It's showering money

There are shower people and there are bath people. For the most part, all of us here at the Ponderosa are shower people. That's because not only is it easy to take a shower, it's easy to take a shower for granted.

Right up until something goes wrong.

Back in June my wife opened a door to a closet in the back of the house that we don't use very often. When she did, not only was she hit with a musty, mildewy smell, she also stepped onto a soaking wet carpet that made a very unpleasant squishing sound. She yelled to me down the hall, "Do you know where this water is coming from?" I replied, "Narnia?"

Sometimes she doesn't think I'm so funny.

Now I'm no stranger to household flooding. I've had experience with it before. Which is why I was able to figure out the problem was the shower in my son's bathroom on the other side of the closet wall.

I immediately leapt into action to fix the problem by grabbing the one indispensable tool every Jew is a master at. The telephone.

I called the plumber.

It didn't take long for him to figure out it was a cracked shower pan. And judging by the damage, it'd been cracked for a long while (I told you we don't use that closet often).

So the first order of business was to dry out everything back there: the walls, the items in the closet and the carpet. The good news is I found out there are people for that.

The Servpro team stormed our house like the beaches at Normandy, and came in with four giant fans that sounded like a 747 taking off, plus three giant dehumidifiers. We had to close off the back part of the house for four days while all of them ran 24/7.

That is until the circuits blew.

Our house was built in 1949, and the wiring has always been a little sketchy. If we run the washer, dryer and dishwasher at the same time the circuit blows. Sure, we could rewire the place so the electrical load is more evenly distributed. But where's the fun in that?

Besides, resetting the circuits is one thing I actually know how to do.

The next thing was to call my insurance company and have a very long, unrewarding conversation with my agent. Here's the funny part: if this had been a sudden accident - like a pipe bursting and flooding the place - we would've been covered. But since this was a cracked shower pan, they wouldn't cover the repair, although they would cover the water damage.

So I was happy about that, at least until I found out how much our deductible is.

Seems in my attempt to be a shrewd negotiator, and let State Farm know exactly who they were dealing with, I tried to save a few bucks on my homeowner's policy. Somewhere along the line I said okay to a $5,000 deductible. Which is not a bad thing if you have $50,000 in damage. We weren't even close.

Also turns out there are two ways to replace a shower pan. The cheap way, and the right way, which as you'd expect costs considerably more.

Guess which one we went for?
Of course when you're involved in any kind of big home project, one thing inevitably leads to another. Since we're also replacing the tile floor, we had to take out the vanity - the cabinet and sink - to get to the tile underneath. If there was a cheap and wrong way to do it, that's how the former owners of this house did it. The vanity is no exception. When the contractor went to remove it, it literally crumbled.

So last night the family and I had a romantic evening at Lowe's plumbing and bathroom section, picking out a new vanity. And moving ever closer to our deductible.

Anyway, enough about this. Suffice it to say at the end of it all, my son will have an awesome, newly tiled bathroom with an updated vanity. And he'll be able to enjoy his newly subway tiled, leak-proof shower.

The same shower it turns out I'm going to take a bath on.

My dermatologist is Dick Cheney

You know how some things are never as bad as you think they are? Like bad hair days for example. You're the only one who really notices, and if not, the only one who really cares.

Unless it's a really bad hair day.

Then everyone's laughing behind your back and making Nick Nolte jokes.

Here's the thing: I went to my dermatologist this afternoon to have a few dark spots removed from my face. But that's not what it looks like.

It looks like I went hunting with Dick Cheney.

The way it works is the dermatologist freezes the spots with liquid nitrogen, the same stuff they store fertilized embryos, bull sperm and Walt Disney's head in. Then the spots they've treated blister, then scab.

Then the scabs fall off (aren't you glad I chose this graphic instead of a more graphic graphic?). Then you have beautiful new skin when it's done.

There are a few problems. First, the liquid nitrogen feels like it's burning even though it's actually freezing your face. Secondly, the dermatologist seemed like she was enjoying it a little too much. And finally, the time it takes to heal is somewhere between five and ten days. Which is way too long to look like I've been cleaning my gun.

Or hunting with Dick Cheney.

So I'm going nocturnal as much as possible the next few days. Thanks to my little procedure, not only will I be able to finish a few things I've been meaning to get to in the Batcave, it's also shaping up to be a great movie-going, star-gazing, moonlight walk week.

The good news is when I emerge from the darkness, my skin will be smooth and radiant with even tones.

