It all started with a typical FaceTime to my brother, an every few days thing around 5 pm PST to spend a few minutes catching up with his three kids. We’re at the point where the two and a half year old answers his iPhone (that’s old hat for the 4- and 6- year olds). Today, the 6-year-old answered and got some solo time with us. (Three siblings kindergarten and younger trying to share one iPhone simultaneously is how the war of 1812 started, as you know.) She showed us a project from school before swiftly retiring to the playroom where she could discuss her Barbies in detail. The ones she likes to swap hands on (pretending they are gloves for a ball), the ones she won’t switch clothing on, the ones laying abandoned in a dump truck because they are ugly. By her estimation, she has more than a hundred. She probably has more like thirty, but no one was there to confirm her math.

As we learned more about her collection, she placed the phone on what looked like a shelf. She moved dolls and herself in and out of the frame, finding it easier to keep the phone stationary. It was. Six-year-olds are brilliant like that. Then as we had a naked Ken doll foot front and center, we saw her headful of curls disappear into another shelf, followed by her arms, shoulders and legs. Then she let us know we were all in the dollhouse now.

Things looked different in there. Sure, there was some unfinished MDF and a lot of beige-y plastic people but somehow everything looked warmer. The world seemed bigger but super small, like we could do anything. I mean, we were in a dollhouse for Christ’s sake. I noticed things more, the way she giggled at her own jokes and asked questions without hesitation. The way incandescent bulbs almost illuminate the tone of Barbie skin. How ridiculous the notion of proportion is. That we should all play more.

And here I am, sitting under the teak of my dining room table, looking out at my home with new eyes. Taking the time to listen. To think, that act of play inside our own heads. I thought it would anger me to realize I don’t do this enough (the playing, not the table thing, for now). I’m not angry. I’m not sad. I’m glad I FaceTimed with a 6-year-old tonight and actually paid attention rather than doing that stupid thing we adults do. That thing where we use the time when kids (and most of the time, any other people) are talking to plan our next thought. That thing where we listen to people through a filter of what we expect from them, for the kindergartner to be inexperienced, for the shy to waver, for the outgoing to attack. Don’t do that. Pay attention and play and let people surprise you. You might just end up in something as cool as a dollhouse.

I don’t laugh a lot anymore. I’m that asshole who says “that’s funny” more often then issuing a giggle chortle or guffaw. Technically, I laugh a considerable amount, but mostly in my intact ions with my friends, coworkers and the conversations with my own brain. It’s at entertainment — tv, movies, magazines — that my laugh is less present. I used to think that it was because people today (writers and audiences) just weren’t as funny. Then I hefted the blame onto my white middle class first world disillusionment (I mean, complaining that tv doesn’t make you LOL anymore is pretty petty in the grand, blanket theory thing scheme of things). What I’ve grown to acknowledge and understand is that I laugh less now because of how I learned humor. And in how I learned humor lays the basis of my own definition, perception and standards for what is funny and what is just nice entertainment.

The Nerdist podcast recently interviewed Lily Tomlin. It was the first 20 minutes of that interview (which was all I got due to technology failing my need for her wisdom) that I thought about who taught me about funny. I had never wondered this before. Of course, Tomlin was a big factor. So were Carol Burnett, Steve Martin and Gilda Radner. As a child in the 80s, there’s no doubt that my burdgeoning humor taste was deeply influenced by my parents. I was exposed to what made them laugh, what they thought was quality comedy, who really spoke to their funny bones. What I realize now was a bit different than many of my peers was that my parents also explained the humor to me from early on. Sometimes it was as common as spelling out a play on words. Other times it meant outlining the socio- politic/economic/cultural context that took a simple joke to a heightened level. I grew up understanding the critique of suburbia and traditional gender roles at the heart of Rocky Horror Picture Show. I knew of current world events through Roseanne Roseannadanna. And that made it all funnier.

I owe a lot of my humor (and pop culture in general) education to my parents. But I am also indebted to the comedians who taught me through their talents. Tomlin as Edith Ann in her giant chair, Burnett as Scarlett O’Hara dressed in drapery, these characters were large but they were performed with such detail and nuance. it’s easy to play the over the top anything, but to truly make it hilarious you play the big small and the small big. They taught me more than iconic comic personas though. It was Radner getting devoured by the land shark, Martin in his 1977 Let’s Get Small album (which I would play over and over). Great humor was telling stories well, regardless of whether you were the only performer in an hour of dedicated stage time or one of many in a sketch ensemble. You take that story, your part in the joke and using it t build the humor. The decision to play it straight to make the situation even more absurd or to amp up your absurdity to create a farce of epic proportions…this was another big lesson in my curriculum of funny.

