Dear Readers (both of you):

I’ve pulled up stakes and moved this mess to the Times Union’s website. I’ve been talking to them for a long time about setting up shop there, but until recently it would have been sort of a conflict of interest. You know, that whole “helping the competition make money” thing. People are so fussy. C’mon the newspapers need all the help they can get!

Anyway, you can read my blog there now. And if it fails miserably I’ll be back here in no time.

In my house we cling to the quaint old habit of reading stories to each other from the newspaper.

“Hmmm…It says here that Wal-Mart’s now selling caskets.”

My wife Ann nearly did a Danny Thomas spit take. She knew what I was thinking.

“I swear to God if you buy me at coffin at WalMart I’m going to come back and haunt you.”

We’ve had this conversation before. To me a box is a box and since I’d sort of prefer to be cremated putting me in an expensive piece of furniture seems like a terrible waste. I’d be OK with a cardboard container or a Hefty bag or something. It’s been made clear that is she goes before I do -which is statistically improbable- she expects the best of everything: beautiful coffin, well-appointed funeral home, harpist…

“You get mad at me because I won’t use coupons at Price Chopper. —and now you don’t want me to shop around for something expensive like a funeral?”

Cue the stare.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but just in case I’d better pay attention to her wishes. By the way —I wonder if you buy one of those coffins they can pack your other purchases inside? Shipping an empty box also seems wasteful.

We were sitting at Regal Colonie Center waiting for Zombieland to begin. That’s when they showed an extended preview of the new Ray Romano show on TNT, Men of a Certain Age.

“I don’t really get what that show is supposed to be about,” my 14-year-old son said.

I consider it one of my most important jobs as a father to explain things and offer some context.

“Well, when guys get to be my age they start to worry about things. Their job. Their health. You know. Getting old. It’s basically guys being worried about getting old.”

He was listening.

“Your body changes, people pass away, there are disappointments. Disillusion. And sometimes you might you start thinking that your best days are behind you. You know, you can’t do all the stuff you used to do.”

There was exactly one perfectly timed beat before he responded.

“You don’t need to watch TV to see that, do you?”

Some say that a Halloween costume is a window into the soul that reveals your subconscious mind. Let’s hope not.

I had planned to dress as a Jedi knight for a party last Saturday night but somewhere along the line things went terribly awry. Instead of a wise and noble warrior with a light saber I somehow ended up as a witch. Think Dame Edna meets Margaret Hamilton meets Janeane Garofalo.

Half the fun of Halloween is making your costume and the most interesting part of this project was filling the $5 bra that came from WalMart. 44D, since I know you’re wondering. After doing extensive research on the internet I found that stuffing a stocking with rice is a method favored by frugal transvestites everywhere. Don’t look this up at work. As you can see here I weighed them to guarantee uniformity.

Overall the project was a big success and fortunately I was only hit on once. The next morning I was feeling a little off from the late night and rich food. My wife, Ann, quipped, “Maybe you’re getting your period.”

Ha ha.

The big news in town? The cat situation on Pineridge Place. It seems that neighborhood felines have taken a liking to the quiet cul-de-sac making it their favorite place to relieve themselves. The issue as been covered by both the Times Union and our local weekly paper, The Spotlight, who say the cats have “Turned the area into a giant litter box.”

One resident claims, “The whole street just stinks. You can’t even walk around the circle without the scent of cat urine and feces knocking you down.”

On top of that she claims that her toddler was going around the yard picking up cat poop. “I want my child to be able to play outside in the dirt, but she can’t because the outside is a litter box.”

That’s a pretty funny quote, isn’t it? Anyway, the bottom line is now these folks want a law that would prohibit residents from letting cats roam free.

I have a better idea. There’s a guy in town who calls himself the Delmar Dog Butler who makes his living cleaning up dog crap in your backyard. I’m thinking of becoming the Glenmont Cat Wrangler.

People say you can’t herd cats, but those people have never met my dogs. These two actually can herd cats and for a very reasonable fee I’d be willing to turn them loose on Pineridge Place. They will not merely run the cats off but encircle and move them away from your property.

That’s not all. Maddy, the black and white one, has quite an appetite for cat poop so she will not only herd cats but clean up your yard. Don’t be fooled by the sweet face —to her cat feces is like filet mignon.

Just remember not to let her kiss you on the mouth.

