I'm Just Saying...

I love New York.

I no longer live in the city, but I used to. And I do commute to the city five days a week. So unlike the tourists and the out of towners, I think I can consider myself a New Yorker. And like most people who live or work in New York, I've learned to deal with the minor inconveniences. You know, the cab that drives right by you even though his light is on and your arm is clearly raised.  The guy on the subway whose earphones are so loud he might as well not be wearing them at all. $4.50 for a Chobani at the deli by the office.

Yeah, I get it. It's the price we pay for living in the best place on earth. That said though, over the past couple of years I've more and more frequently encountered some quality of life offenses so egregious that I think something must be done.

Mayor Bloomberg, put these on your list:

Escaletiquette

The concept of an escalator is pretty simple. It's a moving stairway. It goes up or down. You can stand there until the ride is over, or if you choose to hasten the experience you can climb or descend the moving stairs. Over time, an escalator etiquette developed... slow traffic (i.e. standing) on the right, fast traffic (i.e. walking) on the left. For over a hundred years that arrangement worked out pretty well.  So when was it decided that this system was no longer in play?

I first noticed this a couple of years ago and I initially assumed that these "standers" blocking my way were tourists, unfamiliar with the ebb and flow of city life. And at first this was mostly true. But as time went on I noticed fewer fanny packs and brightly flowered jackets, less rucksacks and Danish overbites, and more suits, briefcases, and the black on black garb that is the uniform of NYC.

What happened? New York, had you forgotten yourself? Had the never ending influx of people who have no idea what they're doing or where they're going dragged you down to the lowest common denominator of "what the hell, I'll just stand here"?

Oh my goodness.  I shudder to think it.

Is that the sky up there?

Why are you standing there? Why the fuck are you just standing there looking up at the sky like a turkey in the rain?

This is the endgame of escaletiquette, the moment when the person in front of you gets off the escalator or reaches the top of the stairs, and then... just stands there.

HEY DIMWIT, THERE'S A SUBWAY STATION FULL OF PEOPLE RIGHT BEHIND YOU WHO NEED TO GET OUT OF THE STATION AND ONTO THE STREET!

I mean really, are you so oblivious to everything around you? Step to the fucking side for fuck's sake.

You missed the train, dumb ass

Lots of subway stations in NYC serve multiple lines, but many of them do not.  So there's only one train at a time that's going to enter or leave that station. Yet, I can't tell you how many times I'll get off a train with a hundred other people and get halfway up the the staircase only to find one desperately determined traveler pushing his way down, like a salmon forcing his way downstream.  As if shoving me down the stairs is somehow going to reverse time, like Superman flying speedily around the earth in the opposite direction, and make the train magically reappear in the station, just for you.

The train came.  A lot of people got off. The train left. You missed it.

Get out of the way and wait for the next one.

Where's the rest of your fucking foursome?

A walk down a New York City sidewalk on a rainy afternoon is like a stroll down a quiet country lane. Just you and nature, the birds tweeting, the rain pattering down on your outlandishly oversized umbrella and OH YEAH, A THOUSAND OTHER PEDESTRIANS PACKED SHOULDER TO SHOULDER TRYING TO MAKE THEIR WAY DOWN THE SIDEWALK BUT THEY CAN'T GET PAST YOU AND YOUR BIG ASS POP UP TENT.

You've probably been poked in the eye, forced off the sidewalk, or missed a train or a cab because you couldn't get around someone's gigantic umbrella. Did you know that some golf umbrellas are seventy two inches wide? Seventy two inches... that's six feet across! The sidewalks in NY are barely wide enough to begin with... then you've got to navigate a row of garbage bags on the curb side and the inevitable scaffolding that seems to permanently encase 60% of all the buildings in NY at any one time on the other. On a good day two of these umbrellas would take up the entire sidewalk.  On a regular day... forget about it.

Look at that black and yellow monster up there. First of all, it's just really aggressive looking. A little scary. It appears to be devouring the umbrella below it; the guy in front looks like he's hurrying to get out of the way. It's big enough to take up fully one whole side of the staircase and half of the other. How can anyone possibly justify that? Are there people truly so entitled that they don't care that anyone else has to traverse the same walkways as them?  Can they even see us? Do they simply believe that the world will just make way for them and their hang glider?

