The chance you take

It's like the arrow in the Fed Ex logo. Once you see it, you can never not see it.

For years, Jared just looked like a nerdy guy who lost a ton of weight and struck it big by eating Subway sandwiches.

But now, instead of nerdy he looks evil. And at Subway he's referred to as "Jared who?"

That they'll get in trouble, wind up in the middle of a scandal or die mid-campaign has always been the chance you take when you use a celebrity as a spokesperson. Or create one.

What Jared did was particularly despicable. And the fallout was quick and predictable: Subway severed all ties with him minutes after the first story broke and he hadn't yet been formally accused of anything. Then they hired a new ad agency to give them a fresh campaign and a new start. To which I say, "How's that working out for you?"

Ad agencies are never more optimistic than when they get a new piece of business. And Subway is a big account. I wish them luck, but this particular kind of tarnish keeps coming up like onions on a Black Forest Ham sub. Jared will be associated with Subway for campaigns and years to come, regardless of what they do. Not fair, but true.

Some celebrities, like Tiger Woods, manage to recover from scandal. But because of the repulsiveness of their transgressions, the Jareds and Bill Cosbys of the endorsement world aren't ever coming back.

Using a spokesperson is always a crapshoot. It's borrowed interest, but unlike a lot of people in the business I'm not necessarily against it as long as the person is right for the product and the message.

The problem that you run into is often all the A-list celebrities you want are taken. Then you wind up with a spot like this:

At least the only thing Loggia was ever guilty of was being in a bad commercial.

It makes the job harder, but it's better to hang a campaign on an idea than a celebrity. It's the only surefire way to avoid this kind of bad publicity and the lasting fallout that follows it.

If Jared was smart, he kept the giant jeans he used to hold up in the early commercials.

When this is all over, they're all he's going to have left.

It won't be like this for long

I know you're getting tired of posts about my son going off to college. But that's what's taking up all the brainspace right now, and writing about it here is cheaper than therapy (and a lot cheaper than tuition). I promise this will be the last one on the topic for awhile (fingers crossed, snickering to himself...).

This startlingly beautiful baby is my boy. It's always been one of my favorite shots of him. It was taken at our great friend Michelle Purcell and her husband John's former house in San Clemente, just before he gave a piano recital of Rachmaninoff's piano concerto number 3 (I recall he was pretty accomplished at number 2 as well - BAM!).

I don't remember how old he is here. I only know he's sure not that age anymore.

We just got back from dropping him off at his dorm room in Austin where, if you don't know by now, in between going to all-night movie festivals, eating barbecue brisket by the pound and locally-sourced quinoa salads, he's majoring in film.

And I don't mean dropping him off in the "here's your hat what's your hurry" sense. More in the "we're going to take six days, fix up your dorm room, buy even more things for you at Bed Bath and Beyond, take you out to eat for every meal and let you stay with us in our nice hotel until you absolutely have to move in" sense.

I won't go into what it was like to say goodbye before we had to leave for the airport yesterday. As I'm sure you've surmised by now from the other posts I've put up on the subject, suffice it to say I was a mess (I know, I'm as shocked as you are).

But twenty-four hours later, you'll be glad to know, it's not one iota easier.

I'm lucky in that I have a kid who wants us to text, call, FaceTime and Skype with him all we want. Or so he says. We won't drive him crazy, but we will be in touch on a regular basis. But he's grown up and he's growing up, and we're going to let him do it - no matter how much it hurts or how counter-intuitive it is.

It's been said they're leaving you from the moment they're born. Maybe, but for sure he's been leaving faster and faster as he's gotten older.

And now, in the blink of an eye, he's off becoming the man he's meant to be.

I'm so lucky, because I can't remember a time when my son and I ended a conversation without saying "I love you" to each other. And I'm not about to start now.

I love you buddy man.

Now I have to go help your sister move into your old room.

Meat of the matter

Let's start off by saying my vegan and vegetarian pals aren't going to take kindly to this post. So you may as well mosey on to the next blog until tomorrow's serving.

No matter how you slice it, if you know nothing about cuts of meat when you get to Austin you will by the time you're heading out.

The Salt Lick. Franklin's. Lambert's. There's no shortage of bbq places here and everyone seems to have a favorite. So far mine is Lambert's, but only because I haven't had five hours to kill waiting in line at Franklin's.

Sure Austin's a town known for its music, restaurants, art community and, as my checkbook knows all to well, its university. But it's also known for the fact you can look as far as the eye can see, and you won't find an iron-deficient person anywhere.

I've had more brisket, pulled pork and ribs in the last five days than I've had in my entire life - each bite more delicious than the next. I'm sure some of you are thinking that's a lot of meat to be eating. Don't worry. I've been wielding my Lipitor almost as much as my steak knife.

Others might be saying I don't have to order meat every time. I could order something healthy like a salad. Well, in case you forgot, this is Texas. That's just crazy talk.

My love of smokey meats (by the way, Smokey Meats - one of the best jazz musicians ever) won't come as a surprise to anyone who knows a few years ago, my good friends Tena Olson, Alan Otto and I were going to start an ad agency called The Beefery. We had t-shirts and hats made, and used the butcher chart you see above as our logo, only instead of labeling the cuts, we replaced them with snappy ad-related items.

After a lot of meatings at Starbucks about how we were going to get the agency going, we finally put the idea out to pasture. We did however continue the meetings at Starbucks, you know, because why not.

Anyway, I've decided to cut way back on my meat consumption starting tomorrow.