Back in fifth grade me and my friends were in the boys room at Rushmore Avenue School in Carle Place. There we were lined up peeing when the principal walked in.

“Boys,” he announced, ” You should not stand so close to the urinals when you go to the bathroom. Back up so you don’t get splashed.”

We inched away until he told us to stop a foot or two from the fixture. This felt a little strange, but whatever. Who were we to question him? We figured he learned this in the military because all of our dads were WW II or Korean War vets and they were full of manly advice. After that he’d periodically stop in and do an inspection to make sure we were standing nice and far away when we peed.

OK, I’m not saying that Mr. X was definitely interested in looking at our little fifth grade units, but doesn’t this strike you as a little creepy? Imagine what would happen if your kid came home from school and told you this story.

We were just doing what we were told. And anyway, who wants urine splashed on their pants?

I’m probably not smart enough to be the superintendent of schools in Lansingburgh, NY but I am smart enough to know that a knife with a 1-1/2 inch blade is not a weapon.

So what’s up with George Goodwin? According to an article in the Times Union, Mr. Goodwin, superintendent of schools in Lansingburgh,  recently suspended a student for 20 days because the young man had a keychain size pocket knife in his car at school.

The student is Matthew Whalen, a 17-year-old Eagle Scout and National Guard member. The high school senior plans to apply for an appointment to West Point, but now he’s worried that this knife nonsense could be a problem.

Was Goodwin worried that young Whalen would run amok in the school hallways slashing people with his tiny knife? Yes, it’s ridiculous to think that a knife this small is a weapon, but it would be way too easy for us to sit here and call Mr. Goodwin names. Just because it was a stupid decision doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a stupid man. Even the best among us sometimes do things that are hasty and shortsighted.

The only thing for George Goodwin to do now is to fess up and admit he made a mistake.

Why not tell him yourself. Here’s George Goodwin’s email address ggoodwin@lansingburgh.org —and his phone number is 518-233-6850.

Imagine for a minute that you’re taking the car in for a brake job. Would you stand in the service bay and tell the mechanic how to do the work?  Alright, an electrician comes to the house. You go in the basement while he’s rewiring the circuit breakers and give him some pointers, right? Ok, how about this: you go out to dinner and join the chef in the kitchen and explain how to cook your meal.

No. Not unless you want him to spit in it while you’re not looking.

You would never do any of those things —so why is it that clients have no problem telling experienced producers and writers how to create advertising?

Most local TV spots are bad because the customers think they know more than the professionals who are there to help them. Then, once the Larry Tate Effect kicks in, what you get is some very bad advertising.

You know the spots. There are big sweeping pans of the store/restaurant/office, shots showing the front of the building or the sign, and people shaking hands (car dealers, insurance, real estate). Worst of all they are cluttered with too many ideas.

Don’t blame the people at the TV stations. All they usually get for being honest with a client is yelled at by some account executive or manager. They don’t make enough money to put up with that.

So here’s some advertising advice: if you hire someone to make a commercial, explain to them what makes your business special, accept that the spot should only be about one thing, and get out of the way.

I promise that you’ll get something more effective.

When you have two dogs the question of poop becomes an issue. Enter the Doggie Dooley Pet Waste Disposal System. It’s described as, “A miniature septic tank for you dog’s waste.”

That’s pretty accurate but I prefer to call it, “A disgusting pit for dog crap filled with revolting water that has a tendency to splash up at you.”

When this thing arrived at my house I was skeptical —even before I dug the three foot pit required for installation. I especially got a kick out of the Doggie Dooley logo, which is supposed to be a dog reading the paper while kinda sorta taking a crap. Yes, that’s exactly how it works —except the dogs don’t read the paper, you still need to pick up the poop, and every time you use it you risk being splashed by a vile brew of water and dog feces.

But hey, what are you going to do, throw that stuff over the fence?

OK, so it’s not cool to make fun of the size of somebody’s Doppler. I did this spot back in 2000 when WRGB erected their own Doppler radar outside their studio in Niskayuna. They went on the air claiming Doppler superiority —and we wanted to let folks know that their radar was more like a toy than a mighty tool for deeply probing the weather.

WRGB had just started airing a spot with meteorologist Steve LaPointe actually scaling the steel tower and then rappelling down. It was a meaningless but memorable stunt that demanded a firm response. Here it is:

It never aired. Management was leery of pointing and laughing at WRGB’s little radar —and since the consultants in Iowa agreed it was killed. That’s probably best. I don’t think anyone wanted to hear Channel 6 explaining that it’s not the size of your Doppler that matters, but how you use it. Even the weather war has rules of engagement.

