My 100th post. Let's pause for a commercial break.

Welcome to my 100th post. Enjoy your stay.

So, this copywriter (nice guy actually) named Jeff Kerrin sent his work over to R/GA. One of our Creative Directors looked at it, and then asked me if I had ever been an actor. I told him I hadn't, but that I've been performing improv comedy for years.

"Hmmmm," he says, "because this guy's got some commercials on his reel, and it looks like you're in 'em." I figured he just thought all short bald guys look alike. Then I took a look at his portfolio online. The guy in the video certainly looked like me. He even sounded like me. Wait, it was me.

I had done these eight years ago. How could I not remember being in a commercial? Because I wasn't. These spots (spec spots, obviously) were made from my audition tapes. Back in San Francisco, there was a commercial audition for improvisors. I got there and was told to act like the worst computer salesperson ever. More specifically, a computer salesperson who knows nothing at all about computers.




The idea is supposed to be before you buy a computer, you should get information from those who are unbiased and knowledgeable about them - CNET. I'm a bit surprised he put these in his portfolio, since the production quality isn't very good. (Although you can't expect good lighting and sound from an audition set.) I asked him about his choice to include them (I called the number on his resume), and he said he felt the performances were good, so he included them with his work.



What are the chances he'd send these to the agency I work at? Maybe not all that slim, as our industry is pretty small. So, if you happen to be in our small little industry, and need a copywriter, check this guy out.

$200 salads and the end of the world.

A co-worker was complaining about how one of his projects was trudging along at a glacial speed. I pointed out due to global warming, that's really not all that slow.

All we need are a few more melting glaciers to cause frozen crops, and another round or two of dead bees, and soon we'll have wars being fought over the scarcity of food, not oil.

In this future, cafeteria food fights will be illegal. Salads will be given as expensive wedding gifts. And our government will tell us the war isn't about zucchinis, but about protecting our freedom.

Bon appetite.

Control Zzzzzz

I saw Yaz, one of my favorite 80's bands, a few weeks ago in concert. If you want to see what the show was like. Do this:

• 1. Grab a laptop
  
  
• 2. Stand in front of a mirror.
  
  
• 3. Press any one key over and over and over again.
  
  
• 4. Never smile.

If you want to see what yours truly was like during the concert, stand in front of same said mirror, and yawn.

In other 80's news, my friend gave me a call and told me he had like 20 free last minute tickets to see George Michael in concert. He got them because he's connected with a bartender at one of the bars inside Penn station (below Madison Square Garden). Whenever a show doesn't see out, they throw a bunch of tix his way. Though I wouldn't have bought tickets on my own, I have to say, he was pretty amazing. And the light/video show was hands down one of the best I have ever seen.

Speaking of 80's, the first concert I ever saw was Thompson Twins, with OMD opening. What was yours? Reply in the comments section if you're reading this.

A New York treat.

For three Saturdays in August (yesterday being one of them) Park Avenue becomes closed to ALL cars. Only bicyclists, rollerbladers, skateboarders, pedestrians, etc, are allowed on the road, BOTH WAYS from 72nd street all the way down to City Hall.

It was so much fun, and a little surreal, seeing a usually busy street free of traffic. There was a stretch in Midtown lined with closed stores and empty buildings (being Saturday in the business district). For a moment, it was easy to pretend everyone had disappeared, and us bicyclists were the only remaining ones on the island. Kind of like that scene in Vanilla Sky where Times Square is empty. Or that horrible Will Smith movie, Legend, where he's the only one in Manhattan. (By the way Will Smith, if you're reading this, you owe me 10 bucks and two hours of my life back. A shit script is one thing, but no 3rd act?)

Anyway, it was one of those special NYC events where adults become kids, and strangers laugh along with each other. Like being out in the city during a blackout.

Everyone screamed as we rode through the Park Avenue tunnel to hear their echo. It was nice to hear so many New Yorkers yelling without any cursing being involved.

Some of the cool parts were: Going up and touching statues you normally can't due to traffic surrounding them. Taking pictures from vantage points like this one, in front of Grand Central Station, which is pretty hard to do any other time. And being able to inspect the sides within the Park Avenue tunnel, and see all the odd fixtures lining its walls. It was a whole new side of the city, and it made me look at my home in a new way. I felt like a tourist, in a refreshing way, taking pictures and marveling at the sites.

A funny thing I heard: A pedestrian trying to cross the street as a slew of bikes whizzed past him. "Fuck, this is worse than when there's cars."

