So Long, Farewell, auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye!

Author's Note: Below is the column I wrote this week in the CV Weekly newspaper telling readers that it would be my last column. After 300-plus columns over 5-plus years, it’s just time to do something else. What does that mean for this blog? I’m not really sure. I plan to post shorter entries more often. But we know how best-laid-plans and all that hoo-ha often work out. 

All I know for sure is that it takes a tremendous investment of time and energy to write 650 words that you’re proud to have thrown onto all the driveways and in front of businesses in your home town and local environs each and every week.

I'll admit that I’ve been more than frustrated with the lack of feedback (other than negative, which seems to come easily for a lot of people) that I get from readers every week. With the loss of my oldest brother in February, I realized the hard truth that he was my one and only consistent “fan” – even when he vehemently disagreed with my political or worldview, he would, without fail, let me know that he read my column, and that he appreciated my writing. Since he died mind-numbingly unexpectedly early last month, I have truly not been excited to publish my column each week. I knew Bob would not be around to read it, and somehow, that matters.

Finally, and quite frankly, I’m ready to not have that pressure of meeting the noon-on-Monday deadline for a change. I’ll probably miss it after a week or two, but, hey ... it just feels like the timing is right to pull the plug and start looking for the next creative challenge. Any thoughts and suggestions would be appreciated. And with that, please enjoy my final My Thoughts, Exactly column. – Jim

When (CV Weekly Publisher/Editor) Robin Goldsworthy first asked if I’d be interested in writing a weekly column, she was editor of the Crescenta Valley Sun, which at the time was owned by the Glendale NewsPress, which is owned by the Los Angeles Times, which is owned by ... well, never mind. I said yes, and she has been graciously publishing my thoughts exactly as I’ve written them down with fewer edits than I can count on one hand in well over 300 columns.

At the time, I had no idea what I would write about for several weeks, much less several years. But we live in a unique corner of the world, in a fascinatingly diverse town and – to say the least – during challenging times. After a few dozen columns, it became obvious that there were far more column subjects than time to write them. In fact, the flash drive that I use for these columns has something like 65 half-written columns. (As opposed to half-baked, which is how my critics would label them, no doubt!)

Countless times I’ll have had a column nearly completed to the 650 word length requirement and almost ready to send off to the CV Weekly’s lavish global headquarters. Then, some national or local event will happen that begs for snarky commentary – and so I save the original column to my “In Progress” folder and bang out an entirely different, more topical column. That’s what happened as recently as last week, for example, when the 4.4 earthquake hit on Monday morning and I found myself chomping at the keyboard to make fun of the subsequent news media follies “covering” the non-event.

And so, yet another column got diverted onto my flash drive and into literary limbo. Such is the nature of writing in our digital world. Even so, here are a few of the truths I’ve learned in writing hundreds of columns:

1. First and foremost, readers who disagree with a particular viewpoint or opinion are far more likely to write to the editor than the people who agree with what you write. For every fire-breathing (tolerant?) progressive who has written to Robin threatening to unsubscribe if she didn’t pull my publishing plug, there have been countless more wonderful folks who have approached me in the grocery store or in the Montrose Shopping Park or wherever I happen to be – who thank me for daring to speak up for the more traditional values and viewpoints.

2. The longer I’ve lived here (all of my life) and written about it, the more I realize that the Crescenta Valley is truly a unique place to live and raise a family. It’s close to the all of the financial, creative, technological and manufacturing hubs of Los Angeles, San Fernando and San Gabriel Valleys, and yet is hidden between the forested foothills of two mountain ranges that make it feel like an escape from the “big cities” only a short freeway drive away.

3. It amazes me how people react (both positive and negative) to different topics. What I think is going to be controversial often garners almost no feedback at all, while something I might briefly mention in passing will become the fodder for significant reader response. Go figure.

4. That it’s not easy being the spouse or kids of someone who writes openly and transparently in a community newspaper once a week. For any discomfort, cringe-worthy stares and outright embarrassment I may have caused family members over the years, I apologize.

5. Finally, I’ve learned that there is a time for everything in life and when it’s time to move on to something else, well, it’s time. That said, this will be my last weekly column for the CV Weekly. I make a living as a writer, but this column has always been more about the love of writing rather than the money. (But Robin, you can still expect my final invoice!)

And with that, I’ll see you ‘round town.

Oh, the Stemware!

One of the more entertaining benefits of living in Southern California is to experience our semi-frequent earthquakes and then watch the hilarious news coverage that ensues. Last Monday morning, for example, found our local high def doofuses in classic form.

As the ground shook at 6:25 a.m. on St. Patrick’s Day, many of our local broadcasters went to live continuous coverage for the next hour-and-a-half to bring us every possible breaking non-story so that viewers had all the necessary information to survive the ongoing aftermath of our latest natural disaster. Whew.

Was there damage? Not a bit – unless you consider knocked-over books or a wine glass falling off a shelf catastrophic property damage. Were there casualties to man or beast? Uh, um ... well, no. As I flipped around the channels during the non-stop coverage, broadcasters were pleading with viewers to share their photos, video clips and commentaries about any and all damage caused by the latest earthquake. Nothing. Stations had video feeds from their airborne helicopters showing ... normal traffic. Yawn. No broken water mains. No collapsed freeway overpasses. No panic in the streets. But “stay with us throughout the morning so we can bring you the latest updates on this breaking story!”

