Rediscovering Raymond

Here’s how our sitcom rotation goes (I like using the word “rotation” for obvious reasons).

It started with nightly mini-binges of Seinfeld. Every night from 10 to 11pm, channel 13 runs back-to-back episodes, and the wife and I would watch them while we were struggling to arrange the five-thousand pillows on the bed before falling asleep (don’t get me started).

The problem is in that particular syndication package, there are only a limited number of episodes, which means they keep running the same ones over and over. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just that they're not as funny when you see it for the tenth time within three weeks.

So we made the move from the corner restaurant to Central Perk. Nick At Nite fills their evening lineup with episode after episode of Friends from about 8pm to midnight every night. Could it be more entertaining?

But while NAN runs more Friends episodes, if you watch them long enough you wind up with the same issue. So we decided to pivot and take a break from Friends.

While we were using the clicker to run down the channels to see what else we could binge, we discovered every evening at 8pm TV Land runs a whole bunch of Everybody Loves Raymond. It was like striking comedy gold. We’d forgotten how out-and-out hilarious, relatable and pitch perfect Raymond is. It ran for 9 years, and though it's not often mentioned in the same breath as those other two sitcoms, it's one of the best and funniest that ever was.

One of the ways you can tell how brilliant it is on every level is the fact many of the most hilarious scenes take place with the five main characters—Ray (Ray Romano), Debra (Patricia Heaton), Frank (Peter Boyle), Marie (Doris Roberts) and Robert (Brad Garrett)—just sitting on the couch or at the kitchen table just talking. Not walking around, not gesturing wildly, not being contrived. Just talking.

It’s testimony to the brilliant writing and talent of this finely tuned cast.

I know Seinfeld is a staple for a lot of people, and what with the reunion, the sad, not so funny reunion, it’s been the year of Friends again. But if you're looking for some genuine laughs you didn't even know you had, I can’t recommend enough that you drop in on the Barone family.

As Frank would say, "Holy crap is that a funny show!"

Gone phishing

How gullible are you? Here’s how you find out: take the last four numbers of your Social Security card, add them to the year you were born and that’s the percentage of how gullible you are.

Want to know the rapper name for someone as gullible as you? Take your first dog’s name and the last thing you ate and you’ll have it.

If you think those fun and funny questions that keep popping up in memes on right-wing propaganda highways like Facebook are nothing more than a humorous diversion, then the laugh’s on you.

They’re actually sophisticated, well-designed, algorithmically enhanced, individually targeted ways to fool you into ponying up passwords, security question answers, user names and other personal information that in any other circumstance you’d never reveal to anyone.

The term is phishing. And while phishing originally applied to emails that tried to get you to reveal your personal information to people like that Nigerian prince who needed your bank account to deposit the lottery winnings/inheritance he had waiting for you, the term now applies to any online scheme to rube you out of your personal info.

Full disclosure—I’ve answered a few of these my own self, but only after careful consideration as to the possibility of discerning any of my info from my answers. Of course, I won't know if I got it right until it's too late.

The other part of it is advertising. You and your eyes are the only product Facebook has to sell to advertisers. By posing seemingly harmless, mildly entertaining questions and getting you to answer them, Facebook algorithms easily divvy up a dossier of your likes and dislikes, political views, salary, occupation and more into demographic buckets to justify their ad rates to agencies and advertisers.

Not to burst anyone’s fun bubble, but I’m old enough to remember when privacy was a thing. It still is with me. And if you want to protect yourself from fraud, identity theft, a barrage of advertisements and unscrupulous social network creators, it should still be a thing with you too.

My recommendation is find your fun elsewhere, in ways that won’t separate you from your money without you knowing.

And if anyone asks why you won’t answer these fun questions, tell them rapper Ace Shrimp Burrito told you not to.

What is bullshit

So really, what was it all for?

When legendary longtime Jeopardy host Alex Trebek died of pancreatic cancer last November, speculation about his replacement took off faster than Bret Kavanaugh on a beer run. Everyone had an opinion about who should fill Alex’s big shoes.

Jeopardy, in a move equal parts ratings grab and audition process, lined up a series of diverse and interesting guest hosts for the show while a decision was being made about the permanent one.

Almost immediately, Ken Jennings—the highest-earning American gameshow contestant, and the longest winning streak ever on Jeopardy with 74 consecutive wins—rose to the frontrunner position for the job. Jennings was already a contributing producer on the show, and seemed like a no brainer (see what I did there?) to replace Trebek. He was also first in the series of guest hosts.

After him came the show’s executive producer, also exec producer of Wheel Of Fortune and one of the main decision makers regarding Alex’s replacement, Mike Richards.

