A little bug

My first question is why does a post-it note need a push pin? These are the things you ponder when you're sick and have too much time to think.

Being sick sucks. I started feeling bad Sunday, with the symptoms getting gradually worse. Runny nose, clammy, aching. Classic signs of a cold/flu-y kind of thing coming on.

I thought the timing was interesting, because I was sick for about a week before my last gig started. And I'm starting a new gig next week. History repeating itself.

Monday was the big surprise morning though. I let loose with a vicious sneeze, so hard in fact that I blew a blood vessel and had a nosebleed that looked like the scene of the crime. Or a Dexter audition.

So that was fun.

In the past, I've had to have my nose cauterized for a vessel that wouldn't stop, so I thought maybe that was happening again. But I got to my Ear/Nose/Throat doctor, and he said it didn't have to be done this time.

I haven't had another one - sneeze or nosebleed - since Monday.

So for the last couple days, and for the next couple, it's me, the humidifier and catching up with whatever's on the DVR. And making a brief, exhausting appearance or two at the kids final concerts before they graduate - one to college, one to next year in high school.

I know you've become accustomed to me wrapping up these posts with a snappy little line. And while I hate to disappoint my five readers, I just don't have it in me today. Sure, I know there's a joke somewhere about "nothing to sneeze at..." but I just don't feel up to looking for it right now.

Back to bed.

I'm a wreck

It finally hit me. My boy is leaving for college.

It's not until August, but suddenly the idea of not seeing him every day is crushing. I've taken more pictures of him the last two days than I have in the last eighteen years.

Of course I'm happy for him. And I'm as proud as a parent can be. I've heard rumors parents actually survive this time. I imagine I will as well.

Last night, we went to see an artist I've loved for years named Dirk Hamilton. He was playing at McCabe's in Santa Monica. We drove up there, met another friend and saw an awesome show.

As his schedule gets busier and busier, life becomes more and more like a Harry Chapin song. I'm grateful for any time we can have together.

I understand from people who've gone through it this is a time of growth, maturity and the start of becoming an adult.

I hear he'll go through some changes as well.

Getting educated about college

It's been one day since the son got accepted to a prestigious out-of-state college, one that's a shining blue spot in a big red state. I'm not naming names.

But it has a tower. A Longhorn steer. And a bass drum named Big Bertha.

Along with his out-of-state college comes the out-of-state tuition, which is four times what it would be if he were an in-state resident.

I was expecting the hefty tuition tab. What I wasn't expecting, or at least didn't figure into the worksheet (as if I did a worksheet) was the travel expenses. For us going there, and for him coming home.

Since yesterday, we've already fired up the credit cards and racked up a few thousand in airline tickets and hotel reservations for Family Orientation. Then there's getting him settled in when he leaves for the school in August. Another parents of freshman get together in October. And then we have to bring him home for Thanksgiving and Christmas (we figure the guy we've rented his room to will be already be gone for the holidays).

The other thing all this "education" means is, since he starts in August, our annual vacation to the Hotel Del Coronado will not be happening for the first time in fifteen years. Instead, we'll be holed up in a room at the Doubletree Hotel, enjoying the chocolate chip cookies they give us on check in, and buying him everything he needs for his microscopic-sized room at the university.

And when I'm not doing that, I'll be complaining about not being at the Del.

In those rare moments I can get past how much this is all going to cost, I forget about the fact since young Mr. Spielberg is going to one of the top film schools in the country, I'll have to work writing banner ads and manifestos until I'm ninety.

But that's overshadowed by the enormous pride I have for my boy in going after his dream, getting in the school he wanted and having a clear vision of the path he wants to take. Even though because he's so talented in so many ways, there are a wide variety of paths open to him.

Besides, credit card applications are like buses. There's always another one coming along.

Good grief

This is what I get for trying to do the right thing.

I have a Peanuts cartoon I've had since I was a kid. Somehow, even way back then, I must've been peeking through a keyhole to the future and known I was going to wind up in advertising, because the cartoon is the perfect metaphor for the business.

I wanted to use it in this post, but I figured since it was Peanuts, instead of just barging forward and possibly infringing the copyright of a multi-billion dollar, global cartoon conglomerate, not to mention pissing off Snoopy, I should probably get their permission.

Can you guess how this story ends?

I went on the interwebs and found who I needed to contact to get the rights to post the cartoon. Here's the email I sent them:

To Whom It May Concern:

I write a blog called Rotation and Balance (rotationandbalance.blogspot.com). It covers a wide range of topics, but, since I'm a creative director and copywriter, quite often deals with the advertising industry.