Why go through all this pain for a few blemishes? Because when L'Oreal calls, I want to be ready.

And besides, I'm worth it.

Thank you Steve

It'll be all over the news and the internet tonight. Steve Jobs has resigned as CEO of Apple, and has been named Chairman of the Board.

While it's a nice title, judging by his resignation letter it's probably more symbolic than real.

There's no arguing what he's done for Apple. For technology. For retail selling. For movies, music and cell phones.

While all the business pundits will have their "What does this mean?" fifteen minutes tonight, I'd just like to thank Steve.

For the awesome products you envisioned and then brought to life.

For the coolest phone ever.

For the excitement and anticipation of every new product announcement. Or old product improvement.

For the laptop that I make my living with.

For the tools that allow my kids imaginations to soar.

For never wearing a suit.

For your exceptionally inspiring graduation address at Stanford.

As you enter this next chapter, I hope you have the time to heal, the energy to continue doing what makes you happy and the desire to keep bringing your unique and incomparable vision to the world.

Thank you for everything you have done. And will do.

Hard to say no

Sometimes, like almost everyone who works in advertising, I think about going client side.

While driving today, I heard a radio spot for this company. And it sounded like a good place to work.

For starters, it seems like fertile ground for new thinking. A place where every single employee counts. Where management understands that sometimes you have to swim upstream to get where you're going.

It sounded like an exciting place where explosive ideas happen on a daily basis.

It's obviously the kind of company that wants to make a splash in the marketplace. And because it's such an innovative environment, you never know when the next great idea is going to come.

So maybe I'll go to their website and fill out an application.

And if I make a mistake, I'll wait 15 minutes and then fill out another one.

No, they don't

It'd be one thing if you saw 18-year old college cheerleaders wearing these shirts. But you never do.

You know who's always wearing them? Old guys.

It reminds me of those license plate frames you see every once in awhile that say, "Damn I'm good!"

I guess "Damn I'm insecure and my self-esteem and self-worth are non-existent but I'll cover it up with this bold statement that has nothing to do with who I really am." wouldn't fit.

The other obvious contradiction is the image on the shirt. A golfer, really?

For starters, if the golfer is an old guy then why is he carrying his own clubs? In a game known for having people to carry your clubs, or a cart to drive them around in, if you're an old guy carrying your own clubs then by definition you don't rule.

The t-shirt company probably realized that not all old guys want to project the image of a failed golfer. So they came up with this biker version of the shirt. Here's the funny part: you know who's wearing these?

Not bikers.

Not real ones anyway.

The old guys you usually see wearing the biker version are the yuppie bikers. The ones you see sitting outside at Starbucks on Sunday afternoon, with their yuppie Harley's all lined up in front.

The kind of guys real bikers just love to beat the shit out of. And for that reason, old guys wearing this version don't rule either.

Somewhere along the way, the t-shirt company decided images of golfers and bikers weren't iconic enough for their old guy demographic. And I'll admit that in a world full of iconic images, they did come up with not only a great one, but a classic.

It's the timeless shot of Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston, who he's just knocked to the mat. An image that at once projects power, strength, confidence, beauty, skill and defiance. All qualities that understandably any old guy would want to project.

Except, you know, old guy golfers and yuppie bikers.

Here's the problem with it.

Ali and Liston had two classic and controversial fights. The first time, Ali was 22 years old. The second time he was 23. So an old guy wearing that shirt is kind of like a young guy wearing a shirt that says, "Young Guys Rule" with a picture of Hume Cronyn in Cocoon. I use Hume Cronyn because old guys will know who he is. I was going to go for John McCain, but too easy.

I think we've all learned a few things here today. I know I have. To sum up then: most old guys don't rule. And the few that do don't need a t-shirt saying it. They also shouldn't carry their own golf bags, or buy yuppie Harley's.

And maybe, just maybe, the most important thing we can all take away from this post is that no matter how old you are, where you're from or what year it is, that enduring picture of Muhammad Ali is always going to take your breath away.

Which by the way is another thing that's not so good for old guys.

The market rate

I think it's safe to say most of us don't appreciate the skill and nuance involved in being a supermarket grocery worker. 

For example, the grocery store check-out cashier. Sure, they make it look easy. But clearly there's so much happening we "civilians" just aren't aware of and don't understand.

First, several times an hour they have to move their bodies several degrees forward, leaning into a bar in front of them activating a conveyor belt which brings the groceries conveniently within arm's reach. Then, as if bar-leaning wasn't difficult enough, the job requires them to actually pick up the groceries, with their hands, one at a time, and run them over a scanner which automatically records the price.

