I think I saw a ghost.

Last week I took a day off work specifically to stay home with my kids and give my wife a day to herself.

We are both blessed with a 2 1/2 yr old boy and a beautiful girl that's four months old. So our days are jammed packed with feedings and diapers and tantrums and sleep deprivation and poop and laughing and smiles and tears (from all four of us.) Like I said, we are blessed. But sometimes a person needs a break from such blessings. Last Tuesday was Lubi's.

A little precursor to my life outside of all this blessing... let's just say that for the past 2 months, my life has never been harder and leave it at that. The sleep deprivation, tantrums and poop squirting across the room (not being figurative here) has been a respite in comparison. So as much as I should feel like the luckiest man alive (and I am) the sad truth is that I've had a hard time shaking my life at "the office" at the end of the day when I come home.

So. My "day off" started at the usual time: 5:58am with an uncanny routine poop that Siena wakes me up with (I take mornings BTW) everyday like clockwork. Every "other" day, the diaper gives up and an entire outfit change is necessary. Once in a while... a bath is necessary. But this time? Just a plain ole poopie diaper. Easy.
Caleb is up soon after. 6:45. I turn on The Channel Formerly Known as Noggin to buy me some time to move slow, wake up, poor a sippy cup of milk and microwave three mini whole wheat pancakes for exactly :30 seconds.

(queue microwave SFX: “BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEP.")

And... the day has officially begun. Just like every single day of my life has for two years and five months. Oh yeah, except... one big difference here, it's Tuesday, I took the day off work and Lubi is up and out of the house faster than a frat boy after a one night stand, "Later! ...I'll call you sometime. (snicker)"

(door: “SLAM”)

And so it begins. I'm on my own... With them... For 12 hours. Holy crap. What have I done?

Now. I don't want to toot my own horn. But I'm a Modern Dad so I know the ropes. I change diapers. Midnight feed. Burp one while disciplining the other. I don't think I'm a slouch around kids and babies. But once that door slammed? The three if us glanced around at each other as if authority was up for grabs. But it didn't take long before I stepped up and took charge.

"We’re goin’ to the park!"

I decided to take the kids to a new park. Don’t ask me why, this is a personality trait/flaw of mine that new equals better and more exciting. So since Caleb had never been to this park, I assumed he would be happier there because of the “newness” and all. The truth is, I don’t think he noticed.

As we approach this exciting new undiscovered park. I notice that there are no kids in sight. Might not be too shocking considering it was 9am on a Tuesday and about 55 degrees outside but what do I know, I’m usually at work. I also notice that the playground, though brand new looking was planted smack dab in the middle of a park surrounded by people that… hmm… in an effort to be politically correct Thesaurus.com described as: “beggars, bums, derelicts, drifters, migrant workers, street people, tramps, transients, vagabonds, vagrants, wanderers, and/or winos” Clearly I’m not one to judge, which is why I used thesaurus.com to do the dirty work for me, but remember, I’ve got a toddler and an infant to watch over, to me everyone is a threat.

In the middle of our running and sliding and bouncing on one of those horses with one big awkward spring instead of legs, we are joined by two more park goers an older gentleman and a little girl about Calebs age. My first instinct was to be upset. Afterall, this was my discovery. This was our new park on Transient Island… And what the heck are they doing out in the cold, this early on a Tuesday morning?

I got over it and went over to say hi and create uncomfortable small talk. He was a healthy 70, slim, six-foot somethin’ had a U of M ball cap on and a pair of Levis. He’s a grandpa to this little girl. Has one son and one daughter, like just me. Both of those kids each have two kids as well. One son and one daughter, each.

I was cynical at first, he was at peace. I opened up by talking about the shady company we were surrounded by. He immediately countered by talking about how he envied them. How they are just enjoying the park and not trying to be more than they are or tricking anyone into being someone they aren’t. He looked up at me in a fatherly glance, connected briefly and said, “They aren’t the people in this world you need to worry about.”

I opened up a little more. And told him how I took the day off to watch the kids and give my wife a break from our crazy lives. Told him how difficult an infant and a toddler are to wrangle. Told him that my sleep deprivation could be creating slight insanity in me.

In the midst of my rambling and grumbling he looked up at me and ask, “You took a day off of work to spend with your kids?” I answered “Yep.” as if responding to the rhetorical question, “Have you lost your freakin’ mind?”

