Unstuck

Letting go. It's never easy.

Case in point: a week ago, thanks to the record-setting stock market (Bidenomics bitch!), I was able to sell some shares and treat myself to my first brand new car in seventeen years. German car, expensive to maintain, expensive to repair, ridiculously expensive to own.

What the hell. I'm not taking it with me. And as the wife said, "Life is short. Buy the car."

The point is in purchasing my new wheels, I have to let go of my old ones, a fourteen-year old Lexus ES350 with over 155,000 miles on it. While I was initially thrilled at jettisoning the Lexus, I started thinking about all the times of my life that car has been a part of.

Driving the kids to school.

To rehearsals.

To game practice.

Nights out with the wife.

Emergency trips to urgent care or the ER. Fortunately not many of those.

I'm not gonna lie: thinking about the outgoing car in that light got me more than a little misty. It shouldn't come as a surprise. If you know anything about me, and if you don't by now then I just don't know where we go from here, you know I'm a sap.

I cry at Hallmark commercials. I never had a chance.

Because I have a new car, and a new windshield, I also have to say goodbye to something else I've been holding onto for the last two cars I've owned. My Chiat/Day parking sticker.

I always loved the Chiat sticker. The pirate culture it represented. The skull and crossbones shadow it made at high noon on the dash. The bragging rights it gave me. And the fact I could visit Chiat weeks after I was done freelancing there, park unnoticed amongst them, and sneak upstairs for one of their great breakfast burritos from the in-house restaurant.

I'm not proud. But on a stack of bibles, it was a pretty fuckin' great burrito.

When I was still working at agencies, before finding the most awesome client side job ever, that little blue sticker was also proof positive, tangible evidence, something I could point to whenever I'd play the Chiat card.

Which almost everyone who works or worked there does at one time or another.

The sticker's faded now, and years of sunlight exposure have given it a little curling around the edges. And just like the velcro strips that hold my FasTrak transponder, or the Magic Castle member parking discount sticker, the time has come to lower the pirate flag, and let go of the Chiat sticker.

All to say that if you want to sneak in for a breakfast burrito, we're going to have to take your car.

Playing chicken

I’ll admit I was a little late to the party on the whole spicy chicken sandwich thang. Oh sure, thanks to my son who’s been willing to make runs to downtown L.A. during the pandemic, I’ve been introduced to the overheated pleasure of Howlin’ Ray’s Nashville Hot Chicken, which, for those of you keeping score really brought the craze home.

Now I like spicy food, always have always will. But like anything in life, it's a matter of degrees. And there's only so much spicy my sensitive yet larger stomach will tolerate. Before you go ahead and make the fat jokes, let me just remind you that like my Lexus, I’m built for comfort, not speed.

Anyway as you can see from the chart on the left, at Howlin’ Ray’s sandwich heat runs the gamut from none to can’t touch this.

So I decided to try the mild, which is the starter sandwich. And I loved it. The problem is my kid couldn’t be running to DTLA nearly as often as I wanted to have a spicy chicken sandwich.

Enter Avid, my friend and 2004 runner up for the bronze in curling. On his Instagram feed, in a rare break from the dog pictures, he posted the sandwich you see above, which happens to look startingly similar to Howlin’ Ray’s. So I asked him where it was and he told me about the Cluck Kitchen in Irvine.

Now Irvine is a much easier drive than DTLA. And if you know anything about me, you know I’m all about easy.

While there ain’t nothing like the real thing, come to find out Cluck Chicken is pretty close. They have the same spice range as HR, and their sandwiches taste uncannily similar.

But if oversized, dragon-breath hot sandwiches aren't enought to fill you up, Cluck Kitchen also has some mighty tasty sides to go along with it. Things like fried pickles, vinegar slaw and, my personal favorite, bacon potato salad.

Yet one more dish proving my timeless theory that bacon makes everything better.

The other thing Cluck Kitchen has is a snappy little hashtag. It's what we in the ad biz like to call "on brand."