Ahhhhhhh!

Are Liz Taylor and the Joker the same person?

(click pic to enlarge)

"Is it just me, or is it hot in here?" I said as I melted.

I was just thinking about an indian sweat lodge I went to in Passedena, before I moved back from LA. This might help If you're not familiar with what one is. And this takes you to the woman's site who organized our lodge.)

It was an eye-opening experience. It was a sensory deprivation, mixed with intense heat, combined with very little room to move. I really wasn't sure if I could make it through the entire ritual. I had a flashing glimpse of a future where our dead bodies are found all piled up inside the tent with the whole thing being written off as some Jonestown suicide pact.

It's funny, right before we arrived at the lodge, my friend Sean was commenting on how annoying it is that I tend to make things all about me. (He's right, and I'm trying to break that pattern.) Okay, now back to me. At one point, I felt like I just couldn't take it anymore and I would have to exit the lodge. Doing this would have disrupted the spiritual ritual of the other 12-15 people in there, and would have certainly drawn attention away from the journey, and on to me. That thought helped me stay put while I endured the, what must have been, triple-digit temperature.

The shaman who led the quest said she had the energy to receive an indian spirit name for only one of us inside the lodge. I was the one who would be receiving the honor. So, at one point, she asks me "Are you ready to accept your spirit name?" "Yes," I said. Then, in a solemn voice she tells me the spirits have named me Dream Beaver.

"Excuse me, Dream What?"

The solemn voice repeats, "Dream Beaver."

So there you have it. I'm a Dream Beaver, which I was told, means I'm a builder of dreams. But beavers also make dams to block stuff out too, don't they?

Pow! Bam! Whack!

I recently saw Batman, The Dark Knight. I thought it was incredible. Terrific art direction and performances. I also think there's a metaphor for America within the script. It asks, "how long can you be a hero until you become the villain?" Hmmm.

And in Christian's defense, his mom's a real asshole.

Some time in LA.

I recently went back to LA to direct a couple of Nike shoots. It was a great trip, beginning to end. Not just because I had the opportunity to work with talented athletes like Serena Williams and Shawne Merriman, but because I got to spend some time with friends I hadn’t seen in awhile as well.

I’ve been reading a lot on separating one’s self from the ego; how easy it is to attach our sense of self to our possessions, to our points of view, and to our likes and dislikes. I (or my ego, which perceives itself as “I”) have done this with the cities I've lived in too; certainly with L.A. I still feel very attached to this place, and my old friends. But look, I made a new one! Serena.

She was great to work with; fun, smart, and able to deliver what was needed on cue. At one point, we were checking something on my MacBook, and I asked if she was a Mac or PC person. Without missing a beat she answered "HP." I forgot she was one of their spokespeople. Her agent, hovering nearby, couldn't have been happier. I think they both get a cut each time she says those two letters.

Merriman was great too. We asked him to step outside his normal football comfort-zone, and try his hand at some comedy. It's always tough when non-actors make these attempts, but he got it. He has a great personality, and was willing to be a little self-deprecating on camera. Kudos to him.

Okay, I'm a big time director now. So I have no more time to talk to you. Goodbye.

Did I kill Estelle Getty?

Just yesterday, I asked a co-worker if any of the Golden Girls were dead yet. One of them must be, I thought.

Two days later, Estelle (Sophia as the Golden Gals called her) died. Fucked up!

The reason I think I may have special powers is that this has happened before.

Speaking of Golden Girls, I have a project planned where I take a Golden Girls episode, and dub in the dialog from Sex in the City. It's really the same show.

SLUT:
Sex in the City = Samantha
Golden Girls = Blanche

INNOCENT ONE:
Sex in the City = Charlotte
Golden Girls = Rose

THE NON-SEXUALIZED CRANKY ONE:
Sex in the City = Miranda
Golden Girls = Sophia

WOMAN WITH A MAN FACE:
Sex in the City = Carrie
Golden Girls = Dorothy

Stay tuned.

A New York first.

I've lived in New York City most of my adult life. The other day, I experienced a first, on two levels. It was the first time I was the first passenger to be in the cab I got into.

My friend Nic and I were on our way to the Guggenheim to see the Cai Guo-Qiang exhibit. We hopped into a taxi, and this must have been the cleanest place I have ever been in New York City. Or anywhere.