His response was simple but it changed my day, possibly my life. He got lost in the sky, our conversation came to halt and he spent a moment in silence. Then he said quietly, “I could’ve done that. I could’ve taken a day off to be with them. I never did.”

We carried on a conversation for probably another half hour. He then scooped up his granddaughter and headed back to where he came from. And was gone.

Caleb and Siena and I left the park soon after and It wasn’t until my entire day ended, the kids were asleep, and Lubi retuned home that I was able to reflect on the day. I realized everything changed after that moment at the park. My cynicism melted away. I enjoyed my kids. I didn’t think about work. We played and laughed and bonded and I felt lucky to be there. I felt lucky to be there Daddy.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized his response made so much sense to me, but yet his stories, his kids, his appearance from out of nowhere at 9am on a Tuesday morning, 55 degrees in a brand new park surrounded but transients, his being there when I was made no sense at all.

He drove to that park, from the outskirts of town yet there were plenty of better parks nearby worth driving to, not this one. He complimented the homeless people around us. He was positive, peaceful. I never got his name. I never saw him arrive and didn’t see him leave. Yet there was no crowd to get lost in. No traffic to drive into.

I’m okay not knowing who he was. Because I know he was at that park on a Tuesday morning at 55 degrees surrounded by independent honest individuals that happen to enjoy chess, beer and aren’t trying to fool anybody into being something they aren’t, for a reason.

He was there to remind me how to enjoy the jammed packed days of feedings and diapers and tantrums and sleep deprivation and poop and laughing and smiles and tears.

He was there to remind me that I truly am the luckiest man alive.

We're Killing our Heroes

Two months ago, a barrage of messages began circulating on facebook. My Elementary school class started communicating with each other. Talking about our past, specifically 5^th- 8^th grade, which, turns out was an incredibly vivid time in most of our lives.

As e-mails began to circulate and tidbits of each others lives began to leak out, I learned that someone I was really good friends with way back then, killed himself in early adulthood.

Death can cause such a strange human emotion, but when it was the death by suicide of friend than you haven’t spoken to in 22 years, it gets even more complex. I couldn’t help but feel so sad for everything he missed out on. College. A first apartment. A salary. Marriage. Kids. Everything I take for granted each day as regular life, he missed. But want haunts me the most is that; I’ve met so many people, with pain and flaws. I’ve met people that were mean, people that took life for granted. And he wasn’t one of them. My friend Kenny was kind. He was a friend to me when I was a loner. He was vulnerable and real. He was better at basketball than I was but he didn’t rub it in my face. He had a cockatoo that he loved, two siblings that he watched over. He taught me how to make Top Ramen and showed me how good it is with lots of pepper. It makes me sad to think of how many people didn’t get to know him, to learn from him, to have him a friend.

When I was in high school I had friends but, I surely wasn’t the “popular” kid. I was awkward. Hated to be called out in class. My stomach would do back flips everyday during “roll call” because I was afraid my name would be pronounced wrong and people would laugh.

During these awkward years, I met a kid named Tracy. He was tall and lanky. A great basketball player with a cute girlfriend. He was popular. But he didn’t know it. I sat next to him in math class and would crack jokes that made him laugh. He’d wave at me in the hallway, even if he was walking with the gang of popular jocks that pretended I didn’t exist.

One day after class, our senior year, there was a “boxing fight club” event at a local park. 50+ unsupervised high schoolers met at a local park to box. I, of course, went to watch but somehow ended up in the ring… with Tracy. This is where I learned what it felt like to be punched in the nose. I also learned that I suck at boxing but, that I can withstand a series of punches. Tracy floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee, I on the other hand was the perfect punching bag. I was the guy that couldn’t hit but refused to hit the mat, either. So there I stood blow after blow, getting pummeled.

30 seconds into Round Three, my arms dropped and through my watery blurry vision I watched Tracy approach. His right hand twirling in the air like Muhammed Ali’s famous Rope-a-dope. I stood defenseless. The crowd of high school kids chanted Tracy’s name and awaited a final blow that surely send me flying across Ashford Park. But instead of taking me out that day, he stopped, grabbed my shoulders, looked at me in my watering eyes and said, “You okay, man? Good match.”

Whoah. What high school kid does that? The entire school was chanting his name and he chose not to lay me out. If I were him I would have done it. But he didn’t. He was good person.