I've saved the attached cartoon for many years from one of my childhood Peanuts books. I'd like to post it on my blog under the title This Is What Advertising Is Like.

The blog is not monetized, and I do not make anything from it. I post links to it on my Facebook page which is only read by friends, and my Twitter feed which isn’t read by nearly as many people as I’d like.

Anyway, I wanted to know if I could have your permission – attributed of course – to use the attached cartoon for the blog. Please let me know.

Thank you so much for the consideration.

Friendly, right? I asked nicely. I was respectful, I let them know I'd been a fan since childhood and that the Peanuts books were treasured items in my house. I said please and thank you. But after reading their reply, I feel like someone pulled the football away just as I was going to kick it. Here it is:

Dear Jeff,

Thank you for your email.

Unfortunately, due to legal restrictions, we cannot grant permission for your request below. We’re sorry to disappoint.

We greatly appreciate your interest in PEANUTS and wish you the best.

Regards,

The Peanuts Team

The first thing I noticed about their response was it's a form letter. And if you've been following along recently, you know how I feel about form letters.

Anyway, I can't show you the cartoon, but I can describe it to you. So here goes.

In the first frame, Charlie Brown is with Lucy and he's getting ready to fly his kite. Lucy says, "I appreciate your letting me help you Charlie Brown...I like to feel needed." In the next frame she says, "I bet this kite will fly clear up to the clouds." Charlie Brown says, "Well we'll see." Then, Lucy is holding the kite as Charlie Brown starts running and says, "Ok! Let go!" The kite soars into the air, and Lucy, filled with pride, says "You got it up with my help. Will you tell everyone I helped you Charlie Brown? Will you? Will you tell everybody we were a team Charlie Brown? That we worked together? Huh? Will you?"

Suddenly, the kite comes crashing down to the ground, the kite string tangled all over Charlie Brown. Lucy, walking away from him, says, "I don't know you."

This, in a nut shell, is advertising. When something is a success, everyone wants to be a part of it, even if that means they were in the bathroom on the other side of the building when you came up with the idea. But if the campaign tanks, they run for cover and deny any involvement.

It's a keen observation by Charles Schulz, and I imagine it applies to any business lousy with glory hogs, scene stealers and outright liars. Although, besides politics, I think agencies have cornered the market on them.

Anyway, I wish you could see it. It'd be a lot more entertaining than reading about it.

When I think about The Peanuts Team refusing my request, I can't help but be reminded of what Snoopy once said.

"I love mankind. It's people I can't stand."

What's the attraction

I've always been attracted to a certain theme in art and photography. More than just "That's a nice picture." or "Huh. Interesting." I'm talking about images that draw me in, make me feel something on a visceral level.

Images like this one my friend Ron posted on his Facebook page.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I gravitate mostly to either solitary figures, representations of loneliness or images of disparate people, together and at the same time isolated in their own thoughts like those in much of Edward Hopper's work, especially his classic, essential Nighthawks.

It probably says I need something as a counterpoint to all the happiness and joy I put out into the world. Either that or I need help. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

Maybe I'm attracted to them because of the universality of the emotions. Aren't we all a stuffed teddy bear, cast out to the side of the road?

Okay. Maybe not.

The point is there seems to be more of a reality and truth to these images than ones where people are laughing, just a little too happy despite the reality of the world around them. Like the people who dance in commercials because their detergent gets the clothes brighter, or they're finally free of the constipation that's been plaguing them (hard to dance when you're constipated, so I hear).

Many of my friends find it an interesting contrast that I usually go for the joke at any cost, yet I'm a sucker for a sad image.

I would've been great in a Woody Allen film.

One for the ages

The elderly gentleman to the left, in case you didn't recognize him, is Burt Reynolds. Yes, that Burt Reynolds.

He made a rare public appearance at an east coast Comic Con, and because he's looking like a frail, ghostly version of his former movie star self, the press has had a field day. Let the speculation begin.

Here's what I think happened to Burt. He got old.

Reynolds is turning the corner on eighty. He's had a great life as an actor (at one time the most popular box office draw in the world), director, talk-show staple, star of television and commercials. The FedEx spot he did still makes me laugh.

Despite how hard we deny it, we're all standing on the tracks, and the age train's a comin'. And there are only two choices: board it gracefully, or hop on kicking and screaming. But either way, we're all going for the ride.