When I commented on the pristine condition of the backseat, the driver told us we were the very first ones to be inside. I tired to get a pic of the odometer, but it was tough. It read 40 miles, and it was 40 miles from the taxi yard to our pick up.

Since we shared such a special ride together, I snapped his pic of the driver. By the way, the exhibit was great. This was my favorite piece. It's an important reminder to not always blindly follow the leader.

Oh, did I forget to mention I moved back to New York?

Yep. I moved back to NYC a few days ago to start my new job as an Associate Creative Director at R/GA on the Nike account. It's great to be back home.

Even though I've only been gone less than two years, I feel like Rip Van Winkle. It's as if I've been asleep for a century, and while snoozing, prices rose accordingly:

Honest tea in LA - 99¢
In midtown - $2.95

Tom's of Maine Deodorant in LA - $4.99
In East Village - $6.99

My rent in LA - $1,810 (with pool, jacuzzi, and gym). In East Village or Chelsea - Well, one broker said "come on, what do you expect for $2,300 a month?" as I gawked at a room no wider than a queen-sized bed on the 5th floor of a walk-up. But, here in New York, angry glares are free. So, it's got that going for it.

By the way, I wanted to see how much Tom's of Maine deodorant cost at Amazon.com. I see they have used and new. Who's buying all the used deodorant? 

I miss a lot of things about Los Angeles already, like the weather. I guess you really don't really appreciate some things until they're gone.

For instance, New York City cab drivers engaging you in conversation. I used to hate drivers talking to me when I was trying to get some peace and quiet. Today, if the driver's talking, it's probably to someone else on the other end of his cell phone. Now I have to listen to one half of HIS conversation, in whatever native language he's speaking, or making up. Hey, I want my meaningless discussions back! With the price of rides being what they, I should be entitled to one.

Yes, prices are definitely higher here now. But, it's good to know somethings remain constant - like the Peruvian singer guy who's still singing that same never-ending song on the subway.

April is Collin McNamee Day.

The other day, my friend Collin McNamee, pointed out that I've NEVER entered a blog posting in ANY of the months of April. At first, I was honored someone would delve so deeply into my ramblings as to notice such a thing. Soon though, my pride turned to shame; posting so sporadically was no way to treat such loyal readers.

In recognition of trying to get me and my blog back on track, I hereby proclaim every April as Collin McNamee Day! Collin, I'll present you with a proclamation and the Key to the Blogosphere next time I see you.

Let's learn more about Collin: He was with me when I popped my Disneyland Cherry. Here he is sitting next to me on Space Mountain (that's our buddy Sean behind him). That's right, cynical ol' Jeff went to Disneyland; I figured I should check it out before moving out of SoCal. And you know what? It's the fucking happiest place on Earth. I didn't fret about our diminishing economy and culture one time during the whole day!

As you may know, the park is laid out in different sections: FrontierLand, FantasyLand, AdventureLand, etc. One keen observation Collin made was the only place we couldn't get cell reception was in TomorrowLand. We were dropping calls well into the next millennia.

Of course, there were thousands of children there, but one particular kid stood out to me. This one had his name and phone number written on a square piece of paper and taped (heavily) onto his back. Sure, I guess this is a way to help prevent your child getting lost. But to me, it just seems like a pedophile's wet dream. Now he's got your kid's name AND number. (Billy, call me.)

In all seriousness, thanks Collin for being so supportive of my writing, and for the book you gave me to jot down my thoughts. Hopefully, I won't have to dedicate May to someone else just to get my ass in gear.

Immaculate Infection.

About a week ago, I started experiencing incredible pain when taking a piss. (going wee wee, for our more sensitive readers). The feeling was a unique blend of passing broken glass and fire.

I went to the doctor, thinking it might be an STD of some sort, which would have been weird since I haven't been getting any lately. Turns out it's an urethral infection, the celibacy-transmitted kind apparently.

Another odd, though slightly less painful sensation, was this being the first time my doctor was younger than me. I imagine I'll have many years to get used to this.

Irony and Defeat

My friend was telling me how the Anthony Robbins self-help CD's made a real positive difference in his life. It's a multi-disc set, but he burned one particular disc for me, thinking I could get a lot of use out of it.

I figured it would be a good thing to listen to in the car. Turns out, my car's CD player can't play writable discs, and kept rejecting it.

Which disc did my stereo keep rejecting? - Overcoming Fear of Rejection. I shit you not.

When did I become old?