Spoiler alert

First of all, for some reasons probably having to do with personal vanity and self-image, it's important to me you know this is not the front spoiler on my car. The scrapes and scratches on my front spoiler are much more symmetrical and artistic in their own unique, random way.

Pardon my Seinfeld-ness, but (high-pitched, whiny, East-coast voice) what is it with designing front spoilers so low? Don't they have curbs where these cars come from?

I drive a Lexus ES 350. Despite the fact you see them coming and going it's a nice car, but really nothing more than a Camry dressed up for Saturday night. Still, I like the smooth ride, the burled walnut, the rear-window shade I've never used and the fact it came pre-wired for SiriusXM. Even though it'll never give me the performance thrill my old Audi A6 did, before it caught fire, as far as cars go I file it under things could be worse.

What I don't like about my Lexus is how low the front spoiler is. It scrapes on curbs. Parking space blocks. Driveways that aren't properly angled. Speedbumps. Dips in the road. In other words, almost anything a front spoiler would be in proximity to.

I have a body shop I go to that's inexpensive and does great work. And when I tell them it's out-of-pocket and not through my insurance company, they give me even more of a break. They're located senseless-murder-district adjacent, so the overhead is low (no pun intended) and they can offer great rates. Sadly, they know me there because I've had to have the front spoiler repainted three times since I've owned the car.

I suppose I could choose to not let it bother me, and just go about my day not thinking about it. But in my heart, like I know the sky is blue, every time I'm behind the wheel I can't stop thinking about the fact I'll scrape it again. Probably pulling out of the repair shop driveway.

The Lexus is the latest black car in a series of them I've owned. And the white scrapes, while unavoidable, aren't a good look. I can only take it for so long.

So I've been looking for something higher. A little more off the ground. Which puts me squarely in the crossover/SUV arena. To date I haven't found anything I like and that I can afford. That's mainly because I can't afford anything in life since we remodeled two bathrooms, our living room and gave the kitchen a complete makeover.

If I'd only put a V6 and a steering wheel next to the microwave I'd be set.

But I'm determined not to let it get me down. Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you about my dogged persistence and laser-like focus when I set my mind to doing something.

Unless it's losing weight or vacuuming. Then, you know, screw it.

Anyway, I'll keep scouring AutoTrader and the OEM CPO sites (yeah, I work on car accounts) for something I can fall in love with and afford. Like my high school girlfriend.

Until I do, every time I hear the sound of my spoiler scraping the ground, I'll pretend it's my own personal reminder that the faster I can unload this thing, the sooner I won't have to hear that noise anymore.

Like my high school girlfriend.

At least it's not a Prius

I'm sure your photographic memory of all things Rotation and Balance will remind you I've already posted in the past about getting a loaner car, and a hybrid loaner at that.

Well, it's happened again.

Apparently the air conditioning in my car decided to give up its relentless pursuit of perfection just in time for some record-breaking March heat. I took it into the dealer because, you know, it was that or run down the middle of the street tearing up twenty-dollar bills and throwing them in the air. They diagnosed it as a broken blower motor (I'll wait while you insert your own joke here).

It's going to take a couple days to get the part. So the dealer, obviously sensing my green lifestyle and unwavering commitment to saving the planet, gave me, yet again, a hybrid to tool around in while I wait for my blower motor to be swapped out.

This time it's the Lexus CT200h F Sport. And against every instinct that's good and holy, I have to say it's pretty fun.

It has two modes, eco and sport - just like my high school girlfriend. BAM!

Eco is like dragging boulders uphill against a hurricane, and goes from 0 to 60 in, well, it hasn't reached 60 yet.

Sport mode however is another story. Turn the dial over to sport, and a tachometer appears on the gauge cluster, and the lighting changes from white to red. Suddenly, it's the little hybrid engine that could. And it hauls.

The picture up top doesn't do it justice. It's actually considerably more on the bad boy side of quirky looking in real life.