Two years later he killed himself.

Two beautiful people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing took their own lives.

How does this happen? We need them. We, all of us, this world, need Kenny’s and Tracy’s in it. They were great people. They would make great fathers and husbands and co-workers and best friends. They were real and sensitive. They were human and vulnerable.

Why did they leave us?

I hate to think that in our own insecurities, society has gotten so good being fake that their realness made them misfits. You can be great at boxing, or basketball or math but, if your sensitive, vulnerable and honest… if you’re too real, you’re a weak link.

This isn’t the case, right? I’m being melodramatic. We’re all real and honest and human and vulnerable, right? We don’t promote fakeness and reward the boxers that floor the wavering component, right?

I miss Kenny. I miss Tracy. But, what saddens me even more is that the world we’re in now, needs them. The world without them is losing its perspective. In 2009, we reward the villains and reject the hero’s.

We need to figure this out. It's not too late. Kenny’s and Tracy’s still exist out there. They are outside of the limelight. They’re honest. They have integrity. They come from all walks of life, some are successful, some aren’t. But they aren’t afraid to go unnoticed in exchange for doing what’s right. They aren’t stepping on people. They aren’t lying to get ahead. They’re just nice, simple honest people that want to do what’s right.

My advice. Make friends with them. These are the best people in the world. They’re the great fathers and mothers, incredible bosses and mentors, best friends and spouses.

Learn from them. Support them. They are hero’s, but the most beautiful thing about them is... they don’t even know it.

Southwest Airlines. Cattle. And a crying baby.

It's Tuesday, September 1st. My son is 22 months old. My wife is 6 1/2 months pregnant. And I am hopping on a plane to LA for a week to make a tv commercial.

Last night was semi typical. Lubi downstairs in her own room
attempting to catch up on lost sleep. Caleb, on the floor next to me in the bedroom waking up, what felt like every 90 minutes and me holding his hand when necessary attempting to sleep and feeling a little anxiety about the travel and the week ahead.

As much as this sounds like an entry in a diary instead of a blog I'm setting the stage for what's to come.
There I was, shuffling on my Southwest flight with the rest of the cattle, my eartag was #A57, my eyes were red and my tail was not
wagging.

Then it happened, an infant starts whaling behind me.

Remember, I've had very little sleep and am looking at a daunting week in front of me so I'm tired and anxious and grumpy. In a period of about 8 seconds, the last 22 months of Calebs life flashed in front of my eyes. The crying. The midnight feeding. The lack of sleep. The second guessing of my parenting skills. But as my flashback reached
it's 6th, 7th... 8th second, I remained calm. Actually, I was more than calm, I was happy. The infant screamed, the cattle walked towards the plane and I smiled inside thinking, "I can't wait to do it all over again."

Must be the sleep deprivation talking.


(Look for Part 2 of this blog coming at the end of November entitled:
"Nevermind")

MJ: Elvis or Jesus?

It’s amazing to me how removed we all are from death. Unless it happens immediately to us, we laugh. Like life is this big movie screen and nothing is real. I found out about Michael Jackson’s death on twitter at around 3:00 pm in the afternoon on June 25th, 2009.

For any tweeter, tweeker, twitter tweeple whatever we call ourselves these days, twitter users, you probably got the news the way I did. TMZ tweets, “We've just learned Michael Jackson has died. He was 50.” …the flood of response followed. From disbelief to sorrow. I sat in shock secretly hoping it was the best PR stunt of all time to sell albums or avert another child molestation accusation. And I watched how people responded. Most of them, with class and sadness. But more people than I even want to remember treated his death like a bad movie ending. Jokes and mean comments began to flood in minutes after the news broke. Things like, “Thank you for making my day” were written. I was appalled. Not only was I appalled but, I was appalled that I was appalled (did ya get that?)

MJ was troubled. He very likely ruined a lot of lives of children, right? He was a child molester, right? He was sick he deserved it to die… right? He was a freak, with bleached white skin an over sculpted nose, and silky straight black hair (unlike his killer afro from the Jackson 5 years.) Dead. Gone. What a relief… right?

But then again he’s Michael freakin’ Jackson. The butt of our jokes… the freak we all laugh at to validate our own saneness... the music we listen to when we need a lift… or need to get the dance floor going again… or want to celebrate “casual Friday” with one ear bud inconspicuously tucked in an ear while we secretly rock out in our boring, familiar cubicle.