Yaz, the 80's British pop group created by the founder of Depeche Mode and Erasure, are reuniting after 25 years and will play a few shows in America. I was psyched to get tickets for their LA performance, since they used to be on my record player all the time.

I asked one of my younger co-workers if she had heard the news about Yaz, and she said "Yaz? You mean the birth control pill?"

Yes, I'm going to see the birth control pill in concert.

Who says women can't do the same job as men?

Hey, we went dutch on the popcorn shrimp!

I recently read a news story about a young man accused of date-rape. He was convicted. Good. But I don't get it. Why didn't he just say they weren't on a date? That's what I'd do.

"Your Honor, that was NOT a date. We were just "hanging out." If it had been a date, I would have taken her someplace nicer that TGI Fridays.

JUDGE: That's commendable, but according to her, that was your third date.

"No. The first time we hung out, we went to the mall, and I was going there anyway. Not a date. The second time, we went to the movies, but with seven other people. Not a date. And the last time we got together, it was so she could help with my website."

JUDGE: Not a date. Case dismissed.


Simple.

Held up at badge-point.

Airport security agents are doing nothing more than robbing us blind. Snatching our shaving creams, lotions, and moisturizers. All that's missing is a firm "put your hands up!" Oh, wait, they do say that, if you're lucky enough to get waved by one of their magic wands. It's as if every kleptomaniac in the country had been given a uniform and told to report for work.

I'm for airline safety as much as the next guy, but it's not our planes that are being hijacked, it's our dignity and toiletries. Why nothing more than 3 ounces? Do explosive or combustible liquids only come in 3.1 ounce jars and up? Think of the waste! There must be landfills piled high with hand cream, cologne, and KY jelly. Here's an exchange I had a few months ago when flying home to LA from Ft. Lauderdale:

A TSA agent approached me and said, "Sorry sir, you can't bring this on board." The biological danger he was referring to was my St. Ives apricot facial scrub. Maybe he thought my plan was to exfoliate the entire plane to death.

"Don't you watch the news?" he continued. "No, I read the news," I replied. I then explained there had been conflicting reports over the easing of flying restrictions, and that I had flown in from Los Angeles with the very same container. The guard countered, "Well, I don't know how they do things in Los Angeles, but you can't fly with it out of here." "Exactly," I said. "You don't know how they do things in Los Angeles. That's the problem. If this is a federal rule, then it should be consistent amongst all airports. If it's not, then it's a joke."

"Are you calling airline security a joke sir? Because if you are, we'll get the Head of Security down here and HE can decide whether you can fly today or not." I'll go you one further," I said. "It's not only a joke, but it puts us in even greater danger. What you're doing here, sir, is theater. You are putting on a show. You're making it 'seem' as if there's a system in place to keep us safe. That's dangerous. It lulls people into a false sense of security. A false sense of security keeps people less vigilant and less prepared. Just like we were on September 10th.

"Don't call security a joke, sir." (Apparently, he was still stuck on that.) I replied, "but you know it's a joke. I know it's a joke. The woman behind me taking off her Easy Spirits knows it's a joke. Even my apricot facial scrub knows it's a joke. We all know it's a joke"

Some applauded. Others just threw sour faces at me. The head of Security came. I no longer called their efforts a joke. Instead, as I grabbed my bags, I told the guard he should be ashamed of himself for participating in such silly efforts during such serious times.

"Why put up a fuss?" you might ask. I guess, in the back of my mind, I thought if we all put up a fuss, something would be done. My rational side knows that's not going to happen. Maybe I wasn't really angry with the security rules that day at all. Perhaps I lashed out because I felt emasculated. I mean, the only thing more emasculating than carrying apricot facial scrub around is having another man take it away.

Trade offs.

I had someone in New York who loved me, and who I loved. And now I have things. And I have Los Angeles. Beware of things and Los Angeles.

Florida

I recently went down to Florida for my father's 75th birthday. While it was great to see my family, they drive me crazy. In all fairness, I drive them crazy too. But in Florida, there's never a dry crazy. Or a breezy crazy. It's just one long hot and humid crazy.

I find each time I go down there, I stay a little less than the time before. 4 day visits gave way to 3.5 day ones. Then I was down to 3 days flat. This last visit was 2.5 days. I expect, eventually, I'll just meet them on the tarmac, wave, and get back on the plane.

Ahhh, family visits. Smothered with attention, unable to lash out. Trapped in Florida. I know how this gator feels.

Happy birthday Dad. For real.