What I like to do is pull my fire-engine red loaner up next to a Prius. Then, when the light changes, leave them in my environmentally friendly, high mileage, low carbon emission dust.

I take my thrills where I can find them.

The car is smaller than mine. And since I'm a, um, fuller version of my younger self, the fit is a little tighter. Still, once the leather sport seat wraps its arms around me, space considerations are forgiven. I have the nicest go-cart at the track.

I'll be glad to get my own car back Monday or Tuesday. But until then, I'll be enjoying this attention-getting red hybrid in a way I never thought possible.

From behind the wheel.

Tread lightly

Is it wrong to love a tire?

Here's the thing. I used to drive a performance car. In fact, I've written about it here before. If I may quote myself, and really, who's going to stop me:

"I used to drive an Audi A6. Of all the cars I've owned, it was my favorite (my least favorite was my first - a 1965 Plymouth Fury, don't get me started). I'd get behind the wheel of my A6 and hit the curved freeway onramp by my house at 70 mph. It stuck like glue. After all, it was a car built for the autobahn. I’ve since tried it with my Lexus ES350. Come to find out it's not exactly the same experience."

Well, after I pulled the onramp stunt with the Lexus, I decided when the time came to replace the Bridgestones that came with the car - and it couldn't come fast enough - I was going to get performance tires and see if it made any difference on a car built for luxury.

SPOILER ALERT: The answer is "Hell yeah!"

When the Bridgestones finally wore down, I went to America's Tire Store for replacements thinking I'd get something like the sporty Michelins. I'd never really considered Yoko's because they were expensive, low profile, the tread wore fast, yada yada yada. But then the tire guy helping me said the magic word: Grip.

From that point on, money was no object. I can't remember which model Yoko's I got, but he wasn't lying.

The minute the car was done, even on the slow roll out of the parking lot I could feel the difference. When I hit that onramp again at 70mph - and if my kids are reading this you should never, ever do that - it was amazing. Like I was Krazy glued to the road.

After that Lexus was totaled (read all about it), I got another one. And I once again find myself playing a waiting game until the tires wear down, or until I have a few hundred to spare for new Yoko's.

I've always liked tire stores. I love the smell of new tires, the pressurized air, the way you can bounce and roll the tires from one end of the shop to the other. I am easily entertained.

I've discovered that, besides new wiper blades, tires are the cheapest investment you can make in your car that offer the most tangible difference.

I was going to end this post with "something something, because that's how I roll."

But I think we both know I'm better than that.

Sirius negotiations

I've written before about how E Street Radio is the one reason satellite radio brings me so much joy. Frankly, the ability to listen to my favorite artist all the time is my personal runaway American dream.

So after my Lexus became a wreck on the highway, totaled last July, I had to find a car to replace it. I looked at a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396, Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor, but what I wound up with was the exact same Lexus I'd had, only a couple years newer.

Imagine how happy I was to learn my new, replacement pre-owned Lexus came with 3 months of complimentary Sirius Satellite Radio. I figured I'd enjoy E Street Radio 24/7 for that time, then when the offer ended I'd be back to Roy Orbison singing for the lonely.

But then something miraculous happened: the dealer selling me my new Lexus, after a little Tanqueray and wine, disclosed a very useful piece of information. He said, "No matter what Sirius wants you to pay, they'll negotiate it down to $10 a month or less." Good to know.

As the 3-month-end-of-Bruce deadline approached, I started getting mailers from Sirius almost daily about keeping my subscription going. The problem was to continue the same all-channel access complimentary plan I had, they wanted around $25 a month.

So I let the plan lapse. And then they called me.

I won't bore you with all the back and forth, but there was a lot of it. They kept trying to give me a plan that was more money and less channels than I wanted. Eventually the offshore operator asked me "How much do you want to pay?" I said my budget was $60 for six months. Total. All of it.

After putting me on hold, she checked with her supervisor, who said she'd like to see me. I said if she wants to see me, you can tell her that I'm easily found. But I guess she decided it wasn't necessary. The operator took a second shot offering me a bad deal, checked with her supervisor again, then gave me the all-channel access plan with Nav Traffic, weather and sports for only $157 for six months. But they credited me $97.