How I learned funny is why I laugh so hard at season 3 of Community. It’s why I can watch Shaun of the Dead 8,936 times and laugh out loud. And it’s probably why I say “that’s funny” to the Big Bang Theory and most comedies on Netflix Instant instead of laughing. Which is all okay, because that’s the real lesson of humor: you can’t expect something to be funny for everyone. If you try to make it that way, it becomes funny to no one. (Exception here for clips of guys getting hit in the nuts and babies laughing uncontrollably. Those are just comedy’s special gifts to all humankind.)

Dear HHI,

You know I adore you, but I’m beginning to realize how many hours I’ve given to you. Yes, I gave them willingly. And yes, you gave back through lessons of international property pricing and appreciation of my dishwasher and walk-in closet. But things just aren’t feeling like they used to.

I accepted you for what you were, even when your tendency to stage a story came to light. I still loved you. I followed you to Dubai and Dublin, to Bogota and Bydgoszcz. I’m glad I did, really. I just can’t do it anymore. You’re just too much. You come into my life too often, with sudden bursts of episode after episode after episode. And then you vanish, for days or even weeks, with no indication you’ll ever return. Quit playing games with my heart and with my DVR settings. (Apologies for being blunt, but I had to say it like it is.)

And you’ve changed. My darling has turned from the inspirational, captivating purveyor of couples, families and individuals taking their destinies in their own hands with a passport and maybe some savings is no longer. You are now the champion of middle-aged white American couples looking to add a safe (read: local-free) yet exotic property to their portfolio. Why did you do this to yourself? Have you lost the appreciation of character and the joy of opening global flavors to the uninitiated? It kills me to see you this way, pandering to the worshippers of granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. I beg you, take a look at yourself. You’re better than this.

My darling, I’m afraid we’re through.*

Your former international delight,

Kt

(*That is, unless you come to me with episodes of original rough beams, lacking American ovens and low ceilings. If you do, my DVR and heart will be open.)

Culture — even and especially mainstream pop culture — serve as beacons of specific things and times and places and geographies and subsets of populations. That’s why the nostalgia of Trapper Keepers is so powerful for some and totally void of meaning for pretty much everyone else. Pop culture is a reference point, a set of commonalities uncommon to most. And then there are the rare exceptions to this observational rule. Those references, those icons whose meaning transcends the boundaries of decades, of national borders, of language and of socioeconomic status. Inside this exclusive group resides a cultural iconography that freely crisscrosses the boundaries more than Disney.

Within the vast and intricate canon stemming from the imagination and fortitude of Walt Disney, the animated films rise above the rest. The plots, the characters and the music resonate with a frequency that allow these cultural beacons are a beautiful oddity of  shared references. Perhaps it’s because behind the marketing spends, fairy tale endings and talking animals, these movies relate to the human experience at the core. Love, jealousy, power, redemption — all themes in every life in every walk of life. Derision, consequences, dreams — these are the things that we all share.

To explore this, I put together There’s A Disney Song for That one day (with the help of the husband and the support of my office). This ‘tip of the iceberg’ experience is meant to demonstrate that for a cultural token to transcend the bounds of time-place-age-sex-money, it must speak to the human experience.

It isn’t that my days and my office/agency are packed with bad meetings. It’s that one bad meeting has a lingering effect beyond your time in that conference room. It’s like the durian fruit of professional group interaction, spreading its stink beyond the physical space and time of exposure.

These types of meetings have been the focus of so many blogs, articles and interviews, but they persist. We know how to avoid them (create an agenda, only schedule meetings when a meeting is needed, come prepared, leave with actionable steps). We know how to combat them when they sprout up (stick to an agenda, show up on time, set aside topics for individual follow-up, invite only those who need to be there).

Are the authors/experts wrong? Are the remedies not working? Are we just dumb?

The issue isn’t that we don’t know how to have productive, meaningful meetings. It’s that we aren’t in the habit of it. And changing habits are hard. Psychologists have told us that we cannot rely on willpower and motivation to break habits and should create environments that force us to change behavior. It’s called social engineering. I know, it sounds scary but it’s simply making changes that make us change the unwanted habit. Take losing weight. One social engineering move would be to sell your car and only bicycle for transportation (I know, an extreme example, especially for those of us in LA.) It works, because you are forced to change your behavior and break your bad habit. But we aren’t applying this approach to breaking the bad meeting habit.

