How many

Never let it be said I take the easy way out. I'm not saying I don't. What I'm saying is I don't want you to say it.

Look, here's the thing: it's 11 at night, and I'm tired from a day filled with all sorts of unexpected emergencies, new-dog frustrations (post about him peeing on the barbecue coming soon) and a visit with the chiropractor that was more painful than the pain I went in for. In other words, I could use a few laughs.

So a light bulb went off in my head: how many light bulb jokes could I tell before I bored myself? Notice I wasn't concerned about boring you - I figured I passed that finish line about three-hundred posts ago.

Anyway, lets see if we can find out.

How many Oregonians does it take to change a light bulb? Five. One to change the bulb and four more to chase off the Californians who have come up to relate to the experience.

How many jugglers does it take to change a light bulb? One, but it takes three light bulbs.

How many Zen masters does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to change it, and one not to change it.

How many cops does it take to change a light bulb? None. It turned itself in.

How many members of U2 does it take to change a light bulb? One. Bono holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.

How many actors does it take to change a light bulb? Just one. They don't like to share the spotlight.

How many Apple employees does it take to change a light bulb? Seven. One to change it and six to design the t-shirt.

Alright, I'm completely bored - I can't even imagine how you feel. I promise I'll try to do better and put a little more effort into tomorrows' post.

But for now, how many tired, sleep-deprived, vapor-locked bloggers does it take to end a post? Just one.

You never forget your first

I think it's pretty clear that, judging from the very first ad I ever wrote which you see here, I was destined to become a world-class, award-winning, creative-championing, sushi-loving, lunch-taking copywriter. Destiny was calling. Or maybe it was laughing. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

I've covered my illustrious career path before here, so there's no reason to repeat myself. Other than I get to talk about myself again, and being an only child I think you know how happy that makes me.

But I'll spare you. If you don't know the world revolves around me by now, remind me to remind you again tomorrow.

I remember being so excited when this ad actually appeared in Reader's Digest I told everyone I knew about it. My friends, my parents, my girlfriend. It was a much bigger deal at the time. I'd be in supermarket checkout lines, and casually pick up a copy and flip to the ad, talking loudly about how I'd written it.

This tactic always seemed to work better when I wasn't shopping by myself.

Of course, as you can plainly see, despite my illusions of grandeur and for almost every reason, it sucked. Plus the junior art director I worked on it with was a notorious asshole known all over town. He eventually went on to own his own successful asshole agency, until he was thrown out when it was acquired by another agency that didn't want assholes. He was an extremely unpleasant part of my first copywriting experience. It wouldn't be the only unpleasant experience I'd have with this asshole, but that's for another post (guess what the title will be).

Anyway, since the subject of the ad was how the "bite-sized pillows" were designed, his breakthrough idea was to make it look like a schematic and put it on graph paper. I was new to this ad writing thing, but even then I still knew how to roll my eyes.

I shouldn't be too critical - after all, this is the ad that launched me into a career path I never expected, and one that's been very rewarding both personally and professionally. In hindsight, I now realize it taught me a couple of extremely valuable life lessons that I think apply not just to advertising, but to virtually every industry. To this very day, I carry these learned philosophies with me to every job I do.

First, whether it's an insurance policy, a work of literature or an ad, if you're going to put a product out in the world make it as creative, entertaining, informative, thought-provoking and relevant as possible.

And second, don't work with assholes if you can avoid it.

Getting the hang of Parenthood

Like many shows that've become favorites over the years, I got my first glimpse of Parenthood thanks to my wife. I'd caught a little bit of one episode she was watching, and I decided to binge the entire series with her (I know, so out of character for me).

It's an exceptional series.

If you've been following this blog for any amount of time, I think it's safe to say we know one thing about me: I'm a sap. So the idea of a show that leaves me in a reduced state of blubbering like a baby and searching for the Kleenex every week is right up my alley.

What the show gets so right is everything about what being a parent means - wanting the best for your kids, sharing their frustrations, soaring at their successes, the day-to-day frustrations that come with the job of being a parent. It also speaks to the unending ties of family, which, being an only child, I related to less but found myself wishing I'd had three siblings. That doesn't happen often. Ok, never.