Social media outlets were shaking with laughter all day Monday, as links were posted to clips of our crack local news teams reacting on the air – some like grade schoolers on the playground – as the quake hit. One link in particular was reposted many thousands of times, showing KTLA’s morning anchors, Chris Schauble and Megan Henderson panic and duck for cover underneath the desk during the broadcast.

Yes, they did the prudent thing. In fact, during one of her countless interviews, USGS Seismologist and perennial “go-to” expert, Dr. Lucy Jones, even commented on the KTLA couple’s daring on camera dive saying that they did exactly what we are all supposed to do as quakey, shakey California residents. Still, it was pretty funny to watch.

Over at KCBS, the gaggle of gabbers weren’t too much more poised. Although no one dove for the safety of the desktop (there will be disciplinary meetings!) the fearless on-air foursome did provide useful and enlightened running commentary, including: “Whoa!” “Big earthquake!” “Really big earthquake!” “Yes, big!” “Wow!” “We can still feel it!” “It feels really, really strong!” “I still feel it!” “My hands are shaking!” “Again, wow!” and “I agree.”

You’re watching trained professionals, kids. DO NOT try this level of reporting at home.

Throughout the next hour and a half of continuous coverage there were breathless announcements of breaking news like: “This Channel (fill in the number) exclusive just in: we have just learned that the quake has officially been downgraded from a 4.7 to 4.4. When we learn more, we’ll be the first to tell you.”

Crickets.

In much the same way as our dear local media sensationalize and hyperbolize even the slightest amount of precipitation, Southland earthquake coverage has earned us national, if not international ridicule. There’s even an unofficial award given by pundits and provocateurs to the local news anchor who executes the most memorable on-air desk dive during an earthquake. The dubious “Shocknek Award” is named for long-time local veteran of the airwaves, Kent Shocknek, who made news of his own in 1987 while broadcasting during the Whittier Narrows earthquake, making an Olympics-worthy dive under the anchor desk, and continuing to report the news with the camera locked onto an empty chair. Hearty congratulations to the KTLA 5 team for taking this year’s honors!

I’m sure newsrooms all across L.A. County are buzzing with how to maintain ratings now that the latest non-event is already days old. But never fear. I just heard a report that there may be a potential drizzle in our seven day forecast.

Fire up those Dopplers people and prep for live remote stand ups on mist-moistened streets. Things. Could. Get. Damp. 

I’ll see you ‘round town.

iDriving Our New Computer (Pt. 2)

Last weekend as I was making sure all of our assorted clocks, watches, coffee makers, appliances and cars had all “sprung forward”, I remembered that I hadn’t yet written Part 2 of my tale of technological troubles in driving the car we bought last summer. My bad.

To recap; both of our cars were well-over ten years old when we finally caved to the pressures of repairs and reliability and bought a brand spankin’ new, off-the-showroom ride for my dear deserving wife. That was in July, and I’ve been alternately exasperated and amazed every time I get behind the wheel since then.

photo: nasa.gov

For example, even now I have to restrain myself from deliberately driving off the nearest freeway overpass in frustration when I simply try to get fresh air flowing through the vents in this miracle of transportation technology. Back when cars had more horsepower than microchips, to get fresh air you nudged a simple mechanical vent lever to a setting labeled ‘fresh’ and the outside air flowed from the outside to inside. Easy peezy.

But the engineers who designed our new car’s “climate control system” must detest simplicity. And so, there are settings for feet only, body only, windows only, feet and windows and body and windows. My wife and I can each set our own comfort-zone so that, theoretically, I could be freezing while she rides in sauna-like heat on her side of the cabin. But neither of us can simply enjoy fresh air without rolling down the windows. Apparently, there’s no way to allow air into our car without passing through its HEPA (wha-huh?) micro-filtration system, which as near as I can tell, means I could park in front of the ruined Fukushima nuclear power plant without exposure to lethal radiation.

Our new car has more bells, whistles, beeps, buzzes, dings and chimes than a 1980s video arcade. But surprisingly, one feature it doesn’t have is a GPS navigation system. Apparently, we missed that boat. Very few of the new models that my wife and I researched and/or test drove last summer had such a system. According to the salespeople (and they never lie, right?), the newest of new cars sync up or link up, or otherwise automatically connect with one or more of the smart phones being carried by everyone from grandmas to grade school kids these days. Then, the phone’s own map-app provides voice directions through the car’s audio system with its multiple surround-sound speakers, Dolby noise reduction and onboard digitized algorithm software which analyzed the road noise coming from outside the “cabin” and customizes white noise output to counteract any such unwanted audio signals. Never has “turn left at the next signal. In N’ Out Burgers will be on your right” sounded so good.

Before driving anywhere, however, the car must be started, which poses another challenge. That’s because our car doesn’t have a key, but rather a “fob” that communicates with mission control somewhere when either my wife or I get within a few feet of the vehicle. Supposedly, the car senses whether it’s me or my wife who’s about to attempt to drive it. With this knowledge (hello, NSA ... are you watching?) it should adjust the driver’s seat and both outboard mirrors to our personal settings before we even get inside. More often than not, however, the car thinks I am my wife and that she is me. Even if we switch key fobs, the driver’s seat automatically starts sliding towards the steering wheel as I’m trying to sit down. There’s a reason I call the car, “Crusher.”

Once the seats have been readjusted to non-torture setting, there are certain, shall we say “procedures” to follow in order to start the engine. The Space Shuttle had to be easier to launch than this thing. Key fob in proximity? Check. Transmission interface lever in “Park” position? Check. Safety belt interlock properly engaged on human biomass detected in driver’s seat? Check. Begin ignition sequence. Locate launch, er, start button on the cockpit panel and ... nothing. Houston, we have a problem.