We know the steps to take. We just need to make the changes that force us to take these steps. Maybe it’s a consequence for showing up late to a meeting. Maybe it’s holding meetings in spaces without seating to keep them brief (I mean, who wants to stand when there’s a nice chair beckoning). Maybe it’s a policy of only attending meetings with clear agendas. It’ll be different for each organization and most likely for groups within those organizations. The important thing is that we identify that we have a problem, and we make changes that help us kick the bad meeting habit.

———–

Relevant reads on breaking the habit:

• The Power of Habit (Charles Duhigg)
• Think Differently to Break Bad Habits (Psychology Today)
• Thinking, Fast and Slow (Daniel Kahneman)
• Drive (Daniel H. Pink)
• Switching Off Bad Habits (Psychology Today)

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, 2011. After a post-work nap and take-out, it’s 7:30 pm, cold and dark. My 10 year high school reunion started half an hour ago, and while I purchased tickets for myself and the husband (20 bones each for one drink ticket and an “appetizer buffet”), showering, drying my hair, putting on makeup and driving 15 minutes seems like way too much effort to undergo. Especially too much effort when I don’t have any driving reason to reunite with people I got along fine with 10 years ago and have hardly thought of since. Maybe if I had a mortal enemy to face or best friend to meet up with or something to prove to a mean girl, that would be motivation. Alas, I am more well-adjusted than most rom-com leading ladies, so I stayed in. Here’s what I imagine I missed.

The nice girls are still nice. These are the pretty-but-not-hot girls, the popular-but-not-powerful girls, the Daddy-got-me-a-safe-used-Honda girls. They were smart but not threatening, and now they are married to a 7/10 guy who exudes vanilla and works in insurance or managing plumbing sales or something else needed but not interesting. She graduated college with a degree in marketing, psychology or education and after the first “little one” (or some other cutesy idiom for offspring), found her life calling as a stay-at-home mom. She now spends most of her time with children or other mothers, and a fun night means two glasses of white wine or skinny margaritas and watching The Bachelor with the girls. She may be a bit bland, but she’s still sweet, harmless and genuine.

Late blossomers have bloomed almost past recognition. Not unlike the nice girls, these men and women didn’t stand out much from the crowd back in the hallways. It may have been shyness or unremarkable personal appearance or interests in “odd” but safe things like anime or horses. They were different, but not enough to warrant merciless torment or social pariah statuses. And now they emerge from the cocoon of a decade of non-memories as their metamorphized adult forms. There’s the not-to-hot transformation, the shy and quiet to life of the party, the overweight to fit. Occasionally, the more rare varieties are spotted. The shadow of a name familiar from the yearbook or class roster with no person to accompany it, that mysterious person you didn’t even know existed, now a prominent figure in business, society or the world beyond our hometown. The lost soul who spent all four years trying out ways to fight reality or hurt herself, now a really stable and happy parent. These people now flit around the room, colorfully landing and alighting from conversations at their own will, clearly more apt and comfortable in independence than many of the class of 2001 will ever be.

The high school cream of the crop prove they peaked 10 years ago. This group is easy to spot. They are the ones wearing their class ring or letter jacket without a shred of irony or humor. It’s hard to argue this isn’t the first time they’ve donned this tokens in the past decade. They look like they’ve aged more than 10 years without looking old. They talk about the good old days, and you can tell they really, deeply miss them. When they hear Glory Days, they personally relate with a story about a baseball game of their own. They seem to remember everything fun or funny or iconic about high school, and while you laugh along with them at tales of the past, you can’t help but feel a bit sad for them. Because while you saw them as having it all in high school, they’ll never have it all again.

The vast majority are just older, slightly different versions of who you knew then. Some people look more dramatically different, with a weight loss or more mature style. Some smoke less pot now, some drink more. But this 90 percent of attendees and the broader graduating class are pretty much the people you joked with in Chem or skipped out on PE with. The conversations slip easily into familiar, reminiscing about the past and catching up on the present. They’re okay, you’re okay, and everyone is good with that. The prevailing thread that we all grew up, that people are happy and lives are good, this is better than any satisfaction from showing up a mean girl or making your old crush drool.