Here’s a thought: Didn’t Michael sort of give his life to all of us in a weird sort of way?

Don’t get me wrong, Michael Jackson wasn’t Jesus. But think about it, he was kinda of a non-religious version of a pop-culture Jesus. He gave his life to pop culture and everyone in it. Michael Jackson existed to create and tell stories. To create miracles with music. To invent dance moves and choreography that had never been done before. His music existed for people to go to when they needed a lift.

We all celebrated him, we put him on donkey fanned him with palm frans called him the king… and then we killed him.

Only his beating and crucifixion happened over years. We killed him by plucking him of everything he had, good and bad. “Billie Jean” pluck. “Thriller” pluck. “the moonwalk” pluck. “The butt of my next joke” pluck. “The magazine cover story” pluck. “the creepy interview” pluck… normal relationships, unconditional love, acceptance of flaws, neuroses, perfectionism, peace and quiet, soccer games, Saturday BBQ’s, going to the mall, blending in, pumping your own gas, being a normal person.
Pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck.

Michael Jackson didn’t take anything from me.
He never made fun of my mullet in 7th grade. He never followed me on twitter and laughed my ridiculous attempts at daily clever antidotes. He never retold a joke that I told him to break the ice at a party. I never made him a commercial that helped him sell an album. Not once. Not one little thing.

He gave me a lot. He started the dance floor at my Chico house party that increased my popularity exponentially. He gave me a costume for a “rockstar” party that I went to once; I was a hit when my frail ego really needed to be a hit. He inspired a “best of” mixed tape I made that everyone wanted a copy of. I got the credit for this stuff, not him.

So as I ask myself why I am appalled that people are mocking him in his death. I guess I feel that we’ve all taken so much from him. Maybe this time we all owe it to him to give back. Just once. Something simple like one happy sincere thought, whether he hears it or not, before the shock fades and the scandals and new jokes emerge. In this moment of quiet before we are all used to a world without him, show a little respect, tip your hat, refrain from telling the MJ joke this time or something as simple as appreciating him for giving something to you, and getting nothing back.

Maybe it's something as simple as this: Thanks Mike. You rocked.

“Hey future-self, you’re an idiot.”

I hope you enjoy this sneak peak into my psyche.

When I was a child, my parents were pretty good about going on vacations with us. I remember getting so excited about going on vacation that the thought alone of going was as fun as the vacation itself. At nine years old my parents planned a trip to San Diego. This trip was awesome. It had everything; camping on the beach, Sea World, a day trip to Tijuana. It truly was about to be a memorable family vacation. At this point in my childhood I was well aware of this “excited about going” thing and this time I took it a step further; I knew that as much as I loved the thought of going on vacation, I hated the thought of returning from a vacation. If you’ve stuck with me thus far, you’re in for a treat. Here’s the sneak peak I warned you about. On our way out the door to this “Memorable San Diego Vacation” I actually left my future-self a note that read:
“Ha! Ha! Brantley. I still get to go on vacation and yours is over.”

Lets all take a moment to appreciate just how messed up I was as a child…

What was I thinking?

I guess that’s the point, I wasn’t thinking. I came home from a great vacation, depressed, only walk into my room see the note. I, of course, crumpled it up and threw it against the wall.

My point here isn’t just to let the world know how strange I was as a child; I also learned something, but not until 16 years later.

After college, I decided it was time to live a little healthier so I chose jogging. You’ve seen us out there, sweaty pink faces with the look of disgust, gasping for air while we stomp around a track. For some reason, I felt that if I was going to get healthy that this would be my exercise of choice (God only knows why.)

On my first run, I ran from 20th Street to the Capitol Steps (about 8 blocks.) And on my walk back (I was really out of shape) I remember feeling pretty good about myself. “That wasn’t so bad. The thought of running was actually worse than the event itself…. And now… I feel really good.”

Then, on that walk back something clicked. San Diego, the note, the positive anticipation, the negative afterwards. Everything happened back then for a reason, to teach me this strange simple philosophy about myself. I have this ability to communicate back and forth with my future-self. The me that is about to experience something can talk to the me afterwards.

I began to consult my future-self before a jog that I didn’t want to go on. Future me would say something like, “Go. Run. I promise you’ll be glad you did.” And he was always right. Every time. I always was glad I did.