Okay, check Owner’s Manual volume 4, chapter 148, page 10,432. “Starting Your Car’s Engine.” Why of course! My foot needs to depress the brake with precisely 23-foot-pounds of pressure, while my left foot makes slow, lazy circles in a counter-clockwise motion exactly 15cm above the heat-sensitive floor mat while driver’s left hand makes clockwise circles above his/her/gender-neutral head and right hand grips the steering wheel and driver recites the combined CAFÉ fuel economy regulations for imported auto manufacturers out loud. And finally, the car starts.

In spite of my own steep learning curve, I am making progress, however. After sitting in our car for much of this past Sunday with the massive Owner’s Manual in one hand and a yellow highlighter and sticky notes in the other, I was able to set the clock ahead one hour. So, I’ve got that going for me.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

A Wondering I Go. Again.

Because it’s been several months since I last purged myself of mental “wonderings,” please bear with me while I do a little pre-spring cranial cleaning. First up, a few weather wonders left in the wake of our recent record-breaking storms:

I wonder ... which local Southern California newscaster was the first last weekend to ask viewers if we’ve “had enough of this rain”? Unbelievable. Only three days of precipitation after three relentless years of drought and the local news numbskulls were already doing stories about cabin fever, winter depression and worse. 

That sound you hear is the rest of the country laughing at us.

I wonder … what the record is for how quickly after the rain begins the media starts to remind us all that the precipitation won’t be enough to end the current drought conditions? Yes, we know. We live in a desert. Got it.

I wonder … why we all say “thunder and lightning” when lightning has to happen before there can be any thunder produced? Shouldn’t we say, “lightning and thunder”?

I wonder … how the first responders interviewed after inevitable white-water rescues can keep a straight face while describing the common-sense-challenged citizens that they have to fish out of the L.A. River every time it rains around here. I’m sure they’d much rather discuss the concept of “thinning the herd.”

Next, the deluge of rain this past weekend gave me the dubious “opportunity” to catch up on some TV watching, which prompted these wonderings:

I wonder … what ad agency came up with that droning doofus in the Eliquis pharmaceutical commercial who has “... always tried to give it my best shot.” Maybe so, but he blathers on about his many medical ailments while his wife sits nearby in her own semi-conscious stupor (Really, Bob? We’re going to hear all about your flippin’ atrial fibrillation ... again?) and his adult son kills time dribbling a basketball outside on the driveway, rolling his eyes and waiting to bond with “Best Shot Bob” in a game of hoops. The commercial is only a minute long, but it feels like hours.

I wonder … who at Time Warner Cable thought a TV campaign using some completely irrelevant football coach would be a good idea? The current commercial running ad nauseam features a snooty psychic and makes me want to grab his umbrella and pummel him about the head and shoulders until he just shuts the heck up and goes away. But then, he already knows that.

I wonder … speaking of beyond-terrible commercials – who in Old Navy’s marketing department should lose their job for green-lighting that jaw-droppingly annoying new commercial featuring freakishly over-the-top TSA agents going ga-ga over a woman’s skinny jeans. Ga-ga, no. Gag-gag, yes.

And a few random wonderings before we say adieu for the week:

I wonder … why so many drivers insist on getting into the HOV/Car Pool lane and then drive noticeably slower than the flow of traffic in all the other lanes? News flash: You don’t have to drive in the car pool lane just because you’ve got someone in the car with you.

I wonder … why the makers of audio CDs still shrink wrap and triple seal the hard plastic jewel cases as if the cure to cancer is carried within? Then again, I also wonder why I’m still buying CDs in this age of digital music downloads and entire music libraries on a USB drive the size of my little finger.

I wonder … how I could have gone through so much of life without knowing that I was a certifiably incurable pluviophile? (Don’t worry mom, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This time, at least.) Actually, I’ve always known that I find great joy and happiness from rainy weather, I just didn’t know there was a term for my condition. 

But I feel better now. Thanks for reading and I’ll see you ‘round town.

Music, Memories & Heart Murmurs

Let me state up front and unequivocally: I was not yet on planet Earth during the forties. Or much of the fifties, for that matter. That said, I did grow up with parents who loved the music of the 1940s, an era of the big world war, big world leaders and of course, big brassy bands.

I say this because last week my wife and I had the pleasure of escorting her parents to Glendale’s historic Alex Theater to see the matinee performance of “In the Mood – a 1940s Musical Revue.” The beautiful art deco auditorium of the 1,413-seat Alex was packed to the top row of the balcony.

Besides making me feel much younger than I have in a long time, the capacity audience last Monday afternoon was a fascinating mix of men and women in their, shall we say, golden years. (I’m sure some in attendance had already graduated into their platinum years – and I mean that in the nicest possible way.)

I’ve never seen so many walkers, canes, wheel chairs and oxygen tanks outside of a medical supply warehouse. Before the show began, and during the intermission, the conversations we overheard all around us sounded more like we were at a hospital medical review than a musical revue; from, “Did you hear about Henry’s hip replacement?” to “Oh, I’m doing okay except for my bladder infection,” to “Poor Betty’s dementia is getting much worse, poor dear!” and much worse. (What is it about age that makes people talk about each and every body part that hurts or leaks or doesn’t work any longer?)