But there's more to it than that. Much more.

As any pro will tell you, they can't just continue on unfettered after having run the item. It's simply not that easy. They have to wait until they hear the beep confirming the item has been scanned before they can move on to the next item. Then they have to physically push the scanned item down the counter to their left, where another valiant grocery worker manually lifts it up, then places it in either a paper or plastic bag.

Child labor sweatshops in Thailand have nothing on these supermarkets.

It should be apparent to even the most casual observer these highly skilled professionals are doing God's work by doing a thankless job that clearly chimpanzees or the mentally challenged could never be trained to do.

You can see the difficulty factor on the faces of those brave shoppers going it alone at the automatic check out counters, and getting out of the store and on with their lives way ahead of the rest of us in those understaffed, slow-moving check out lines.

Yet day in and day out, these checkers do it all with the smile, friendliness and great attitude we see on display every time we go to the store.

Knowing how deserving these selfless servants are makes it much easier to support them in their vote whether or not to strike. The reason for the vote is the companies they work for have the audacity, the nerve, the unmitigated gall to ask them to contribute to their own healthcare costs.

The stores - and when I say stores I mean the customers in the form of higher food costs - now pay full fare for employee healthcare. But due to increasing health care costs, they want the employees to pay a monthly bank-breaking $36 for individual and $92 for family coverage.

Apparently all that time scanning groceries doesn't leave them much time to see what the rest of the world pays for healthcare. In the real world, the one outside the automatic doors, those rates would be a godsend.

Their union spokesman, Mike Shimpock, said here that by authorizing this strike they're sending a message to corporations "...for us and for everybody."

First, I don't need your union sending messages for me, but thanks for the thought. And secondly, what exactly is the message they're sending?

The one I'm getting is grocery workers consider themselves some sort of privileged class that should be immune from the rising healthcare rates the rest of us have to pay for the simple reason they haven't had to pay them in the past.

Note to grocery workers: things ain't the way they used to be.

No one wants to be paying the exorbitant healthcare prices we pay, prices by the way that are hundreds of dollars a month more than you're being asked to pony up.

I'm not a union-buster. I belong in good standing to two of them. But I have to say they are way out of step with reality here. Sadly this isn't rare for unions, which historically hold onto unrealistic positions like striking for raises during a recession, while at the same time not offering any concessions. They must think it makes them look brave. It actually just makes them look stupid, uncompromising and out of touch. And it gives ammunition to the real union busters, political and otherwise, that are out to get them.

In '03 and '04 there was a grocery workers strike that went on almost six months, wiped out most of the employees savings and cost the supermarkets 1.5 billion. The winners of that strike were stores that weren't being picketed like Trader Joe's and Bristol Farms.

The grocery union leadership needs to come to the table and negotiate with both the reality of healthcare costs and the interest of their membership in mind.

If they don't, they'll be the ones left holding the bag.

When the death penalty isn't enough

For those of you who doubt the existence of evil, or believe that it doesn't walk among us, you might want to have a seat and alter your thinking.

I don't have a term strong or accurate enough to describe the piece of white trash pictured here. His name is Jeremiah Lee Wright. What did he do to stir all this negative emotion? He decapitated his 7-year old son, then for good measure cut off his hands and feet.

His son had cerebral palsy and heart problems, and was confined to a wheel chair. And 'ole Jeremiah just got tired of taking care of him. (If you want more details, you'll find them here).

This isn't the first time I've posted about human garbage. I did it before for another animal equally deserving of being wiped off the face of the earth. The frightening thing is that psychopaths like this are like ants - you can never really get rid of them all.

As a parent writing this, and I'm sure if you're a parent reading it, the size of the unimaginable sadness is only matched by the desire to lock our kids away and protect them from everything, and everyone, bad in the world.

Which of course we can't.

I don't often do this, but I'm going to quote myself from that other post on the death penalty:

Here's the thing: I don't buy the argument that putting him to death brings us down to his level. It's a false analogy. Murdering innocent adults and young children, then executing the murderer as a consequence of their crime are two completely different things. They are not morally equivalent.

While it would be nice if the penalty worked as a deterrent, I don't really care whether it does or not. What does matter to me is that by putting him to death, one less monster walks among us.

A little bit of evil bites the dust.