The show's produced by Ron Howard and Brian Grazer, and is based on the Howard's movie of the same name. The cast, writing and direction would be exceptional for a cable network like HBO or Showtime, but they're extraordinary for network television.

Craig T. Nelson, or as I like to call him, Mr. Incredible, is the patriarch of the Braverman family. And he is magnificent. Bonnie Bedalia, or Holly McClane from Die Hard, is his wife. Peter Krause, Lauren Graham, Dax Shepard and Erika Christensen play their adult children. The show's pedigree is remarkable, and the chemistry between all of them is genuine.

Because I'm late to the party on a lot of shows, Netflix is a beautiful thing. Especially when you can find six seasons of a show the caliber Parenthood just waiting to be discovered. Of course, the problem with bingeing six seasons in a row is once it's over, you're hungry to find the next series to commit to.

But like I said, I'm late to a lot of parties. Hello Arrested Development.

Eye in the sky

Sometimes I really love technology.

For example, today my daughter had a flight on Delta from Los Angeles to Nashville. I can already see you being judgmental from here, but just know it wasn't me who put her on Delta. I'm not that kind of parent. It's a school trip to a singing competition, and the choir director was responsible for booking the flight.

I'd have gone with Jet Blue or American, and my little princess definitely would've been sitting in the front of the plane because she's the best daughter in the world and deserves first class all the way.

I've scored enough dad points for one night.

The technology I love is the FlyDelta app. It let's me track where my baby is in real time with all the essential information: departure time, estimated arrival time, altitude, time in flight, time remaining and a map of where she is at any given moment.

Every airline has a similar app, but Delta's, unlike the airline itself, is fairly intuitive.

I like knowing when she lands. That way when she calls me an hour and a half later and says "I just landed." I have a card to play later on I can use as leverage for things like room cleaning, or laundry doing, or car borrowing (not that she'd ever do that, because she's as honest as the day is long - more dad points).

My son also flies back and forth a lot from his out-of-state university, and when he does I have my eyes on his airline flight app as well. My babies mean the world to me and I like knowing they've arrived safely.

To me, the airline apps that let me track flight status is technology at its peace of mind given', stress relievin', parentally reassurin', easy breathin' best.

I just hope I can find one to make sure she doesn't listen to country music when she gets back.

My left foot

If you saw the title of this post and were hoping for a nice, insightful piece about the Daniel Day Lewis movie of the same name, I'm sorry to disappoint you. But if you've been following this blog for any amount of time, you already know that disappointment rides shotgun.

Yesterday I posted about my eyes, today it's about my foot. Who knows what body part it'll be tomorrow, although this is a family blog so don't get your hopes up.

For the last few days I've had a stabbing pain in the bottom of my left heel. Last night it was unbearable, and I couldn't even make the short walk from the bedroom to the refrigerator, a well-worn path I usually traverse several times a night (WIFE: "Where'd all the leftover ham, caramel swirl ice cream and chocolate Easter eggs go?" ME: "Don't look at me, I was asleep.")

I made a call and managed to get into see my podiatrist this morning. After he took a look at the x-ray you see here, he said two things. First, if you look just below my heel, there's a small shadowy area where the beginning of a bone spur is forming. I asked if I could put that on my resume, but he didn't think it was funny either. The other thing he said was I had Plantar Fasciitis, a tightening of the thin ligament connecting the heel to the toes and forming the arch of my foot.

I figured. I'd had it once before years ago in my right foot. That time, he prescribed stretching, a little physical therapy and some more stretching. After a couple weeks when none of that worked, he gave me a shot of cortisone in the foot and poof! - it was all better the next day.

Cortisone is a synthetic version of a powerful steroid the body produces naturally. But the catch is you can only have two or three shots a year, otherwise it's no bueno and can actually do damage.

Anyway, today, he paused thoughtfully for a second and said, "You know, we went through all that stuff last time. Let's just go straight to a shot of cortisone and knock this out." Exactly what I was hoping he'd say.

First a shot of novocaine, then the cortisone. That was this morning. Tonight, my heel is virtually pain-free, the Riverdance audition is back on and the refrigerator is waiting.