In the few quiet moments before, during and after the performance, there was a constant white noise of wheezing, coughing and hearing aid feedback. But the music on stage easily overpowered all such ambient sound coming from the geriatric gathering.

But God bless ‘em all, these well-seasoned citizens were out and about, participating in life in spite of their various infirmities and limitations. I certainly hope to be able to do the same when and if I reach such advanced years. But I’m already starting a list of non-medical conversation topics to have on hand when the time comes.

With a couple of exceptions, the show’s band members were considerably older than singers/dancers – not surprising since it’s easier on the body to play a trombone or trumpet than to dance the jitterbug while singing four-part harmonies. To use a contemporary term, the show’s 40-song “playlist” included such timeless classics as “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” “There I’ve Said It Again,” “Tuxedo Junction,” “It Don’t Mean A Thing,” “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You,” “Moonlight Serenade,” and of course, “In the Mood.”

Several of the songs in the second act were an homage to our country’s role in fighting WWII, including “Over There,” “This Is Worth Fighting For,” “Bugle Call Rage,” “When the Lights Go On Again,” and others. The show ended with a tender and touching tribute to military veterans, with any vet in attendance being asked to stand (some had to be helped by those on either side – a tear-producing sight if ever there was one) when their branch of service was called so the rest of us in the audience could applaud their service.

As we listened to the lyrics about fighting with honor, sacrificing home and heart for a cause bigger than you (what a concept!), I wondered what such a show would be like for subsequent wars. Sure, a revue about the Viet Nam “conflict” would surely include such groups as the Doors, Creedence Clearwater, Jimi Hendrix and many others. But the theme would certainly not be one of pride or patriotism – more like cynicism and suspicion. Sigh.

And what – heaven forbid – would a musical revue based on the more recent Iraq and/or Afghanistan wars sound like? Honestly, I think I’d rather sit and hear about someone’s gallstones and urinary tract infections, thank you very much.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Hack In The USSR

One of the easiest things anyone can do once every four years is to sit on the couch, watching TV coverage of the Winter Olympics and carp, complain and generally criticize the genetically blessed, gorgeously fit athletes who don’t live up to media-generated expectations.

So here I go.

With the mountains of hope and hype heaped on the U.S. Olympians, there was bound to be some disappointments. But I can’t remember another Winter Olympics during which so many “destined for the podium” athletes not only didn’t turn in medal-worthy performances, they didn’t come close; Shaun White, Shani Davis, Julia Mancuso, Ted Ligety and many other names unfortunately come to mind.

For the past almost two weeks it’s gotten so that as soon as I hear the label, “strong gold medal favorite” or “favored to win it all here in Sochi” attached to any U.S. Olympian, I fully expect to see them finish several positions lower and slower than even the winner of the bronze. Many of the Chosen Ones haven’t even finished in the top ten.

To be fair, there have been several well-earned, come-from-behind surprises for Team USA, like Andrew Weibrecht taking the silver in the Men’s Super G ski race ahead of his own “destined for gold” teammate, Bode Miller. Wait, Andrew who?

As frustrating as it’s been to see so many disappointing results, the most disgusting moment of the games by far was last Sunday night’s badgering of the above-mentioned Bode Miller by NBC hack reporter Christin Cooper. Ms. Cooper was relentless in asking the bronze medal winner questions about the loss of his younger brother, Chelone, who died from a seizure last year. Miller, in full emotional breakdown mode after being asked numerous different ways about how it felt not to have his brother there to see him race, finally took a knee behind a partition where the incessantly insensitive woman couldn’t get to him. Luckily for NBC, however, there was yet another camera at snow level that was able to stay with the visibly shaken Miller as he sobbed. A tweet later that night with the hashtag #NBCFAIL said it all: “Christin Cooper wins gold for worst human on the planet.”

A few other Olympic observations before I run out the clock:

You know the games are in trouble when one of the more riveting stories has been whether or not NBC’s Über-anchor Bob Costas’s would turn in a DNF due to a world-class case of pink eye.

It was a kick watching Crescenta Valley’s own Kate Hansen boogying to Beyoncé before her Luge heats. While the 21 year old La Canada native ultimately didn’t make it higher than 10th place overall, her teammate, Erin Hamlin went on to win the first ever medal for a U.S. luger. You go, girls!

Speaking of Luge. Who in the wide world of weirdness came up with the idea of Doubles Luge, an event featuring two grown men lying on their backs, one under the other, sliding down an ice chute at 80-plus mph on less than a trash can lid? Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the spectacle.

The motto of these games is “Hot. Cool. Yours.” Well, hot they got. But they could have used a lot more cool. Might as well have held the games in Los Angeles for all of the winter conditions provided by the tropic-like Sochi region.

And so, with the closing ceremonies of these 2014 Winter Olympics only a couple of days away, couch critics like yours truly will have to wait another four years until the “destined for gold” athletes and others gather again in PyeongChang, South Korea on February 9, 2018. I’m already setting my DVR.

And if anyone thought security was an issue in Russia this time around, just wait until game organizers have to deal with whatever trouble that nut-job-northern-neighbor-with-nukes, Kim Jong-un, dreams up. Let the games begin, indeed.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Goodbye to a Great Brother

This week I fully intended to write about the spectacle of the ongoing Sochi Winter Olympics. Then, a little before 9:00 pm last Tuesday night our house phone rang. There’s a song with a lyric that says, “We’re all only a phone call away from our knees...” This was one of those calls.