I'd say do the math but I've done it for you: I got what I wanted for the price I wanted - everything for $10 a month. So now, when I'm out in the street, I get to roll down the window, let the wind blow back my hair and listen to the music I love.

Since I now have the luxury of time on my side, I've actually explored a few other channels. I like Stern in small does. The comedy channels are pretty fun, except I've learned the hard way not to listen to them with the kids in the car. The Real Jazz station is unbelievably great. And, I'm just going to say it because my macho self-esteem is not threatened, the On Broadway channel is fun every now and again. But those are just distractions for a few minutes. I always come home to channel 20 - E Street.

I found that by taking a hard line with Sirius, and being willing to walk away from it all I wound up with exactly what I wanted.

When it comes to satellite radio negotiations, it's a town full of losers and I'm pulling out of here to win.

Totally totaled

There's good news and there's bad news about my car that was plowed into last Wednesday morning on the freeway.

My insurance company said my car was right on the borderline of being totaled, and they gave me the choice of whether to cash out or repair it. I'm going to consider it totaled and cash out. That's the good news. It's also the bad news.

As if I don't have enough things to keep me busy, now I have to add negotiating with the insurance company for a fair price and shopping for a new car to the list. I'm trying to look at the bright side.

My insurance company, Mercury, has been stellar so far in helping me with this claim. Actually, I believe they'll continue to act that way in cashing me out. I believe I'll get fair market value for the car - after all, that's what they do.

I think the issue will be exactly what constitutes fair market value.

There's a formula they use that involves comparing then averaging the price of cars similar to mine to arrive at a payout number. But the numbers I can find may be different (read: higher) than the numbers they find. I'm getting ahead of myself here. I will hope for the best.

What's nice about getting totaled is I'll get more money for the car now than I would if they fixed it and I sold it down the road. This is my moment to get as much as I'll ever be able to for it.

As my friend Pete said, the decision couldn't be more clear. The integrity of the frame was compromised. The body shop would literally have to cut the back third of it off, then re-weld it back on.

And when it comes to integrity, I work in advertising. I'm already compromised enough.

Of course, my car was paid off and I'm not looking forward to car payments. I'm also not looking forward to driving a pre-owned (used) car. The Lexus was my first brand new car in twenty-one years.

First world problems. I know.

So tomorrow begins the frantic online search of Certified Pre-Owned cars, then planning exactly when I'll have time this weekend to test drive the ones I'm interested in.

Just in case you think I've lost my perspective, I haven't.

Considering how severe the hit was, I'm grateful to be around to have to do it all.

Where cars go to die

Let me give you a gift, my own cautionary tale about why you should never buy a car at Carmax. It doesn't originate from buying one there. It comes from selling one.

I used to drive an Audi A6. Of all the cars I've owned, it was my favorite (my least favorite was my first - a 1965 Plymouth Fury, don't get me started). I'd get behind the wheel of my A6 and hit the curved freeway onramp by my house at 70 mph. It stuck like glue. After all, it was a car built for the autobahn. I’ve since tried it with my Lexus ES350, not exactly the same experience. (The picture below is an actual picture of both cars - can you tell there's a certain look I go for? I know it's hard..)

Anyway, one day I was on my way to work at Dentsu in Brea to work on Suzuki (remember my motto: the checks clear). While I was stuck in gridlocked, rush-hour traffic, I looked to my left to see a ton of white smoke billowing up. My first thought was I wonder if the car next to me knows that’s coming from her car. Then I looked forward, and saw more smoke coming from under the hood of my Audi. Fortunately I was close enough to an off-ramp to get off the freeway quickly.

It’s amazing how fast traffic will let you through when they think you’re on fire.

Come to find out I wasn't actually on fire: I was on fire adjacent. There was highly flammable transmission fluid leaking onto the catalytic converter, which runs at about 1500 degrees.