Mary Poppins' umbrella was less than half the size of this thing and she could fly all around London with it. Do us all a favor and fly the fuck away.

Please.

It's Short, and It Goes By Fast

On Friday, July 12, my friend Steve was standing on a platform in Grand Central Station, waiting for his train home from work.

Another summer, another Friday, another day in the city.

Around 5:30 he suffered a massive brain aneurysm and fell to the ground.

By Sunday morning he was gone.

Eleven days shy of his 47th birthday, Steve was a young man. He was quick to smile and had an infectious laugh. He was active and fit. He worked out at a gym. He was deeply involved in his church.

He leaves a beautiful wife and two beautiful girls, all of whom he adored, and they him. Our daughters have been best friends since pre-K and our families are close.

In his short lifetime, Steve touched a countless number of people. I know this because over the past week I've met so many of them, too many of his friends and family and colleagues to count.

At Steve's funeral service, the pastor eulogized Steve as a good man, and unquestionably, he was.

I say Steve was not merely a good man, he was the best of men.

From what I understand, police and emergency services were quick to respond on that day. Still, I think of Steve lying on that platform in Grand Central, surrounded by people yet so utterly alone. It breaks my heart and terrifies me at the same time.

That could be me. It could be you. It could be any one of us. It is a bitter demonstration that life is short, and it goes by fast.

At a time like this, some would say "live every day like it's your last," and this is a fantastic idea... for millionaires, single people, and renters.

But in the real world, if I lived every day like it was my last I'd stop going to work and I'd keep my kids home from school and my family would spend every day just doing fun stuff and laughing.

I'd also drink a lot of Scotch. Which I do now anyway, but it would seem more justified somehow if it was my "last" day.

This fun loving bacchanal would last about a week I think, maybe two, until I could no longer make the mortgage payment, or cover the school tuition, until the fridge was empty and the cars were out of gas. Until the truant officer (because believe it or not they still exist) or social services came knocking on the door to find out why the hell my kids weren't in school.

So that's not going to work for me.

I've decided instead to take the City Slickers approach. Remember City Slickers? Billy Crystal plays a radio ad salesman deep in the funk of a mid life crisis. He and a couple of his city friends go on a cattle drive to bond and find the meaning of life. After learning some life lessons in the big air of the open west, Crystal returns with a renewed sense of purpose, determined not to chuck his life in the trash, but simply to do it better. To do his job better, to love his family better. To do everything better.

For me that means a few things. It means to suffer fools a little more gladly, at work and in every day life.  It means to have more patience at home with my wife and my girls. Although I know they know I love them, I will still hug them a little harder, and a little longer, and tell them more often. But it can't just be words, I will show them in my actions, in the things I do, and just as importantly, don't do. I will try to think less about myself, and more of others.

In short, I will try to be more like Steve.

If there is a heaven, Steve is there right now, unquestionably. He's discovered his purpose, why the Lord needed him so much, why God keeps taking all the good people from down here and sending them up there.

I know you're doing good up there Steve.  If I'm lucky enough to get there someday, you can show me the ropes.

Fake Fur = Real Murder

"Oh my God, what a fantastic jacket! Is that real baby seal?"

"No, it's fake, but it looks and feels just like the pelts of actual baby seals that were clubbed to death on an ice floe in the Arctic, doesn't it?"

"Mmmmm. It sure does. But it's fake so that's OK."

"Mmmmm, that's right."

No, that's wrong.

From the moment our first ancestor skinned an animal and fashioned a garment out of its pelt, or crawled under a hide for warmth, fur has been a trapping of wealth and a luxury item.

Half a million years ago, a successful hunter would be well fed, and have many furs. Potential mates would view that food and warmth as desirable. Better to date the guy with the big spear and the fur coats, right? And that clan would grow, and that tribe would be strong. Long before animals were trapped and their skins traded for money or goods, fur was a currency that would grow and shape society.