On the other end of the line was Jeri, my oldest brother Bob’s wife, calling from their home in Folsom, CA. Jeri never calls. And oh, how I wish she hadn’t called last week. Because the news was what I knew it had to be as soon as I heard my sister-in-law’s voice. Bob had just died. He’d had some sort of massive heart attack, or aneurism, or stroke or something catastrophic while sitting and watching TV after work. The paramedics had arrived within only a few minutes and worked on him all the way to the hospital. But he was already gone. Just. Like. That.

As the oldest of four siblings, the age gap between Bob and me was large enough that I never felt the usual sibling rivalry. Sure, we disagreed about many things – especially as we both grew into adulthood. But sibling fights? I honestly can’t remember even a single one.

I was in Monte Vista Elementary School when Bob attended Crescenta Valley High. He was a strapping, physically fit, all-American guy with good looks and a crew cut that made all the girls giggle and grab their compact mirrors whenever he walked by. Back then, Bob had been into mountain climbing (the insane sport involving cliffs and carabineers!), had been an avid backpacker, was an Eagle Scout, a leader in his youth group at church and many more impressive things. As a young boy, he was the kind of guy you wanted to grow up to be.

Years later when I was in high school and my rock band was booked by the Dept. of Parks & Recreation to play a weekend gig on Catalina Island, we couldn’t go unless we had a 21-or-older chaperone along with us. Bob volunteered and all of our parents said okay. Silly parents. All I’ll say about that weekend is that no one got arrested. Or caught. Forty-plus years later, it is still one of the fondest memories of my brother.

Born and raised here in the Crescenta Valley, Bob “escaped” our arid heat and monotonously boring seasons years ago for the cooler, wetter environs the Western Sierra Nevada foothills. He would regularly badger me about pulling up my own anchor and moving north, particularly when I’d grumble in a column about lack of rain and/or too much heat. 

As newlyweds, my wife and I would regularly visit Bob and Jeri when they lived in a tiny apartment in a bad part of Reseda in the San Fernando Valley. We'd have game nights together and laugh ourselves off their ancient dining room chairs playing Pictionary until well past midnight. 

On several precious weekends, we'd share our love of motorcycling by riding out of town for a weekend away taking only what we could carry in our bikes' saddlebags. Good, good times. Bob and Jeri gave up motorcycling years later when they were rear-ended by a hit-and-run maniac in Northern California and left for dead on the side of the road. They both survived, thankfully, but the bike was a total loss and Bob never again swung a leg over a motorcycle seat. But I could see the sheen in his eyes whenever a full-dress motorcycle would pass us by in later years. 




I already miss getting multiple emails a day from him, passing on some hilarious (often risqué or politically incorrect) emails and memes or links to funny or amazing YouTube videos that he wanted to share with me and vice versa.

Bob was also always the biggest fan (and critic!) of my writing – letting me know when he’d seen a commercial of mine or heard a particularly funny radio spot or just appreciated or disagreed with something I’d written. Of the almost 300 columns I’ve written now, Bob read and commented on every single one, good or bad. I cannot express how much that has always meant to me, nor how much I will miss his opinions.

In the week since Bob’s sudden passing, I’ve caught myself countless times thinking that I don’t have my big brother any more. But I know that’s not really true. I still have wonderful, funny, cherished memories of our times together both in person and via phone calls or emails. And really, Bob isn’t gone. He’s only gone home. I can’t possibly be sad about that. I only wish he could still get emails up there.

Until we meet on the other side, dear brother, I’ll miss you every day.

note: If you'd like to read Bob's obituary in the local paper, you can read it here.

Who Won, Who Lost, Who Cares?

(Note: I will continue soon with Part 2 of my lamentations on the technological tempests involved with operating our new car. But first, this commercial break.)

Last Sunday there was an annual televised spectacle that millions of viewers tuned in to watch. In every corner of the world, large and small groups of people gathered in front of their wide screen TVs in rapt attention as the competitors gave it their best shot in hopes of winding up a winner.

Oh, and in between the commercials I’m pretty sure a football game was held, even though every time I actually paid attention to the game, the score seemed to indicate that one of the teams didn’t show up. But I digress.

Since my primary career is writing advertising copy for clients all over the country, I couldn’t let the mother of all advertising events pass without at least minimal commentary – especially since this year’s marketers paid a whopping $4-million for every 30-seconds of TV time that aired. That’s $133,333 per second, good or bad. And there was a lot of bad.

For example, the much-hyped Budweiser spots featured a non-celebrity named Ian Rappaport who is whisked away for an evening of strangeness including ping pong with a wig-wearing Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was just that – strange. As was the 60-second mess promoting Maserati’s “Ghibli” car. At least I think it was a car.

The Honda recap was only a painful reminder of all the annoying “Helpful Honda Guy” ads we suffered through last year. Help me by going away, please. T-Mobile used Tim Tebow (get it, “T.T.” for T-Mobile?) in a spot I rated ‘T’ for terrible. In other spots, the cellular company spent a lot of green simply to promote the color pink.

Toyota’s commercial crowded a bunch of Muppets into their Highlander SUV only to remind everyone watching of how much Jim Henson’s imagination and creativity is missed. H&M treated us to David Beckham without his clothes on. Yawn.

Kia was the latest advertiser to produce yet another lame sendup of the ancient Matrix movies (“choose the red car key or the blue car key”). Speaking of rehashing old ideas, Axe Peace body spray spent a huge amount of money to encourage world leaders to make love not war. It stunk.