And I think that’s the real reason I didn’t go. I knew that we were all okay, and that was the best I could have hoped for all of us.

This first one is one of my favorite celebrity photos of all time. It makes me sigh and swoon and feel all kinds of magic. The print of the top is classic but the deep collar paired with the draped necklaces bring it back to rock. I could see Russel Brand, Clinton Kelly or Swinton wearing this now without anyone batting an eye. And the hair! So effortless but glamorous and still fucking manly.

How fitting for the frontman of Queen to be robed and crowned, and while topless and sporting track pants and Adidas shell toes. The rich pile of the scarlet robe and the scale of the crown would make Gaga drool. The coif may have been cropped, but the moustache is not classic Freddie, classic 70s/80s and classic cool.

It’s all about leather and detail now. Look at the piping on the pants, making them subtly architectural without looking like an animal hide quilt. The shoulders of the jacket aren’t just exaggerated but have arrows on them. Arrows, like they’re saying “I know you want to look here but I’ll tell you where to look.” And I am dying to know if the shirt underneath is all zigzags like I’m hoping it is.

This jacket. You guys, this jacket! It’s like a rainbow leather streamer party on his upper body. AND I LOVE ALL OF IT.

I am slightly obsessed with this harlequin-ish jumpsuit. The combo of skintight with full sleeves and covered legs keeps it from getting too leotard gone wild, and the black patent belt is accessorizing done right. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised to see this hanging on the racks in American Apparel right now.

It takes quite a person to carry this much style and not get lost in the look, but he did it and did it well. And now when I face the closet in the morning, I think to myself “What would Freddie wear?”

I’ve heard so many “I’m gonna quit smoking” and “I’m getting in shape this year” and “I’m going to take time for myself” and “I’ll eat out less” in the past week  – proof that people are hoping to do the same things in 2012 that the general population has been aiming to do for a century. Boooooring. There’s no joy or excitement to be gained from looking at a new year as the opportunity to do stuff you should do just because it’s responsible/wise/necessary. Hence my choice to have goals instead: things that are new, challenging and are either achieved or not (although progress is progress AMIRITE?). A late afternoon tweet about one of these goals led to participating in an article on not-so-normal “resolutions.” Allow me to elaborate.

1. Learn to throw knives.

Seriously, who throws knives? No really, do you know anyone? I don’t. And I figure if there’s a zombie outbreak or collapse of national government or attack by sentient machines or mega world war, I’d be more likely to survive (and pretty popular, to boot). So that’s cool. Also, I’m thinking throwing knives are cheaper than guns and ammo, if one is selecting a weapons-oriented hobby. Note that I did no research on the cost, process and time it takes to become a skilled knife thrower, but I can assume it takes a look of patience and discipline, which, um, I would probably benefit from improving. Another plus: telling people I can throw knives without totally lying would be pretty badass. I’d be like a little blonde whirling dervish of badassery. Every modern woman’s dream.

2. Add 500 books to my home library.

I love books like most chicks love Vampire Diaries and cupcakes. There could never be enough books to satiate my adoration, and I thought I had quite a few at home. Yet when I took to logging them all digitally, I found I had only 207. (I know, the link says less but that’s because I got lazy and didn’t enter the last batch of ISBNs. Sue me.) Only 207! I was simultaneously embarrassed, aggravated and motivated. More, more, more was my mental war cry, which naturally led to picking this insanely high and arbitrary number. But I said it, then repeated it, then saw it in print, so game on. (If you want to send me books, I will most definitely accept them. Preference is for good ones.)

3. Up the roller skating skills to avoid mockery by tweens.

I’m the proud owner of a new pair of roller skates, in all their white leather and hot pink wheeled glory. It’s what most 29-year-olds get for Christmas, right? On my first test ride (in my driveway where I could limp or crawl inside out of public view if injured), something was illuminated: I’m not that good at roller skating. Sure, the last time I skated was when the Dangerous Minds soundtrack was a hit CD, but I figured it’d be akin to riding a bike. It kind of is, except you have the bike parts strapped to your feet and your center of balance has shifted a bit since adolescence. I didn’t get all greedy or showy with this goal, I just want to be able to skate forward, turn and stop better than the typical 11-year-old. If I fail, I open myself up to whatever insults the kids are throwing around these days and knocking out my annual deductible pretty early in the year. Sadly, this grown-up would prefer the latter.