At 25, I began using my future-self as a guide through some of life’s difficult challenges. My future self turned my paralyzing fear of public speaking into one of my biggest professional assets. Before a big presentation I’d hear, “Brantley, you were just the most interesting part of this audiences day. Good job, they needed that.”

I overcame my fear of heights by skydiving with my future wife, “You did it. You didn’t die. Your girlfriend thinks you’re super cool. Oh yeah, you also had fun.”

My future-self also kept me out of trouble. Brantley jobless, homeless, in jail, Lung Cancer Brantley, Drug-addict Brantley… for being so messed up, these “Brantley’s” gave me incredible advice, “What’s your excuse? Great family. Great friends. Pretty Smart. You’re better than this. Move on. Don’t become like me.”

These days, I have a constant dialogue with my future-self about everything big and small. He encourages me to have those difficult conversations, take care of boring chores, eat healthier (Yesterday I ignored him when he said, “Don’t eat that entire footlong sub, you’ll be sorry.” And once again, he was right.)

Maybe this is what people mean when they say God spoke to me. It seems silly to think that God would take time out of his busy day to remind me not eat too much sandwich, but then again who knows where I’d be without him. One thing I know for sure, I’m going to keep listening, he’s never been wrong. Not once.

Oh yeah… One more thing. as much as I don't always listen, I’ll never laugh at him again.

A toddler is teaching me how to be a man.

When I was 16 years old, 2 months and 5 days old I scored a 94 on my drivers test. 2 points were knocked off for taking my hand off the wheel as I made a right turn onto Elm Ave. and 4 points were knocked off for making a brief stop at a green light returning back to the DMV on High Street. I felt like I deserved a 100, but was so happy to get my license that day, that I quickly moved on with the start of my driving career. This day I had looked forward to since as long as I could remember. As my cocky teen years continued and self-proclaimed “best driver on the road” attitude skyrocketed, I made and shared an observation that to this day, I still think is pretty accurate: In general, men are better drivers than women.
For those of you that hate me right now, let me lay it out for you in simple facts. We boys (you’ll know in moment why I say boys) have been thinking, fantasizing, and studying cars and driving since we were barely two years old. Cars are in our blood. They excite us. They make us smile. Most of you girls out there started to think about driving on the first day of Drivers Ed when your professor pushed the Red Asphalt tape in the VHS and yelled, “Hit the lights.” At that point in my life, at 15 and a half years old, I already knew how to drive a stick and all of the rest of this stuff was technical mumbo jumbo getting in the way of me and my license.

For women, on the other hand, they’re smarter than us and they’re practical. They prepare in the same way, only for the hard stuff, like: relationships, the future… babies.

18 months, 3 weeks and 6 days ago, was my figurative first day of “Drivers Ed.” This is the day I become a dad. Unprepared. Unstudied. I knew what babies were, I just didn’t know how to… anything. I knew nothing about them other than they were really young people. Granted, I had the area of driving to the hospital very fast, totally covered. But once my son came into the world, my attitude went from “I’m the man of the house, I make the calls around here.” to “Honey, please tell me what to do so we don’t all die.” (I’m not exaggerating. Trust me. I wish I were.)

Guys, if driving a car is… well, driving a car. Bringing home a new baby is like flying a helicopter, while doing sudoku and only 10-20 minutes of sleep every 3 hours.

“Hey Mario Andretti? Real proud of ya, for driving that car around circles for three hours, try having a baby, Sporto!”

2 days ago, after a typical nights sleep (for me that’s about 5 ½ hours with only one middle of the night screaming pacifier wake up) I came home from work to the usual helicopter pad. A bruised up toddler with a scrape on his forehead, he’s got the early evening grumpies (probably because he needs to eat) he runs towards me with a diaper that smelled like a Tijuana baño. Tired from a long day, all I wanted to do was sit on the couch, in front of the TV, have a plate of spaghetti set down in front of my face and zone out. But my toddler had other plans, “Side. Side. Side!” Which in Caleb language is, “Hey Dad? Now that you’re finally home I have the best idea I’ve ever had! We should go play outside!”

Something that I’ve learned since my first day of fatherhood is that as tough as it is sometimes to sack up, I won’t get these days back. So (sigh) the couch and the TV can wait. So can the plate of food. As far as his dinner and the Tijuana diaper? I don’t know? Feed him? Clean him? What about diaper rash how does that all work? How much time do I have? Should I ruin this moment by being practical? Or let right now be the most important time in the world and share this moment with him? Guys, these are the questions that go through your head. Women just know the answers to this stuff. We have to guess, second guess and be prepared to be wrong. A lot.