One of my least favorite commercials promoted Subway’s new “Whole Enchilada” menu item (I’d bet Jared Fogle won’t be eating this doozy). The spot was stale and cheesy, to say the least.

On the other hand, some of the TV spots were engaging, funny, memorable or different in such a way that they brought a smile or a tear (or both) to this ad veteran’s face. In this category I include Volkswagen’s “Wings” spot in which a German engineer earns his wings each time a VW hits 100,000 miles on the odometer. It’s a brilliant concept perfectly executed and the creative team at Volkswagen’s agency deserves its own set of wings for the effort.

Radio Shack produced a brilliant spot announcing that “the 80’s called and want their stores back!” (Sure, but is my Free Battery Club Card still valid?) Doritos – as has become the tradition – aired a couple of “homemade” commercials which were far superior to many of the professionally made spots. Heinz Ketchup also had a funny entry that earned bonus points with me for the fart noise coming from granny’s almost-empty ketchup bottle. Gets me every time.

The most popular commercial of the game turned out to be Budweiser’s “Puppy Love/Best Buds” entry telling the heartfelt story of a too-cute puppy and his Clydesdale companions. Completely predictable but perfectly produced. The only way to improve the spot would have been to have the puppy find the ETrade talking baby who was missing from the commercial lineup this year. Maybe he knew it wasn’t going to be a good year for football or commercials.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Our All-Wheel-Drive Computer (Part 1)

I love computers. I couldn’t practice my profession without them. I write on one seven days (and far too many nights) a week. My wife and I are able to see and talk with our kids and grandkids thousands of miles away thanks to computers. The phone in my pocket is an incredibly versatile computer. Computers are an integral part of so much of contemporary daily life, I would be the first person in the choir loft to sing the praises of programming and profess the miracle of microchips.

I’m just not sure I want to drive one.

I say this because – if you remember – early last summer my wife and I sold her lumbering, limping beast of an SUV and bought our first new, off-the-lot car in over ten years. We got something smaller, lighter, more nimble and fun to drive. We got something with a luxurious interior and seemingly every bell and whistle available. As such, we drove home what is essentially a computer with wheels. Driving has never been so frustrating.

For example, a week or so ago, we headed out for a date night at the movies in Pasadena. I decided to bring along a CD that we’d recently bought. I’ll spare you the embarrassing details, but from the time we backed out of our garage in La Crescenta, until we pulled into the garage at the Paseo in Old Towne, Pasadena (typically a 20-30 minute drive) these two technologically savvy adults could not figure out which buttons to push, which dials to turn, which digital deity to invoke in order to simply listen to a flippin’ CD in a car we’ve owned for six months! I swear, the instrument panels on a Space Shuttle have to be more intuitive and less complicated than the center console in our new car.

And that’s just the beginning of my frustrations. With all of the infrared and sonar-based sensors embedded in the body of our car, it beeps and buzzes and brrrrrrs and bongs and otherwise makes annoying noises at us if even so much as a leaf drifts in front of us as we’re backing out or pulling into a parking space. It sounds like the inside of a pinball machine if someone in the car doesn’t have their seatbelt buckled, if you get too close to the outside of whatever lane you’re in, if you’re fuel level is low, if you’re fuel consumption is excessive, if you’re driving distracted, if you have a bad attitude or even poor posture.

Okay, those last two might not be part of the car’s programing, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all.

Worse than that, our new car has a “safety” feature that automatically slams on the massive rotors on the antilock brakes if you’re driving under 20 mph, don’t have your foot on the brake pedal and the car senses an object in your path. I’m not kidding. The car actually stops itself – rather violently, in fact – without you, the driver doing a thing. Now, in theory this might be a good idea. But when the car’s array of forward-looking sensors determines that our still-retracting roll-up garage door is actually a person in danger of being run over and bring the car to a sudden and immediate stop while we’re still pulling into our garage, it’s not a fun experience. I’m just thankful that one of the many air bags embedded in God-only-knows-how-many-places throughout the leather-clad interior (with contrasting hand-stitching, don’tcha know!) of the car didn’t deploy to save us from certain bodily harm.

Don’t get me wrong, overall this new car of ours is a thrill to drive. And yet, I can’t help but long for the days when, to get fresh air for example, you simply pushed a lever toward a setting labeled “vent” and voila, outside air! With our new car, well, I’ll tell you about that next week.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Playground for the Pooches

So far at least, 2014 seems to be my year for visiting new places around town (or rediscovering them, as I wrote last week about our trip downtown to Olvera St. and Philippe the Original restaurant).

This past weekend, my better half and I took our two young and shall we say, “high spirited” dogs to try out the relatively new Crescenta Valley Dog Park. The park officially opened a year ago last October. Why we hadn’t visited yet is beyond me. But time doesn’t just fly these days, it rockets by on afterburners.

To sum up our dog park experience; we all loved it. The pups ran themselves into a panting, slobbering frenzy up one side of the chain-link-fenced enclosure and back down the other. They had a great time “meeting” the dozens of other dogs of all sizes that were there during our visit. Surprisingly, all the dogs were very well behaved (even their owners!), too.

The CV Dog Park is actually two parks that parallel each other; one side for larger breeds and the other side for smaller dogs – each with more than enough room for any rover to run over, chase balls, sniff out the competition and all the other doggy stuff they do so well. The one slight negative for me was how warm it is with all the exposed dirt. Even though there is plentiful natural shade provided by the resident oak trees, it felt warm and stifling. That said, there are well-working drinking fountains with cool water for people and pooches near the entrance to either side of the park, so it’s easy for both two- and four-legged guests to stay hydrated.