A while ago I started making this noise when I got out of my soft, comfy, low-to-the-ground reading chair. Then I realized it was my father's noise. My knees hurt every now and again (it's what kept me out of the 400-meter in Beijing in '08). And my eyesight, which is already corrected with progressive lens that bend walls if you look through them, is getting worse even as you read this.

And, as topping on the cake, I have gray hair. But my dad went gray when he was twenty-five years old, so I never stood a chance. There was this one time a bald colleague of mine started making fun of my gray hair, to which I replied, "You really want to get in a conversation about hair?" That felt good.

While father time waves his wand over all of us, it must be particularly hard on people like Reynolds who've been in the public eye since they were young. There's the line Julia Roberts says in Notting Hill about "becoming some sad, middle-aged woman who looks like somebody who was famous for awhile."

When Burt Reynolds was starting out, his calling card was the fact he looked like a double for Marlon Brando. It was a mixed blessing - it got him jobs and it cost him jobs. But the ones he got, he delivered on.

What with his marriage to and divorce from Loni Anderson, all the bad Smokey movies and the Playgirl centerfold it's understandable that sometimes people dismiss Reynolds' talent.

But then you have to take a minute and think about his performances in Deliverance, The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing, The Longest Yard, Starting Over, Sharky's Machine, Boogie Nights and The Player. Roles that betray his Brando wanna-be, pretty boy reputation.

Burt Reynolds has had several health problems over the years, including the one he's facing now: old age. In our youth driven time, it makes me sad an actor who's been so popular and entertained so many has to endure the speculation, lies and insults of a tabloid culture where vultures are swooping in literally even before the body's cold.

Someday, the paparazzi and hacks who've hounded him for years will be old and frail themselves. And I promise you one of the stories they'll spin over and over, because they can't remember they just told it ten minutes ago, is the one about the time they met Burt Reynolds.

Remembering Ann on Mother's Day

Every year I re-post this piece I wrote on the 28th anniversary of my mom's passing. It's not to bring down anybody, or dampen the spirit of the day. It's to give a snapshot of my mom, and it can't help but being one of the more powerful ones I have.

For me, every day is Mother's Day. She's always on my mind, even more so this year since her birthday was this past Sunday.

Here's the thing - love 'em while you got 'em and let them know. There's no doubt they'll frustrate you like nobody else. But they're the biggest fans and the best friends you'll ever have.

And I'd have given everything to have had brunch with my best friend and biggest fan today. Or any day.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms. We never say it enough, but we love you to the moon and back.

It's not like me to get sloppy in my beer. Alright, who're we kidding - I'm a sap. And the fact that today is 28 years since my mom died isn't helping that any.

I'm sad to say I can't remember nearly as much about my mom as I'd like.

I can still hear her laugh. Because my parents had me later in life, I can still hear her almost apologizing to me for being "an old lady."

But I never saw her that way.

She was my old lady. She was my mom. She was there, frightened and strong in the emergency room at Cedars when I'd been thrown forty-five feet out of a car and knocked unconscious in an accident (many people by the way are still waiting for me to regain consciousness).

She was there at the graduation when I walked onstage at the Hollywood Bowl to accept my diploma (yeah, I've played the Bowl).

She held me, and the bucket, after my first real experience with a little too much egg nog and bourbon.

The last meal I had with my mom was at Nibbler's on Wilshire in Beverly Hills. Coke, tuna melt, arguements. The sounds of a generation and a half older clashing with a time and world that had changed in ways they didn't completely understand, and my impatience at their lack of understanding.

Not my finest moment, and probably the first one I'd go back to change.

Three days later, it was my turn to be with her in Cedars emergency room. She had died three times in the ambulance, and had been brought back three times. There was severe brain damage, and ten days later she was gone.

I remember going into her intensive care room (can someone really be hooked up to that many wires?), and talking to her for about an hour. Trying to make my peace. Trying to say goodbye. And then, my mother opened her eyes and looked right at me. It was the first time she'd opened her eyes in ten days.

Her doctors said it was a muscle reflex, similar to a twitch. They said she wasn't really there, wasn't really seeing me.

But after a lifetime with this woman who gave me my sense of humor, sensitivity, temper, and everything I ever wanted (yes, only child), I didn't really care what the doctors said. Because I knew better.

Every day, especially today, I'm the one who's seeing her.

Bye mom. Before you know it.