So that's how I feel. And in this case in particular, I hope the way this guy eventually gets taken out causes him to feel as much pain and terror as he caused his innocent son.

For starters.

Tracks of my tears

If you follow this blog - and really, shouldn't you be out in the fresh air and sunshine? - you know every once in awhile as a public service I take time to contrast and compare the same song performed by different artists.

Did I say public service? I meant when I can't think of anything to write.

I've done it for Stand By Me and a song called Secret Heart. Today, for your listening pleasure, Tracks Of My Tears. Smokey Robinson wrote it and made it a hit. The first and last videos are of him singing it.

Please to enjoy.

A day at the races

For years I've always been told to bet the gray horse. No idea why. Maybe it's because there aren't that many of them. Or that they're so beautiful.

So that's what I've always done.

The family and I spent yesterday at Del Mar Racetrack, where the turf meets the surf. A beautiful track that sits on a spectacular section of the California coast, it was built by a partnership that included Bing Crosby, Jimmy Durante and Oliver Hardy. As racetracks go, it has a much higher class of gambling degenerates than, say, Hollywood Park. Everyone seems to clean up a little better. There were a lot of hats that looked like they'd be right at home in the royal wedding party.

Preferring not to sit with the riff-raff in the general grandstand section, we sat with the riff-raff in the clubhouse section. You can buy reserved seats in the clubhouse section, but there's really no need to. There are plenty of empty seats to sit in until someone who's paid for reserved seats comes and throws you out (which didn't happen to us). And if it did, we'd have just moved to other unoccupied seats.

I used to go to the track quite a bit when I was in college. Santa Anita, Hollywood Park, here at Del Mar. And I used to bet on the ponies quite a bit as well. I'd bet things like my rent money (which didn't make my roommate happy at all), my paycheck, my savings - you see where I'm going here. If I'd been better at it, it wouldn't have been any big deal. The problem was my skill at picking horses was just as good as my talent for hang-gliding, barbecuing and car repair.

The one time I actually won back the rent money I'd lost I took it as a sign I probably should stop going to the track. So I did. For a long time.

But now that years have gone by, and I have kids, I thought it was time to show them the fun of racing. The splendor of the track. The grandeur of these stunning animals (the ones on the track, not in the stands). After all, it is the Sport of Kings. And seriously, aside from a smoke-filled casino, what better place for impressionable young children than a racetrack filled with drunken gamblers.

I know, right?

Oh, and about that gray horse I bet on? In this picture he's just out of frame to the left.

Along with his walker and oxygen tank.

What a putts

I don't play golf. I've tried, but I can't. It seems like a monumental waste of time. And land. And money.

Besides, if I want to wear plaid shorts with striped shirts there are plenty of other places I can do it.

The picture to the left is part of the route I take when I'm out walking with my German Sheperd. Have a closer look at it. I'm fortunate to live in a neighborhood with some pretty nice manicured lawns, but even this struck me as a little much. See the cups?

Apparently what my idiot neighbor (and if you've been following this blog you know the place is lousy with them) did was go out and spend money to have a miniature golf course/putting green put on his front lawn.

I know what you're thinking: at least he didn't put flags out. You know what I'm thinking?

Let me direct your attention to exhibit B.

On the lawn immediately in front of his house, he has two holes with flags. I don't know what to make of any of it.

My first thought is I wonder if he followed the same procedure every other resident has to follow and cleared it with the homeowner's association. Come to find out he didn't (which would also explain the dolphin sculpture and the flagpole that aren't pictured here).

On the heels of that I think, well, it's his house and if he wants to he can. Which of course he can't. That's why there's a homeowner's association.

Then I think, wow, at least this guy didn't do something so stupid and boneheaded like putting in a sand trap.

Oh, wait a minute.

Let me direct your attention to exhibit C.

If the guy wanted to put a miniature course on his property, he should have put it on his property. Technically the street-side parkway belongs to the city, and they get really pissy when they don't have a say in what you do to their property. Or when they don't get paid a waiver fee so you can do it.

They're just funny that way.

I have a lot of friends, good friends, intelligent people that I respect that play golf often and enjoy it. But they have the good taste to do it on a course at a club, not on their front lawn.

I think I have to agree with Robin Williams: golf is a giant joke being played on everyone who plays it.

So I'll keep walking my dog past this house, smiling to myself at the idiocy of it all.

And taking a small bit of satisfaction in the fact that even if my dog can't play golf, there are other things he can do on this guy's course.

This clip has language that may not be suitable for the youngsters.