Watching our dogs play at the park reminded me of the many times we took our own kids to various “playlands” inside fast food restaurants. These often sketchy facilities typically have large, brightly colored plastic tubes connected to big bubbles with lookout portals and junctions into other tubes, and slides that empty into massive pits filled with an ocean of plastic balls. If they pay attention at all, parents typically stand just outside the play area and watch helplessly as their kids tried to keep from being trampled by the more aggressive kids.

My wife always called these play areas “Petri dishes” due to the myriad of bodily fluids left on the well-worn surfaces. With the passageways of these kid-sized habitrails too small and narrow for any adult to crawl through armed with spray bottles of disinfectant, one can only imagine (and believe me, we’ve imagined!) how many germs and viruses our young ones were exposed to for a half-hour of fun and distraction. Even so, that half-hour of relative calm while our kids crawled inside the Petri dish was sometimes all that kept us on the rails of sanity, if you know what I mean.

But when I think about our visit to the dog park last weekend and compare it to most “play lands” for kids of the human persuasion, I’m actually quite impressed at the relative cleanliness of the dog park. There were more than enough shovels and bag-lined trash cans stationed throughout each of the two sides of the dog park and nary a canine land-mine in site. I’m sure peer pressure has something to do with how quickly dog owners remove any doggy deposits from the ground. I only wish parents of kids at fast food playlands would be as responsive in cleaning up after their progeny.

I have no doubt we’ll be taking our canine kids to the CV Dog Park on a regular basis. It’s not only a great place to wear the pads off the pups, but it’s a fun place to watch a wide and wonderful variety of shapes, sizes, personalities, temperaments, attitudes, quirkiness, styles, and grooming habits.

And the dogs are fun to watch, too! I’ll see you ‘round town.

Tourism At Home

Since he moved to Missoula to attend the University of Montana a few years ago, we have been able to lure, cajole, beg, trick, bribe and otherwise entice our son to come back “home” to Southern California only once a year at most. Suffice it to say, he took to the outdoor wonders and wilds of the Treasure State with complete abandon, being a fisherman/hunter/outdoorsman/adventurer at heart.

This past week, said son made his annual compulsory return home with his fiancé, a young lady who was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. She has been to the Southern California only once before. Although her hometown is close to the metropolis of Seattle, it doesn’t begin to compare with the size, density and geographic variety of Los Angeles County. While there wasn’t time to do much sightseeing on her first visit to the southland a year ago, this time we were able to do some sightseeing and, frankly, wound up feeling like tourists in our own hometown.

On Sunday, for example, we joined the throngs of folks visiting the California Science Center near USC to see the space shuttle Endeavour. As one of only three so-called ‘space planes’ that are viewable to the public (not to get uber-nerdy on readers, but a fourth shuttle, the Enterprise, never actually flew in space. So there.) the Endeavour is an inexpensive experience that shouldn’t be missed by residents or visitors. Personally, I’ll never forget the excitement of watching (along with tens of thousands of our southland neighbors) the Endeavour fly over the Crescenta Valley (the suburb of Los Angeles where I live) on its final flight that sweltering September day in 2012. Being able to see it up close closes the loop, so to speak.

Another “touristy” spot our houseguests had wanted to see during their time under the So Cal sun (the temperature back home in Missoula was near zero and snow had been falling for days) was Olvera Street, perhaps the most historic of all Los Angeles destinations. So after our necks were sore from looking up and gaping at the space shuttle, we headed north on the Harbor Freeway towards the heart of downtown.

Having worked up an appetite, however, we decided to first make a refueling stop at another not-to-be-missed L.A historical hot spot, the home of the French dip sandwich, Philippe, the Original, located on Alameda, just north of Olvera Street. There were already dozens of hungry customers ahead of us at the counter even though it was almost three in the afternoon, but any time spent waiting would have been worth it to indulge in a classic hot beef sandwich dripping with au jus. Oh, my.

Once sufficiently sated, we waddled south to Olvera Street, a landmark I last visited with my Cub Scout pack sometime shortly after dinosaurs roamed the earth. I distinctly remember using every nickel of my saved-up allowance money to buy a leather bull whip. (The leather shop is still there!) Even though the legendary Indiana Jones bullwhip scene was decades away, I treasured that souvenir of my childhood visit to Olvera Street long after it had gotten me into a world of trouble both at home and elementary school. But that’s a story for another time.

Olvera Street is a uniquely kitschy and touristy collection of crowded stores and restaurants all selling pretty much identical wares, but I had forgotten how fun it is to go and experience a culture endemic to Los Angeles.

Without moving our car, we could have also taken our guests on a walking tour of nearby Chinatown or viewed the incredible art deco architecture of Union Station, but frankly, by then we were walked out and more than ready to head home.

What a day it was. Then again, what a place we locals are fortunate enough to live in. Who knew there was so much to see and do around here?

I’ll see you ‘round town.

New Year, New Laws

It’s that most wonderful time of the year when I get myself into trouble with some readers simply by pointing out a handful of the staggering number of new laws that have been foisted on Americans in general and Californians in particular as the New Year begins.

How many laws, you ask? Buckle up because there are more than 40,000 new restrictions, regulations and statutes that became law at midnight on Wednesday, January 1, 2014. So much for the so-called gridlock in Washington, DC and other seats of government. (And we know which body part sits in a seat, am I right?)