It's practical. Have you ever tried on a fur coat?  It's cozy and warm. Duh. That's why animals have fur.

A few hundred millennia ago, humans needed to wear fur. In this millennia there's plenty of other options to keep us warm and dry. So fur should simply disappear, right?  We certainly don't need it anymore. But over time, as mankind was developing practical and affordable alternatives to animal skins, furs were developing into a luxury item, available only to the wealthy few. After all, why wear a scratchy woolen coat when you could afford to bask in a buttery mink?

Now faux fur, masquerading as real fur, perpetuates that glamorous image. Real or not, as long as we perceive fur to be fashionable, stylish, and desirable, we'll still have fur garments.

A real fur coat is expensive and few can afford one.  But faux furs are entry level priced, starter coats for those who aspire to one day own the real thing.  Without fake fur continually breathing life into that cachet, the image would be busted and fur would go the way of the wooly mammoth.

That's what makes artificial fur even more murderous than the real thing.

Now, I got no beef with PETA (see what I did there) and their anti-fur, anti-meat, anti-chicken, anti-fish, anti-feathers, anti-fun, anti-everything agenda. As far as I'm concerned, humans are supposed to eat meat and are entitled to do so because we can catch it. Similarly, if I'm flopping around in the ocean like a wounded sea lion a shark is perfectly entitled to eat me because a) I'm in his house and b) he can catch me. Same deal.

But even though I don't agree with the entire PETA manifesto I can totally get behind the messaging in this spot.

But there's a few gaping holes for me.  First of all, is the spot supposed to look real or animated? You'll notice the animation style change as the spot progresses... from obviously animated on the runway to more photoreal in the dressing room to even more photoreal in the... tannery I guess, to an actual photographic image at the end. It would be easy enough to create the whole thing with CG animals at the same level of finish as the fox. But these things are cartoonish... cute, almost. I don't get the feeling that these whimsical creatures are going to go in the back room after the show and peel the skin off that little girl in the cage. And what's up with that blue thing with the Dondi eyes? Is that a seal? Isn't it wearing the same outfit Melissa McCarthy wore to the Oscars Sunday night?  

You really should watch this thing in HD; it's much more gruesome, especially the freshly skinned human corpse in the back room. But if the horror for animals like this is all too real, why present them as cutesy animations up front? Do they think that if the animals look real we'll be afraid they'll rise up and skin us? And then we won't feel sorry for them anymore? Is PETA afraid we'll revolt, Planet of the Apes style?

"TAKE YOUR STINKING PAWS OFF ME YOU DAMN DIRTY FOX!!!"

Also, until the thing with the arm-skirt walks down the runway, you can't even tell what they're wearing. I get that it's part of the misdirect, but on subsequent viewings you should be able to look at each outfit and go ahhh... oooooh. Maybe you catch a glimpse on the ear one, but that's it. Everything else just looks like origami to me.

I can't say I'm crazy about the credit roll at the end either. It's not a movie, so when the credits are fully 1/3 as long as the content itself that's a little off-putting, don't you think?

All that said though, PETA has always been pretty good about making their point and this spot is no exception.

Rapey is as rapey does...

I was speaking to a Exec Producer friend of mine a couple of days ago. When we were done talking business, he asked me if I'd seen the Super Bowl, specifically if I'd seen the Audi Prom ad.

I told him yes, and that I thought it was one of the better ads. He agreed. But then he went on to tell me that he'd told a few people how much he liked the ad, and they'd called him a misogynist, and a woman hater, and how could he like an ad that promotes sexual abuse?

I said "huh?"

In case you haven't seen the ad, here it is:

I don't see anything particularly misogynistic about this ad. But apparently a columnist at the Philly Post did, labeling it "rapey."

Now I'm pretty sure "rapey" isn't even a word because when I tried to play it in Words With Friends I got a message that said "Sorry, rapey is not an acceptable word."

But let's pretend rapey is a word. What about this ad makes it rapey? Well, the columnist, Joel Mathis, was kind enough to include a "rapey" checklist. Here it is:

• The young woman who receives the kiss chose to be at prom with someone else.