In fact I just may cut back on food consumption in general before that picture of the cow has my face on it.

Taking measure

It's been a few days since I've put up a post, but it looks like your luck has just run out. Here we go.

What you're looking at above is the floorplan of my son's new dorm room. It's a standard issue, college dorm floorpan for two. Sadly, the illustration is close to actual size. You're probably thinking to yourself, "Ok, but where's the bathroom?" The answer is down the hall.

Being my son, you'd have thought he'd have chosen a room with a private bathroom. I know it's what I would've done. But here's why he's so much smarter than I am. If you have a private bathroom, you're responsible for keeping it clean and stocked with supplies. However if you share a community bathroom, the school cleans and stocks it twice a day every day.

Plus, by a total luck of the draw, the bathroom is literally ten steps outside his door. His first class doesn't start until eleven, so he misses the bathroom rush hour.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: being an only child, the concept of sharing - rooms, food, cars - is completely lost on me. And never having lived in a dorm, so is the concept of a small room with a roommate.

Of course, being the backer of this entire "college thing," I more than anyone appreciate the economy of doing it the way he's chosen to do it. He's already demonstrating a financial savvy, and classes haven't even started yet.

Still, being the pampered poodle I am, if it'd been up to me, I'd have gone in a slightly different direction with the dorm room.

Conflict

I'll keep it short tonight for a couple of reasons. One is I have to travel early tomorrow. The other is I feel like I've visited this well a little too often and you, dear reader, may be yearning for another subject.

To which I say, see the "Next Blog" link at the top left there? Have at it. My blog, my subject.

And tonight's subject, as you can probably tell already, is conflict.

My son leaves for college tomorrow. On one hand, I couldn't be more proud and excited for him as he starts this next season of his life. Not to get too Seussian, but oh the places he'll go. The adventures he'll have. The friends he'll make. It will be rewarding for him in ways neither of us can even imagine.

On the other hand, my baby boy is leaving home. For eighteen years I've lived with him and quite frankly I don't know how to live without him. If you follow me on Facebook, you know I posted a link to an article Rob Lowe wrote about sending his son to college. He absolutely nails it. The experience is as joyous as it is heartbreaking.

I've tried, and admittedly done a lousy job, to keep a game face around him (my son, not Rob Lowe). I don't want him to feel like he can't leave me because I'll be reduced to a blubbering puddle of tears. Which I will, but he doesn't have to see it.

Anyway, tonight's post has been brought to you by Vent. Vent, when you just need to ramble on about it.

On a personal note, I know he doesn't read every single thing I post on here (thank God). But James, if you're reading this one, pack this in your suitcase: I love you and have always loved you more than either of us will ever know. You're more talented in more ways than any hundred people I know. And your heart is bigger than the state you're moving to - and that's saying something. I know I've told you already, but I just can't seem to stop saying it: I'm beyond proud, and can't wait to see the great things I know you're going to accomplish. You done good.

I like to think it's good parenting.

Pampered poodle

I've been accused - more than once - of being a pampered poodle. It's okay, I'm used to it. It doesn't exactly surprise me. I have a good idea where it comes from.

In fact, as I was getting my pedicure this afternoon, it dawned on me people who call me that, you know, the ones with long toenails and callused feet, may have a point.

There are several telltale signs that are dead giveaways. For instance I like going to the spa for a massage. My favorite spa happens to be the Canyon Ranch Spa at the Palazzo in Las Vegas. So it's a win-win-win right from the start.

When I don't feel like bending over to clip my toenails, or they start looking like I'm doing an uncanny Howard Hughes impression, I head down to the nail boutique for a pedicure. If it's on a day I can't find the clippers I'll get a paraffin wax manicure along with it. Can your hands ever be too smooth? I think not.

Besides, I do want them to look pretty while I'm typing all that copy.

Getting all gussied up isn't the only tell. When it comes to aluminum tubes going six-hundred miles an hour, I like to sit in the front of the plane. I prefer suites over regular hotel rooms, because as anyone who knows me will tell you, I like a big room. I do however enjoy looking at that retro, hipster barber shop I pass on the way to my salon.

One time I was holding hands with this girl (before I met my wife - you can all relax), and she said, "Wow. Your hands are so smooth. It's like you've never worked a day in your life."

I'm a copywriter. It's not exactly breaking rocks.

Anyway, occasionally budget and disposable income does become an obstacle. But like most people in advertising, I like a good challenge.

Like finding a cheaper nail salon.

Party major

As we get ready to send young Mr. Spielberg to his out-of-state film school, I find myself enrolled in a continuing education course about his university of choice.

For example, I just learned last year the Princeton Review rated his university number eleven on the list of party schools. However this year, it didn't even make the top twenty.

Not to sound like a parent, but I consider that an improvement. If I'd wanted him to go to a party school, I would've sent him to UCSB. Or any school in Arizona.

The timing was curious, because I learned this just as his school started emailing me information about alcohol abuse, and how to talk to my student about it.

It's enough to drive you to drink.

There are two things I know about my son: he has never liked alcohol, the smell of it, the thought of it, the effects of it. And he likes to keep his wits about him. There's nothing attractive to him about hugging the porcelain throne after a night of keggers, chasers and beer pong.

Of course, he did say he'd like to moderate a film festival screening Days Of Wine & Roses, Barfly, The World's End, The Hangover, Leaving Las Vegas, Sideways and The Lost Weekend.

But he's going to be a director, so I know he understands things like motivation.

Like if he screws up, his tab is closed.