Not convinced that I am making the best decision in the world, I let Caleb lead me outside. Past his favorite ball, his slide and all the way to his little red car. You know the one that I’m talking about; every child has this red car with a yellow top. It looks like a cartoon version of a car with a Fred Flintstone open floor. My, just under two year old, toddler climbs inside, grabs the steering wheel and starts twisting it back and forth. He looks at me with a huge smile, “Car. Car. Car!”

And for one prefect moment, the helicopter pad merged with the DMV, the baño smell subsided, my tired long day and growling stomach disappeared and a smile came across my face, too. Maybe I am getting the hang of this. Maybe I do know what I’m doing.

Caleb looks at me for confirmation on his discovery. And I gladly give it to him, “Cars, yeah cars are cool.”

Was Russell Crowe an art director?

Lets’ face it. Russell Crowe is a bad ass. When I go to see a Russell Crowe movie my expectations are as high as they get. And the 2½ plays that I acted in… in college… in the small theatre… on the old part of campus… basically gives me critiquing rights of any actor any place at any time, right?

Now that you are aware of my credentials let me make one thing ridiculously clear, I don’t know Russell Crowe (big surprise) have never met him, never seen his parenting skills or had a conversation with the man but for some reason (and for the sake of this article) I know one thing for sure… he’s an ass. A real cocky, temper-tantrum throwing, my way or the highway, jerk.

I think we can all agree that “a-holes” are in the eye of the beholder so to give you an idea of who I am, I tend to be the nice guy that avoids confrontation, gets along with almost everyone and navigates tricky water strategically through the path of least resistance. I’m sure you all know one of me, and you either love me or you mistake my style as a reflection of the size, shape and thickness of my spine. Regardless, in the spirit of non-disclosure, that is the point of view that I am coming from.

Okay, who cares right? What ‘s my point? My point is… would you work with Crowe?

Not gawk at him, get an autograph and brag to your friends about who you’re working with. I mean, be vulnerable, brainstorm with, critic and be critiqued by Mr. Russell Crowe?

You see, I’m a creative director at an ad agency and I’d like to think that my job can be similar to that of a movie director. It makes sense when you think about it. I find and direct great talent to do what they do best. In my case, it’s to be creative, write, invent and create great ad campaigns. Plus, I’m a frustrated actor and Leo so deep down inside my ego needs to believe that I am some sort of star or celebrity, hence the Hollywood director correlation. Okay, let’s move on… here’s the complicated layer to my job, which I will for obvious reasons relate straight back to the movie director (in this case Ridley Scott) and Mr. Crowe relationship, the finished product is the thing that is judged by everyone: the critics, the box office, the “academy.” Do the critics care how much of an ass Crowe was on the set of Gladiator? Do the box office dollars mind the four months of attitude brought to the set each of day of filming? Of course not. But, how did the crew feel? Specifically how did the lighting guy feel when he walked across the set at the wrong time, in an effort to make sure he was just doing his best, only to be made a mockery of by… oh wait, that was Christian Bale… tomato- tomahto. The question is… is this premadonna attitude worth dragging 500 other people through a torturous work environment?

I guess in the movie business, it is. Ridley Scott has hired Crowe, time and time again since Gladiator and produced one great film after another so who am I to say he did anything wrong. Maybe it’s worth it to the 500+ people involved to be a part of this torture, in an effort to be a part of a great finished product.

But, what about Tom Hanks and George Clooney? These guys have a great reputation on set. From everything that I’ve heard (and I am the resident expert, remember the plays in college?) people actually have fun working with Clooney and Hanks is supposedly a total gentleman.

One thing is for sure, I'll will be critiqued by my final product, too. The process doesn’t matter to clients, consumers, potential clients and award shows. They just need the ideas to be great. And to work.

So what would you do in my shoes? Really? What would you do?

If you say I should hire Crowe, make kick ass "movies" and weather the outbursts at the lighting guy twice a week, tell me about it.

If you think that life is too short to work with “a-holes” and you don’t have to be a cocky, temper-tantrum throwing, my way or the highway, jerk to have a great portfolio- then send it to me. I’m hiring.