On the national front, some of the new laws (including some that were passed years ago but did not become law until this year) include one that makes it illegal to produce 40-watt and 60-watt incandescent light bulbs for sale in the USA. This comes after the banning of less frequently used 75- and 100-watt bulbs beginning in 2012. Thank you, control-freak government zealots for keeping us in the dark when it comes to choice.

The mother of all new federal laws, however, that will affect every man, woman and child (not to mention doctors, nurses, hospitals, clinics and medical device manufacturers, to name just a few of those afflicted) is the legislation that dropped on January 1st like the trap door on a gallows; “Obamacare”, officially known as the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. Sadly, with every passing day we’re seeing more incontrovertible evidence that this mind-numbing 10,000-plus-page swamp of legislation protects no one, is neither affordable, nor does it provide any improvements to care (quite the opposite) and everything promised to the American public in order to drum up slightest modicum of support was, indeed, just an act. “If you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor. Period. If you like your health insurance plan, you can keep your health insurance plan. Period.” Not hardly.

On the state level, there are far too many troubling new laws to begin to cover in this space. Just here in California, for example, the chuckleheads in Sacramento have gone well above and beyond their usual social engineering and legal bullying to inflict more than 800 new laws on citizens of the Golden State. These include the wildly dangerous mandate that students as young as kindergarten must be allowed to use whichever bathroom is consistent with their self-proclaimed gender identity on any given day regardless of what’s listed on their school records or birth certificate. This self-selecting choice also applies to participation in school sports. Think of the implications of such moronic foolishness. Got a daughter in high school? Or a son who wants to visit the girls’ locker rooms unhampered? You can thank Jerry Brown and his bullying band of boneheads for one more parental nightmare to keep you up at night.

Another new law that defies any sense of logic is one that allows the licensing of “qualified” lawyers regardless of their immigration status. In other words, in California you can theoretically practice law even though you are here illegally. Hello ... is this thing on?

Finally, and in a delicious irony of timing, given the recent reports of local pets being killed and dragged from their backyards by mountain lions, the dangerous beasts have even more legal protection against elimination or even relocation thanks to a new law restriction such actions by California Fish & Wildlife wardens. Drag a beloved family pet out of its own backyard to certain death? No problem. Tranquilize and remove a killer predator from the community? Not so fast, bucko.

I can only explain these and other such legal lunacies with the possibility that California’s legislators must have spent too much time in Colorado, where as of January 1st it is okie dokie to buy and consume up to an ounce of marijuana at a time. Rocky Mountain high, indeed.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

New Year Notes to Self

It’s popular this time of year to make profound personal pledges – more commonly known as resolutions – to self and significant others as a way to set a corrective course for the upcoming 12 months. Whatever. I’ve learned through first-hand from experience that the sad majority of these resolutions are all too often ignored, diluted, broken or otherwise abandoned by the time the Martin Luther King holiday rolls around in mid-January, if not sooner.

 
While I wouldn’t call what follows resolutions, per se, it still seemed like a good idea to start out the New Year with a few – well, let’s just call them “notes” to myself. For example:

Next year, I’ll take official power outage notices from Edison with a grain of salt. In the two weeks before Christmas, we were notified on at least four separate occasions (via robocalls, through the mail or with notices left on our door) that we would be without power on a specific upcoming day any time between 8 am and 7 pm. As someone who works from a home office bristling with computers, fax machines, scanners, printers, wireless routers and other technology, it takes a whole lot of planning and inconvenience to prepare to continue working without power or an internet connection. And so, four different days I made the many necessary, time-consuming arrangements, notified clients that I may be difficult to reach and have limited access to emails, etc. – only to have the entire day pass without even a flicker of our lights. Frustrating.

Speaking of lights, next year, I need to remind myself to shop for new Christmas lights and decorations in September. If I haven’t done it by Halloween, it’ll be too late.

Also, I really should play my guitars more. A lot more. And write songs. And sing. That said, this New Year I want the gift of music play a much, much bigger role in my everyday life. Hold me to that one, okay?

On the subject of music, singing and songwriting, next year I really need to write a song that becomes the soundtrack for every other TV commercial like “Home” by Phillip Phillips has been this year. So, yeah ... let’s make that happen. 

Then again – I’d have more time for music if I didn’t watch the first hour of NBC’s Today show on weekday mornings. The morning yak-fest is worse for my blood pressure than an entire 12-cup pot of dark roast. I’d love to have a word with the NBC execs who think it’s hip to have a minimum of five or more people on camera at once with each one clamoring to talk louder than the other until no story can be enjoyed, much less understood. And can we please put an end to this silly fad of having the show’s talent stand next to a big touch screen monitor and swiping images during a story?

Looking ahead to next December, I’m going to try not to walk around singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” I recently paid attention to the actual lyrics and it seriously creeped me out. The writer, Frank Loesser, didn’t include a reference to roofies in any of the lyrics, but he could have. He did, in fact, list the male singer as “wolf” and the female part as “mouse” on the original sheet music for this 1944 ditty, thus raising the creep-factor even higher.

Over the next 12 months I will try my best to Tweet on at least a somewhat-regular basis. Because Lord knows I need to spend more of every day staring down at a glowing screen.

He also knows I need to get back to memorizing scripture – one verse a week – something I did religiously (sorry, just too easy) the first half of last year, but somehow stopped as life got busier.

And finally, I hope that – this year more than ever – I’ll see you ‘round town.