I can't wait to see how it ends

Advertising has never been shy about being behind the bandwagon, then jumping on it and saying they've been steering it the whole time. It's also a business that's never met a buzzword it didn't like.

If you've been on any agency website recently, usually in the About section, you've probably noticed the unholy alliance of bandwagon with the buzzword du jour: Storytellers.

Apparently agency creative departments aren't staffed with copywriters and art directors anymore. Instead, they've been replaced by storytellers.

I get it. It's a romantic notion, and it plays well in pitches where the client is told how the "story" of their brand will be conveyed to the waiting masses. Like many other things in advertising, it's hyperbole.

It's the janitor calling himself a sanitation engineer.

I can't exactly tell you why this trend pisses me off so much. Maybe because it's so blatantly untrue. Or the image it conjures up is of someone who's facile with exaggeration, able to spin a yarn or an impossible - and unbelievable - tale out of thin air.

And if there's anything advertising needs to be more of, it's unbelievable.

Storytellers, the really good ones, are skilled at the practiced art of spinning straw into gold. But when the story's over, compelling though it may be, you're still left with straw.

Storytellers, brand stewards, marketing gurus (yes that was on one of the sites), dynamic social directives officers. Whatever. It all sounds false and a little desperate to me.

As for the agencies who insist on calling themselves that, I believe their future can be summed up in two words found in every story.

Goodbye Taylor

I come down hard on advertising in a lot of these posts, and for the most part advertising deserves it. But without a doubt one of the best things about being in this business is the people you get to work with.

To my great joy and surprise, I got to work with Taylor Negron early on.

I'd known who Taylor was for a long time. I had a lot of friends who were stand ups, and I spent a lot of years hanging out at the Improv on Melrose and the legendary Comedy Store on Sunset Blvd. My good friend Ned was even the MC at the store for awhile.

I'd seen Taylor perform many, many times. He was offbeat, unique and had a timing and sensibility all his own. It was his uniqueness that made him so compelling. Even though he may not have been well known in the mainstream, he was a comedian that other comedians admired.

Years ago, I wanted Taylor for a Church's Fried Chicken commercial I did, and was shocked when he came in and read for it. Which of course he didn't have to - the part was his, and I was prepared to fall on my sword with the client, the director, my creative director, the account people or anyone who said it wasn't.

Fortunately, everyone saw his remarkable talent and what he brought to the table. It was hard not to.

I'd like to say we became great pals after that, but we didn't. I did however continue to follow him, and was always excited when he came onscreen in the various movie roles he had like Fast Times At Ridgemont High and The Last Boy Scout, where he was a wicked blond-haired villain long before Javier Bardem ever thought about bleaching his hair for the Bond film.

In one of those ooo-weeee-oooo moments, I was thinking about Taylor just the other day, wondering why I hadn't seen him in anything in awhile. I didn't know he was fighting cancer, apparently for some time. And I'm heartbroken he lost the fight.

Anyway, thank you Taylor for your talent, for making me laugh, and for making my work far better than it would've been without you. I feel blessed to have been one of the lucky ones.

Rest in peace.

Define writer

Seems simple enough. A writer is a person who writes. Just like a drummer is someone who drums. So if you're drumming on your table at Starbucks, waiting for your venti half-caf with an extra shot of cream, does that make you a drummer? No, no it doesn't.

I take a lot of heat from my friends, who I call "real writers" because they are, about the fact I don't post to this blog with any kind of regularity. Clearly they've forgotten that I hold the well-earned title for the least disciplined writer they know. If it's any consolation, and I'm not sure why it should be, it's not the only thing I do without any regularity.

Saving money, buying new clothes, changing the oil in my car, good parenting. It's a long list.

At least when I do manage to have a thought rattling around and write about it, I usually have something to say. Usually being the operative word.

Anyway, I'd like to wrap up this post with some clever, snappy line. But to do that, I'd have to think about it more, and that might jeopardize my least disciplined writer status.

What I might do is take a second to go back over this post and see if there's anything I want to revise.

As I look at it, I think a good place to start would be the part about how I usually have something to say.

State of the reunion

For as much of a social butterfly I like to think I am - and don't get me wrong, I can light up a room - I've somehow managed never to go to any of the reunions at the many agencies I've worked at. Sometimes it was intentional, other times circumstantial. The circumstances were I didn't want to go.

Anyway, a couple Saturdays ago, at the last minute, I noticed an invitation had been sent to me. So for once, I decided to get over myself and make the effort. I'm pleased to report it was well worth it.

For a little over two years, I worked at an agency called DBC in downtown L.A. It was during the time the city was blasting the subway tunnels under 7th Street, and they'd ripped up the asphalt and replaced it with wood planks during construction. One of the owners, Brad Ball, had a great line about it. He said, "L.A. is such a classy city it has hardwood streets." Still cracks me up.

Anyway, I know a few get togethers have happened in the many years since I was there, even one at a park extremely close to my house. But despite my polite refusals in the past, this time I decided to take the dive.

I'm glad I did.

I'd spent so long focusing on a few people there I didn't like - really didn't like - that I neglected to devote any brain space to the ones I actually liked and enjoyed, but had forgotten how much. I was happy to see all the faces there, and genuinely missed many of the ones who weren't able to make it.

As conversation usually goes at these things, we caught up on our current lives, as well as past ones. That's the beauty of reunions: they're moments out of time. Suddenly, you're with a roomful of people who can fill in the blanks about who you were, and what you did way back when (not always a good thing, but always amusing).