Conflict of interest much?

Richards had hosted a couple of game shows before and it showed. As the wife so perfectly put it, Richards is the Wink Martindale of Alex Trebeks. Way too slick, humorless and cold (even though I hear he speaks well of me), he was stilted and didn’t relate particularly well to contestants during the nightly interviews after the first commercial break.

The small talk seemed forced—like watching a Boston Dynamics robot trying to dance like a human. Close, but not quite right.

But eventually his two weeks as guest host ended, and the show moved on to other hosts including Katie Couric, Anderson Cooper, Sanjay Gupta, David Faber, Robin Roberts, George Stephanopoulos, Aaron Rogers, Buzzy Cohen (another former Jeopardy champion), Mayim Bialik, Savannah Guthrie and fan favorite LeVar Burton.

Now, I’m human—not Boston Dynamics human but real human—and as such had my own favorites. Even before the guest hosts were announced, I thought Anderson Cooper would make a great Jeopardy host. I still do.

Ken Jennings would be great, and his connection to the show and Alex makes him a comforting and poignant prescence.

Sanjay Gupta, Mayim Bialik or LeVar Burton would all be historic choices for obvious reasons, and would fit the bill splendidly.

And David Faber, the current guest host, simply feels like he's always been there and part of it.

They were all warm, genuine, had a sense of humor plus the brainpower and gravitas to host the fact-based juggernaut. Mike Richards was never on my list. He was charactature of a gameshow host. Nothing more than a footnote.

Well well, come to find out the braintrust at Sony, who produces the show, doesn't quite see it that way. In fact, you’ll never guess who’s the frontrunner to replace Alex. Give up? It’s executive producer, main decision maker, android prototype and very white guy Mike Richards! I know. I’m as shocked as you are. Apparently he’s in final negotiations to become the permanent host.

Even though many of the other guest hosts had day jobs, and were doing the show just to raise money for their favorite charities (Jeopardy donated the nightly combined contestant winnings to them), it was a glimpse into how interesting and fun the show could have become with the right person at the podium.

Anyway, you have thirty seconds players: here’s the clue: This colloquial phrase describes the reason Mike Richards, executive producer of Jeopardy is likely to replace Alex.

What is the fix was in from the start.

Hipster

Let’s start with the title. There were a lot of ways I could have gone with it:

Shoot From The Hip.

Hip Hip Hooray.

Joined At The Hip.

Hip Hop.

Hip-A-Long Cassidy.

Keep Hip Alive.

But I didn’t choose any of those. Instead I went with Hipster, because it conjured up an image of Rich in a knit cap, wearing ripped jeans and an olive drab t-shirt with a vaguely smug, ironic saying on it.

I know how much he’d like that.

Rich by the way is my good friend Rich Siegel, proprietor and author of the RoundSeventeen blog, former captain of the USA pole vaulting team and bronze winner in the ’96 Olympics in Barcelona.

After years of breakdancing and spinning, poppin’ and lockin’, and his part time gig as an Elvis impersonator at the Graceland chapel in Vegas, his hip had enough Jailhouse Rockin'.

So this past Monday he walked with a limp into the hospital bright and early and had hip replacement surgery, which he so eloquently wrote about about here.

I spoke with him by text yesterday, and he was doing fine. A lot of napping. As those of us in the tribe say, “Why is this day different than other days?”

Anyway, I along with his other friends and quite possibly some members of his own family he doesn’t owe money to are glad he came through it swimmingly. I imagine he’ll be back on his feet setting off airport metal detectors, working on his Lee Majors impression (look it up), auditioning for Dancing With The Stars and doing a #glitchchallenge (@_aubreyfisher) on the IG in no time.

Get well soon Rich. Oh, and by the way, fuck Trump.

More John Moreland please

Here’s how it happened.

My son and his girlfriend thought it was time the wife and I met her parents and they met us. Nothing loaded about that invitation.

So instead of meeting anywhere near where either set of parents live—because that would've been too easy on the old folks—they decided to have us schlepp out to Gladstone’s on PCH on a hot sunny Saturday morning for brunch.

By the way, note to self: the best thing about Gladstone’s must be the view because it sure isn't the clam chowder. How does a seafood restaurant screw up clam chowder? Maybe next time try to keep it down to one brick of butter. Don't get me started.

Anyway, I spent a lot of the meal braced for some kind of big announcement to be sprung on us by the cute couple but, to my relief, they decided to save that card to play at a later date.

