame.

CUT TO:

Overhead shot of Benjamin Braddock speeding down Pacific Coast Highway on a postcard sunny day.

CUT TO:

CU of his hand turning on the radio.

We hear the first notes: "de dede de de de dede de de dede de..."