Remember the movie “Borat?” The village at the beginning of the film was supposed to be Kazakhstan, but the producers couldn’t find a place in Kazakhstan backwards enough to be Borat’s home town. So they went to Romania. And Romania is where I may be going next summer.

My wife’s family escaped from the Transylvania region of the Eastern European country before the communists took over —but she’s quick to remind you that her people were ethnic Hungarians, not Romanian. After all, Hungarians would never allow their trains to be a mess like those described here in the Rough Guide to Romania:

Tickets are incredibly cheap, but this is offset by the habitually derelict carriages, bizarre timetable and sweltering/freezing conditions. Often crowded, trains frequently lack light and water, making long journeys somewhat purgatorial.

OK, so the trains aren’t great —but how about the food? I’m looking forward to trying the muschi ciobanesc, which is pork stuffed with ham, covered in cheese, and served with mayo and cucumbers on the side. Mmmmmm… pork stuffed with ham.

Anyhow, an adventure like this takes planning so I hope you’ll join me here as I prepare for my journey to the armpit of Europe.

If you have not seen this commercial then that makes you the only person in a 100 mile radius who missed it. What makes this spot so special is that my wife, Ann, is prominently featured starring as The Woman Who Bought a Grill at Price Chopper. Have a look:

You might figure that people she knows are coming up and fussing over her new-found fame, but complete strangers? I’ve even had people at my new job upon meeting me ask, “Is that your wife in the Price Chopper commercial?”

Sure, I’ve been on TV a few times but compared to her role as a Chopper Shopper I’m a complete C-lister. That’s OK. I’m good with keeping my mouth shut and smiling, assuming the role of arm candy. After all, that’s what I’ve been doing for 22 wonderful years.

THERE’S NO “J” In RATINGS
Jeff Gaspin, chairman of NBC Universal Entertainment, told the NY Times earlier this month that the network would consider Jay Leno a success with just a 1.5 rating in adults 18-49. Yes, that sounds low —but the program is so cheap to produce it can make loads of money with the same ratings that would get another show cancelled. NBC affiliates must be thrilled. They were promised that Jay would help revitalize NBC’s anemic schedule. If a 1.5 is revitalization, I’m Warren Littlefield.

MIND SHIFT
They’re working on the movie “The Other Guys” in the streets of Albany outside my office this week. I’ve heard several people say they’re “taping” scenes. This is funny because when I worked in TV folks would always refer to what we were doing as “filming.” No, we’d smugly think to ourselves, “We’re taping.” Now people just assume everything is tape —and we may be coming to a day when film is as quaintly passé as vinyl.

TAG TEAM
Came home from work and found one of the dogs eating a loaf of bread. What?! It appears that the kitten knocked the bread off the kitchen counter and the dog went to town. Freihofer’s Double Fiber Wheat in case you’re interested.

A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly,courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. Culinary geniuses they ain’t.

After spending a weekend with my son’s Boy Scout troop on a tailgate camping trip I’ve decided that it will be my personal mission to see every one of these fine young men earn his Cooking Merit Badge. Hey, I’m not fussy -and I love bacon, hot dogs, hamburgers, runny eggs, potato chips, and donuts as much as the next guy- but it is my belief that an important measure of manhood is found in the kitchen.

Just stop by my firehouse if you don’t believe me. Cooking is a skill that’s rated very highly in the firefighting community. We’ve got plenty of guys who can throw a ladder or swing an axe, but if you can make dinner for forty people? That’s something special.

Boys it’s time to cook. And remember: this isn’t just about preserving the health of your adult leaders, it’s about impressing girls.

Men are blessed with the ability to relieve themselves almost anywhere: behind bushes, in bottles, between cars, seated in football stadiums, in the subway… you get the idea. But here’s a case where you’re trying to do your thing where you should be doing it and you’re in plain sight anyway.

The men’s room at my new office has an electric door opener for those with physical disabilities. Well, it seems that some men on my floor (like the lawyers down the hall) enjoy using the electric opener so they don’t have to touch the handle. Fine —but it just so happens that this leaves the urinal user exposed and in plain site for a very long time, like to the folks getting off the elevator. See for yourself:

That’s ten seconds of exposure.