Prior to the meeting, my son sat me down for a son-father talk, and let me know his girlfriend’s father was on the more conservative side of the political spectrum than I am, and I was advised, as was her dad, that in order to keep this first introductory meeting civil we should probably avoid discussing politics. Hard as it is for me to bite my tongue, and resist the pure joy that is embarassing my kids, I said I'd try.

Come to find out there was no need for them to worry. Everyone was on good behavior and getting along great. In fact, come to find out her dad was a very funny, interesting guy who I hit it off with from the get go. I really enjoyed talking to him and am very much looking forward to our next meal together.

That sound you hear is the kids finally letting their breath out.

At one point during the meal, he looked over at me and said, “So, I hear there’s a particular singer you’re pretty fond of.” To which I said, “Why as a matter of fact there just might be.” He then proceeded to tell me if I liked Springsteen—which he did also, so big points for that—I had to hear John Moreland. So on the drive home I fired up Spotify, and it was love at first listen.

First, as you may know I have a thing for singers with a little grit and gravel in their voice. Moreland's voice is uncannily close to Bruce’s, with just a hint of early Tom Waits and a faint bouquet of Warren Zevon.

Then, the songs. Beautiful, heartbreaking, truth-wringing, emotion-filled poetry. Deceptively simple lyrics that are pointed like a knife, and as moving as they are poignant.

Acoustic folk is not where Moreland started. He was a well-known figure on the Oklahoma punk scene—yes there is one—for a very long time. But he’s found his true sound, and it’s wonderful.

The first video here is the happiest melody I’ve heard from him, but don’t be fooled: listen to the lyrics. It's also the only performance with a band, the rest are him and his guitar.

If you’re ready for a good cry, take a look at the other videos and be prepared for a case of the feels.

And not that I needed more to seal the deal, but watch and listen to the last video, and you'll hear why John Moreland feels like home to me.

Raised by MadMen

This one’s going to be short and sweet. And it isn’t going to be so much a blogpost as a love letter.

The best way I can describe it is this: I had a moment out of time today. After not having seen or really talked to them in too many years, I found myself sitting at lunch with two of the most influential men in my career and my life.

One of them—an advertising Hall of Fame legend—saw something in me I didn’t see in myself, and gave me an unexpected and life-changing opportunity when he made me the first junior copywriter ever at Wells Rich Greene/West.

The other—a highly accomplished and award-winning creative director, and now internationally acclaimed photographer and artist—showed me how to navigate the new responsibilities that came with the title. The essentials, like how to treat, respect and direct talent. The steps involved in producing a television spot.

Both of them lavished encouragement on me, allowed me to let my imagination and humor run wild, reigned me in when needed, made a real writer out of me and always had my back. Together, they taught me the importance of being a decent, inclusive, caring man in a business with no shortage of the opposite kind.

I was sitting at lunch today with two men who are forever a part of my fabric and I love dearly: Howie Cohen and Alan Kupchick.

My wife, who worked with Alan at the agency where we met, and later for Howie at his agency, was also there. Together the four of us filled in the memory blanks on names, events and stories, of which there were just as many we got to as we didn’t.

There are very few occasions in life where the saying "time flies when you're having fun" actually applies. But as Howie put it, it was a three-hour lunch that felt like three minutes.

Yes it was. And I can’t wait for our next three minutes.

Unchained Melody

This may come as a surprise to you—I know it did to me—but some of the people who come to this blog actually come here to learn something. Mostly what they learn is there are better things to do with their time.

Today however, I’m putting out a few facts you may not have known about one of my favorite songs: Unchained Melody. So there.

Most people are familiar with Unchained Melody either by way of the Righteous Brothers hit in 1965, or the infamous Demi Moore / Patrick Swayze penis pottery scene in the 1990 film Ghost. But, and here comes the learning part, Unchained Melody had already been a hit a decade before the Righteous Brothers sang it.

Originally written by composer Alex North and lyricist Hy Zaret for the 1955 movie Unchained (hence the name), it was sung in the film by Todd Duncan, playing a prisoner longing for his wife.

Two different versions, an instrumental and one with lyrics, were released with the film and recorded by various people including Harry Belafonte. Unchained Melody was on the Billboard charts four times that year.

It would be impossible to show all the versions of the song that’ve been done in the last 65 years, but hell you’ve obviously got too much time on your hands or you wouldn’t be here.

I kid because I love.

Anyway, I’ve curated a few versions—including the Righteous Brothers—for your listening and viewing pleasure.

My personal favorites of this bunch are Rodric King, who started his musical career doing karaoke in bars and Mike Yung, a subway busker for the last 37 years performing on America’s Got Talent. They’re both genuinely amazing.

See if you don’t agree.