• Our “hero” forcibly turns her around and jams his mouth to hers almost before she can identify him, and certainly without any permission being sought or given. What’s more, this is a demonstration of his new, Audi-fueled power.

• He leaves prom without her—suggesting that she still chooses to be at prom with somebody else.

I don't know that I'd call this rapey. I would call it a male fantasy, though. Yes, men actually daydream and fantasize. And although most of these daydreams culminate with a box of Kleenex and a bottle of lotion, some don't.  And I'm certain that kissing the prettiest girl in school who would never go out with you because she was dating the football hero is a pretty common daydream.  

Audi's got it right here. Bravery is what defines us. It's not the only thing, but it's one of them. For the next month in school, this kid is going to be a superhero and a stud.

But back to the rapey bit. That really got me thinking. How much pop culture is actually sexual battery in disguise? Based on Mathis' checklist, I've defined a rating scale for some of our most famous (now infamous) pop culture and entertainment moments. Here's the scale:

• MR:  Mildly rapey. Contains elements that could lead to an uncomfortable situation
• VR:  Very rapey. This is definitely going in a bad direction.
• ER:  Extremely rapey. This cannot end well.

So here we go:

From Here to Eternity:  Burt Lancaster is holding Deborah Kerr against her will on the beach, but she manages to escape his brutish grasp and run away. Winded from the lengthy chase, she collapses on a blanket. Lancaster, menacing and dripping, drops to his knees and (uugh) kisses her. Disgusting. She says she "never knew it could be like this." But she doesn't say she likes it. 

Rating "VR": He's a big guy. No way she can escape him twice.

Ross and Rachel's First Kiss:  They've just had a huge argument, she throws him out of the coffee shop and locks the door behind him. He slinks back and throws her the Schwimmer puppy dog pout.  She takes pity and unlocks the door, only for him to force it open and force himself on her. Pig.

Rating "VR":  This scene takes place halfway through season 2.  If she wanted to kiss him, she would have done it before now.

Lady and the Tramp:  Lady and the deviant is more like it. This guy can't even be bothered to go inside the restaurant, he takes her to dinner in the alley. Then he's all over her right at the table, like an animal.  He'll be mounting that bitch behind the dumpster in no time. Thank god they pan up to the clotheslines so we don't have to witness that humiliation.

Rating "ER":  Poor girl.  When she gazes at the night sky with those stars in her eyes, I can't help but think that she's wondering what her life might have been if she never got mixed up with this cheap bastard.

The Quiet Man:  It's a stormy night in Innisfree and John Wayne finds the impossibly beautiful Maureen O'Hara in his ramshackle cottage. Forget that he's the mysterious new stranger in town, forget that they've been throwing eyes at each other for a couple of weeks now, goddammit, he's going to have his way with her and he's going to have it now.  But this is classic Hollywood deception.  If you watch the clip all the way through, she kisses him at the end.  I'm confused.  Who's rapey now?

Rating "MR":  The kisses cancel each other out.  This is just two people in a hut on a rainy night.

2003 Academy Awards:  Yo Adrien. This could not be more rapey.  To wit:

• Halle Berry did not attend the Oscars with Adrien Brody
• He forcibly kisses her in a demonstration of his new, Oscar fueled power and,
• He leaves the awards without her.

Rating "ER":  Hey, I'm just going by the checklist, bro.

 

Snow White and the 7 Dwarfs:  Can you say Roofies, anyone? The girl is in a fucking coma for Chrissakes.

Rating "ER":  She doesn't even know who this guy is!

Gone With the Wind:  OK, I would never use the term "she was asking for it," but have you seen Gone With the Wind? 

Rating "NRAA" (Not Rapey At All): She's asking for it. For all 238 minutes, she's asking for it.

So that's a look at some entertainment moments you might have thought were innocent or heartwarming or romantic. Thanks, Joel Mathis for opening our eyes to what's really been going on all this time.

By the way, I just recently wrapped up a commercial with the same directing team that did the Audi spot. I can assure you, they are the least rapiest guys I've ever met.