When it comes to complaining, I don't do a lot of it. No one wants to hear it, and it doesn't make the problem any better. But here's the thing: having the double whammy of being Jewish and an only child, I've honed my skills for complaining about my aches and pains better than most.

Truth is, I can go toe to toe with the best of them.

The eyes have it

I've posted before here about my annual eye exam to make sure my retina isn't detaching. Which I'm happy to report it isn't. My eye doctor is the guy, the premiere retina and vitreous tissue specialist in the country. And I love seeing him (no pun intended) every year. He's incredibly reassuring, and just generally awesome.

In between my annual retina check ups, I visit my also stellar optometrist at least once or twice a year, because my vision changes so quickly. In fact it's gotten worse since you started reading this post.

The bad news is my eyes are unusually sensitive, not to mention piercing: like looking into a deep, brown, knowing ocean and seeing answers to questions you've always been too fearful to ask, yet knowing the essence of your soul has been seen and reflected back at you.

Where was I? Oh yeah. What I'm saying is even a one degree change in my prescription, and it's new glasses all around.

My favorite part of the exam is the phoropter. It's the refraction measuring machine in the picture up on top that, when placed in front of your eyes, makes you look like you're going to a masquerade party. Or you're a borg.

While you have it on, the doctor keeps changing out lenses and asking "which is better, one or two?" Changes them again. "Better yet?" And again. "How about now?"

I think it'd be great if there were also a phoropter for other life decisions. Spouses, homes, cars, kids, dogs. Something that would give you a picture of what you're getting, and the chance to make it even better.

Of course, not everyone answers the "which is better?" question the right way. Sometimes it's hard to see the difference no matter how long you stare at it. But by then it's too late, your choice has been made.

Which is also the exact moment you realize hindsight is 20/20.

Goodbye Garry

I had lunch with Garry Shandling in New York.

Years ago, the wife and I had gone back to visit our friend Kevin, who was living there and working on SNL at the time. We were going to meet him and his wife at the time for lunch at the now defunct Cafe Des Artistes. When we were confirming lunch, Kevin said, "I hope you don't mind, but I invited Shandling and one of his writers to join us."

We were good with it.

We all met at the restaurant, and there was an additional person at the table who I didn't know. Come to find out later he was the president of PETA, which Kevin's wife was very involved with.

Shandling sat next to my wife, and, either not knowing or not caring, spent most of the lunch talking to her and hitting on her. As you might imagine, it was hysterical.

I don't remember many of the lines, but at one point, obviously for the PETA president's benefit, he asked my wife, "I want to get a new haircut, but I'm nervous about how it'll look so I want to try it out on my dog first. Is that considered animal testing?"

A few weeks later, the wife and I were shopping on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica (where we lived at the time), and we wandered into this antique furniture store. We were looking at one of those two-person desks when Shandling walked in. We reminded him we'd all had lunch in New York, and had a nice conversation with him for about twenty minutes.

Here are a couple things he told us: he started out as a copywriter in New York, and ironically had written on Suntory Whiskey - an account I'd worked on at Wells Rich Greene early in my career (stops to laugh hysterically for using the word "career").

Early in 1998, I sat down and wrote two episodes of his influential and landmark Larry Sanders Show. I thought they were pretty good, and I asked Kevin if he'd read them and, if he liked them, would he mind passing them on to Garry.

Well, there's good news and bad news. The good news is Kevin liked the scripts. The bad news was it was right at the point when Garry was pulling the plug on the show. In comedy, timing is everything.

A couple years ago, the wife and I saw Shandling again at Kevin's birthday party. While it was a star-studded affair, we both felt a personal connection to him. We didn't know him well, but we'd been fortunate enough to spend time on the receiving end of his remarkable humor and unmistakable kindness.

I could go on about how revolutionary both It's Garry Shandling's Show and The Larry Sanders Show were, but you'll be hearing and reading a lot about that in the coming days. Besides, the work speaks for itself.

Sadly, and all too soon, as of this morning the world is a far less funny place. However, if you know anyone in heaven, you might want to let them know there's going to be a killer set tonight around 9pm at The Laff Stop on Cloud 9. Two drink minimum. Look for the brick wall and the mic.

You're in our hearts forever. Goodbye Garry. Rest in peace.