So, this is my personal thank you to all my friends who were there and made me feel so damn welcome.

And even though I can already feel my loner, anti-social, too-cool-for-reunion ways creeping back in, before they take over completely let me say I can't wait for the next time we all get together.

For starters, with any luck, I'll be a lot thinner.

The big dipper

The photo is slightly misleading since this post is about my kitchen floor, and not a giant sinkhole. But if I don't do something about it soon, it could wind up like that.

When we first bought our house, we did the traditional walk-through before we closed. That's the part of the transaction where you notice all the little things that are wrong you didn't notice before, and the sellers - along with their mother who's acting as their real estate agent - tell you why it's not really a problem so they can close the deal and move on to their next home in Newport Beach. Then you take them to arbitration for trying to pull the wool over your eyes, and you get a judgement in your favor for $10K. How you like me now Duleep and Jamie?!

I may be getting off point here.

Anyway, during the walk through I noticed a small, shallow, hardly worth mentioning little dip in the kitchen floor just in front of the dishwasher. I wasn't even sure I'd felt it, and no, I won't be using the high school girlfriend joke here.

Fast forward sixteen years later, and that dip in the floor is now a small canyon.

We don't know whether to fix it or add a viewing platform.

We're leaning towards fixing it.

The problem is, our house was built in 1949, and the kitchen floor is tiled with linoleum. So, one thing leads to another. If we're going to fix the dip in the floor, we have to tear up the linoleum to do it. Which means not only do we repair the subfloor, but we put in a new floor over it. Also, we've been planning to remodel the kitchen since we've lived here, so it would only make sense to do all the cabinets and appliances first and then tear up the floor.

That dip is slowly turning into a money pit.

We haven't decided exactly what to do yet or how much we want to spend on it. We do know we're in a race against time, because we're only probably a couple months away from someone stepping through the floor and being hip deep in linoleum.

It'll probably be me since I'm the one who loads the dishwasher all the time. It's not because I want to. It's because, and I'm not bragging here, I'm a dishwasher savant. I know how to maximize the space. It's like that movie A Beautiful Mind, except in my version, instead of seeing equations in the air John Nash sees how all the dishes fit in the racks.

I know the entire family will be happy once the kitchen is done. It's really the last problem we have with the house. Then, we can all sit back and enjoy this house the way we've wanted to since we moved in.

Besides, I'm sure the lights blowing out when we run the washer, dryer and dishwasher at the same is fairly common.

My darling Clementine

I have a somewhat compulsive personality. For example when I like a song, I play it into the ground until everyone including me is sick of it. When I see a movie I like, I see it several times, looking for nuances, lines and performances I didn't notice the first several times. When I'm at the craps tables in Vegas, I'll roll the bones until I've gone all the way through the college fund.

Just kidding. What college fund?

And does anyone need to be reminded of my four-starting-on-five binges of Breaking Bad? Anyone? So it should come as no surprise that when I was introduced to clementine oranges - and liked them - that I would eat them six and eight at a time.

Besides, what's not to like. This small, tasty hybrid of a mandarin and sweet orange is seedless, easy to peel and just sweet enough. Not unlike my high school girlfriend (that joke is also something I'll use until you can't stand it anymore).

They're best when refrigerated, although they don't have to be. And you can eat them almost anywhere. They're juicy, but not in that spill-all-over-the-place naval orange kind of way.

At the market, they're usually sold in netted bags or small boxes called Cuties or Halos. I wouldn't care if they were called Cha Cha's or NumNums. They're awesome.

Occasionally I wonder how long it'll take me to tire of them, and what semi-healthy snack I'll move on to and obsess over next.

But not before I check to see if there are any more of these left.

Two for the roses

It's a colorful tradition that's been going on for 126 years. The first day of the new year, people gather in Pasadena, as well as millions more in their living rooms around the country to watch the spectacle, gasp in disbelief and appreciate the artistry of it all.

Of course I'm speaking of Bob Eubanks' and Stephanie Edwards' plastic surgery.

For all 126 years, Bob and Stephanie have been hosting the annual Tournament of the Roses Parade on KTLA in Los Angeles. They look great don't they?

Bob Eubanks was the first host of the Chuck Barris produced Newlywed Game. He was 28-years old when the show debuted in 1966. You do the math. Never mind, I'll do it for you. He's 77-years old.

Of course, that's just chronologically. In parade host/plastic surgeon years, he's still 28.

Stephanie Edwards has been television fixture since I was a kid. And by fixture, I mean an inanimate object that doesn't do much, but looks good sitting there. She began on a morning talk show in L.A., got moved to the predecessor of Good Morning America for awhile, and then became a Rose Parade, um, fixture in 1978.

There were a couple years (2006-2008) where KTLA tied the can to her and brought in a younger model to sit with Eubanks and read cliché-filled copy about the Oklahoma University Marching band, its storied history and the Wells Fargo float celebrating the theme "Let's Make Money." But the apparently the viewing audience put down their Metamucil for a second and noticed. Then they called their grandchildren and had them write letters to KTLA, in their nice handwriting. Anyway, the outcry was so overwhelming that the network brought her back in 2009.

My question is, are we supposed to not notice? When you have a parade where the flowers wilt after a couple days, but the hosts don't after forty years, it's hard to ignore.

Well, God bless 'em. Nice to see the older folks working. Even if they don't look like older folks are supposed to look.

All of this also begs another couple questions.

Why am I watching the Rose Parade? And where the hell did I put my Metamucil?