Look, I understand not wanting to touch the door handle, but come on guys, can I get a little privacy here? If you’re a germaphobe or something just push the door open with your elbow —and when you’re done use a paper towel to pull the handle from the other side. That’s not unreasonable.

Got a text message the other day: Your squirrel friend is at the window for you.

I can’t remember exactly when I started feeding the squirrels outside my office window. In the beginning it was chunks of bagels or donuts that I’d swipe from the kitchenette in the sales department —but soon I was buying nuts at the grocery store and tossing them out onto the roof. The squirrels would dart around searching for their treats and carry them off to God knows where.

Pretty soon instead of throwing stuff out the window I began leaving it on the windowsill. Before long this became a regular stop on the squirrel itinerary as they dropped in to see what was on the menu. Sunflower seeds, candy, crackers, pretzels, Oreo cookies —you name it. It was not unusual to look outside and have a squirrel looking back at you.

This was all very cute until we accidentally left a window open one Friday afternoon. Monday morning our desks were covered with tiny footprints —and down the hall someone’s stash of M & Ms had been ripped open. There was candy everywhere: in coffee mugs, on bookshelves, and in every dark corner of the office. We were still finding it three years later.

I texted back: Get him a bag of granola from vending machine. I’ll pay you back.

When I was in fourth grade they took us on a field trip to New York where we toured NBC at Rockefeller Center.

It was awesome. We peered into the news studio, created frying bacon sound effects by crinkling cellophane, and saw where Johnny Carson presided over the  Tonight Show. We also got to watch DJ Big Wilson doing his shift on WNBC-AM. That did it. From that day forward I wanted to work in radio or TV.

The rest of fourth grade was all about broadcasting. I made several shoebox dioramas showing TV studios with cables of string and clay figures standing behind cameras. My teacher, Mrs. Rice, did not approve . Years later I got to read her notes about me and it turns out she made a big point of the time wasted on these projects. What could be worse than a fourth grader wasting time?

At home I would huddle in my room spinning records and recording myself playing DJ on a reel-to-reel recorder. I’d read stories from the paper in a serious tone like the newscasters on the radio. Little did I know that they swiped many of their stories from the same place.

It was inevitable, really: a straight shot that landed me at the radio station and TV studios of SUNY Plattsburgh. The internship, the job, the second job and 24 years doing what I wanted since I was eight-years-old.

But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we’d visited a doctor’s office or law practice instead of NBC.

You learn quickly in local TV that casting your family and friends in spots is a great way to get things done cheaply. Over the years my boys appeared in many news promos, mostly for lurid (and sometimes stupid) sweeps stories.

Alex and Zack have been stalked by predators, hit by cars, addicted to violent video games, abused prescription drugs, improperly buckled into car seats, and lured into online trouble. They’ve played pyromaniacs, abused children, and teenage alcoholics. Based on their body of work, that they’ve survived until 21 and 14 respectively is a miracle.

In this spot Alex is the unsuspecting child playing innocently in a park. That’s me as the mysterious lurking man:

Hahaha. “Watch it with your kids. You can’t afford to miss it.”

And here we have little Zack getting into the household chemicals. I remember feeling a little funny directing him: “OK… now point it at your face…”

Many of these stories blow minor problems out of proportion —things that rational people really shouldn’t spend much time worrying about. TV news directors love that stuff and I gleefully went along for the ride.

Former local anchorman Ed Dague once decried my work as “dreck.”  Truth be told I felt the same way about his stuff but I understand where he was coming from.

TV news promotion is not the highest form of art in the ad world.  Mostly it’s bombastic, cliché-ridden, and overwrought —as if you can annoy people into watching your show. Thanks to the consultants who dictate the look and feel of local TV news in America it’s the same in every market.

And woe to the producer who breaks the mold.

Back in July I did some weather ads that spoofed the tried and true genre of man on the street spots. The premise: who needs an accurate forecast more than nudists? I cast a bunch of local actors to play members of the fictional “Henry Hudson Nudist Camp” and here’s what we came up with:

This spot and two others aired for about twelve hours before they were yanked off the air.

The way it was explained to me was that “80% of our audience will get the joke and the other 20% will be offended.” In other words, 20% of the people out there are not smart enough to understand what they’re watching.

I always tried to do my job as if 100% of the viewers were smart. My bad.