4. Start a band and actually practice/play.

I’ve started at least half a dozen bands. All of them were awesome, with names like TrapperKeeper and Fanciful Cheetahs. There were different people and totally different musical styles and genres  in each. But they all missed the same thing: actually playing music together. This time, I’m going to get it right. I already have the front-end down pat, so really I just need to work on the follow-through. And everyone knows that should be as simple as making an authentic mole without a recipe.

Being a celebrity must be great. Not only do you get big paychecks and people to cook/clean/dress/schedule you, you get paid to say you like things. You just show up to a photo or video shoot (or maybe even just send in a headshot, I’m not sure how this showbiz stuff all works), smile and act like you like a product, and ca-ching! Another five or six or even seven figures goes into your account (here I go again, assuming stars have bank accounts like us normal people). And unless the product causes some disease in children or is related to something NSF-network TV jokes, there’s no wrong thing to endorse. Pretty envy-inspiring racket, right?

But since it’s a business transaction (sorry if you’re a bit “green” to this, but it’s all about sales, not the celebrity’s deep emotional similarity to you based on the fact you use the same toothpaste), the laws of supply and demand exist. If a celebrity endorses everything, they are making themselves in tremendous supply…and cheaper. Therefore, I’ve concluded there must be some sort of endorsement rationale, a tipping point of saying yay or nay to pinning your approval to a product. Further conclusion: it seems like most celebs make seemingly common sense decisions. And then there some outliers. These are the commercials you watch for all the (hilariously) wrong reasons. It’s like having a peanut butter and shoe sandwich. Like, what?!

That’s pretty much what my reaction was to this Shannon Doherty Education Connection spot. I was expecting something like Proactiv (is there a celebrity they haven’t had?) or an animal charity, not the site known more for disturbingly catchy jingles more than what they actually do (which has something to do with college and matching and bad choreography, I think). What would Dylan think? I’m sure he’d be supportive of your decision to get a college degree, but shilling it online for the one of the leaders in infomercial cheese? Even Brandon would raise an eyebrow to that. (Andrea would totally love it and probably ask if you could get her screen time.)

I don’t get it. It just doesn’t fit. And while Ms. Doherty hasn’t graced many silver or small screens lately, it’s not like her career is washed up or that she’s lost cultural relevance yet. Sadly, she isn’t the only one. This Megan Mullally I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter song and dance (literally) has bothered me since it debuted years ago. The woman has four SAG awards and two Emmys and can really sing. Oh, and she’s freaking hilarious. Why oh why did she chose to endorse imitation butter?! Maybe the offer came over while she and Nick Offerman were reliving some Ron & Tammy-style drunken shenanigans. That or demon possession. Those are the only possible explanations.

Perhaps it’s all a joke on us, then, a public so accustomed to celebrity testimonials and personalized pitches. Maybe the only way to break through the clutter is to appeal to our natural discomfort when faced with oddities. If so, who’s the mastermind behind it? I’m doubting it’s an ad exec, CMO or talent agent. I’m hoping it’s the celebrities themselves. Put yourself in their shoes. You’ve done the red carpets. You’ve tackled your share of media junkets and late night appearances. You walk out the door expecting to get recognized. Tons of companies would love to have you. Maybe you select imitation butter or online college search sites or cash advance shops just to shake it up. You know, keep it fresh. Entertain yourself. Put the joke on them.

Or maybe it is just all about the paycheck.

It’s 12:36 pm on a Tuesday. This is what is on my desk, in my office, in the ad agency headquarters, in a five-story office building.

1. Receipt from Amazon for six books.
2. New-ish yellow notebook.
3. Red crab soapdish with my business cards in its open mouth.
4. A silver desk bell.
5. A fuschia mini-shredder with whiteboard eraser on top.
6. Pile of crumpled Sephora and Starbucks receipts.
7. Square glass cup full of whiteboard markers
8. One black Polycom phone, landline.
9. Empty 1.25 cup Rubbermaid container with a Braeburn apple on top of the closed lid.
10. MacBook Pro, Apple keyboard, Magic Mouse, secondary Apple monitor.
11. Stray business card with flower motif that irks me.
12. Strawberry hued Post-It pad.
13. Half-full can of Diet Coke.
14. Orange plastic cup.
15. Five-inch tall inflatable Whack a Zombie.
16. Stack of research next to stack of notes next to another stack of notes.
17. Green box of Kleenex.

This is my work life on display.