Passing the Torch

For me, it was the handwriting.  

Kids figure it out lots of different ways, but for me, it was the handwriting. You know that note that Santa leaves, the one you find when you run downstairs on Christmas morning, screaming HE WAS HERE HE WAS HERE OH MY GOD SANTA WAS HERE!!!, the one that says "Thanks for the milk and cookies and Merry Christmas?"

Well, unless Santa Claus attended The South Philadelphia High School for Girls to learn his beautiful penmanship, that note was written by one person and one person only.  

My mom. 

I know I must have called her out on it a time or two, and she probably had some glib answer... maybe the first time it was "Oh no dear, Santa definitely wrote that note." Maybe the next year, "Well, Santa's really busy and he asked me to write the note for him." Stuff like that. Stuff a three or four or five year old kid would buy, because he wanted to.  

Because Santa's real. He has to be, right?

Eventually I grew out of Santa Claus and we were all set to go about our merry way. I'm Santa, you're Santa, ha ha ha, Merry Christmas. But then my parents went and had another kid. I don't think anyone was really expecting that, but oops. Suddenly there was someone else in the house who one day would be looking forward to Santa's visit. And one day would also start asking questions.

So the first year my little sister was was old enough to get it, maybe three years old, I said to my mom, "Hey, let me write the note this year." I'm eleven, and this would be fun, a real goof. So I got my pen and some paper, and I wrote the note. It was a little more elaborate than "Thanks for the milk and cookies," and included some personal details about our family that would absolutely prove that Santa had been monitoring our naughty vs. nice quotient all year.  

But most of all, the handwriting looked nothing like the cursive of anyone in our home. I created a Santa script, a tightly cribbed and shaky style full of crazy ascenders and descenders and curliques, the handwriting of a man hundreds of years old. It actually hurt my hand to write it.

But it worked. And while the other kids were asking their parents, "Well how does he get down the chimney when we don't even have a fireplace," and the other common Kringle busters, my little sis was calm and assured that there was in fact a Santa. He was watching, and he left a note.

I don't remember when I stopped writing the notes, but years later, when I had a kid of my own and she was two or three, I knew it was time to start again. But now as a somewhat better art director I really started to go all out. I'd find some nice paper and age it up. Crumple it, flatten it out, burn the edges to give it that pirate treasure map look. I've even soaked it in coffe and baked it in the oven.

I don't know why I feel that Santa's paper has to be really old. Shit, he can bring you a new spiral notebook; there must be some new paper at the North Pole. But nonetheless, I really feel that this document has to look as old as the fucking Declaration of Independence. So every year at 3AM, when the presents are finally wrapped and my wife's gone up to bed, like the ultimate document forger I set to work. It's something that I really enjoy, the process and the ritual and getting it just right. Over time the thoughts and themes in the text have become deeper, and much more personal to me. And although I no longer labor over the Santa script quite as much as I used to, there's a lot more of my heart in there than "Rudolph enjoyed the carrots, Merry Xmas."

This past Christmas, my older daughter finally decided that there is no Santa Claus. We knew this was coming. She's almost eleven. There'd been lot of questions the past couple of years and you know, kids talk. And I guess when kids finally make this decision, they want everyone to know that they know.  So she started talking some smack around our younger daughter, who's only four. At four years old she's still so innocent and wide eyed and believing, I couldn't let anyone take Santa away from her. Not now. Not so soon.

So I talked to my oldest, and she's cool. She's got an artistic bent, so I told her about the note, about how I started writing it, the paper, what kind of pen I used. I gave up some of my secrets.

Some, but not all.

Because I'm passing the mantle to her. And it's something we'll do together. And one day, maybe this year, maybe next, she'll write the note for her little sister. And one day she'll write the note for her kids, and her little sister will do the same.

Because as long as there's always a note, there will always be a Santa.  

Right?

Give a girl a camera...

"Daddy, can I play with your phone?"

When I let my 4 year old play with the phone, it usually comes back with a lot of games I've never heard of, and a lot of pictures I didn't take.

This last time it came back with 180 pictures I didn't take. I thought it would be fun to watch them like this...