I managed to get the A6 back to my independent Audi mechanic in Long Beach, who told me the only reason I made it without catching fire is my speed was blowing the fluid off the bottom of my car. Long story short (if that’s even possible at this point), it cost me $3500 for them to fix the transmission well enough to get my car to run without the “check engine” light long enough to get it over to Carmax.

Now, here’s the thing with Carmax. Before they make an offer, they do a thorough inspection and test drive of your car. Apparently, mine passed with flying colors. That in itself may be all you need to know about Carmax.

So how much did they offer me? You got it. $3500. I broke even, which, just like when I'm in Vegas, I consider a win.

I miss the A6 often - usually when I'm hitting that onramp in the Lexus - and I hope Carmax just took the car for parts and didn’t sell it to anyone. However it is comforting to know they're there if you have to unload a car fast and get it off your hands.

And by the way, they don't carry very many hard-to-find makes and models. I'm telling you this because if you're at Carmax in the next couple of weeks, and you see a '97 Saab Turbo you think you might be interested in, do yourself a favor and pass on it.

It's not important how I know. Trust me.

My second career

I own a black car. Do I own it because I think it looks sleek and stealthy?

Of course.

Because it matches my limited wardrobe on most days?

Absolutely.

The statement it makes about me those other colors can't?

Definitely. Although I do think it'd be a better statement if it were a black Porsche instead of a black Lexus.

Which reminds me, I have to raise my day rate. These agencies have no idea what a bargain they're getting. Recession my ass. They're whining like babies "waaa waaaa our budgets.." "waaaa waaaa client won't let us..." "waaa waaaa you know if it was up to me...." all while they grind freelancers so they can pad their bottom line. Don't get me started.

I feel I may have wandered off point.

What I was going to say is that the main reason I own a black car is because I'm a glutton for punishment. If you've ever owned one - and I've owned five of them, in a row - you know it's nothing short of a second career keeping it clean.

I don't know what percentage of cars that go through car washes are black, but I'm going to guess it's disproportionally high (not unlike some agency people I work with - BAM! Thank you, I'll be here all week).

And really, why even bother washing it? As the car is drying, you can actually see the dust settling on the hood, laughing at you on its way down.

But for that minute and a half they're actually clean, they do look, dare I say, sexy (again, Porsche not Lexus).

Every once in awhile I try to convince myself I could be fine with another color. That's right up until I see my car on the road in Champagne, or Desert Sand or Dusty Rose or whatever the hell that color is. Right then is when it hits me: I don't have any choice. I'll keep buying black cars.

Perhaps this story sums it up best. A few years ago my wife and were in Seattle. We were going to have dinner with Jim Walker, a creative director I used to work for. My wife called to tell him we were running a little late, to which Jim replied, "How come? Is Jeff having trouble deciding which black shirt to wear with which black pants?"

Unbuckled

I was in a hurry to get somewhere yesterday. Pick up the kids, get dinner, go to the post office, work (stops and laughs at the thought of rushing to work, regains composure), whatever. I had to be wherever I had to be fast.

So I flew out of the house, got in my Lexus ES (the E stands for extra, the S stands for soul-less) 350, pressed the button, hit the self-accelerator and took off down the block.

What I didn't do was buckle my seat belt. And it took me awhile to realize it.

There are only three ways into my neighborhood. It's not gated, but you have to know the way in and out. As I was barreling up the block, and then around the corner, I felt an extremely pleasant sensation.

I was unconstricted, free, able to effortlessly lean over and reach down to pick up the loose change in the passenger footwell. And that's when it hit me: no seat belt.

Now, I have tried very hard to never be one of those a.) people b.) bloggers c.) parents who say when I was younger.

When I was younger, we didn't wear seat belts. We flew around the corners and around the car, and if we were sitting on bench seats we slid and sqooshed the people next to us.

It was, how you say, fun.

Yeah yeah, much safer. Blah, blah, lives saved.

For at least a couple blocks before I got to the perimeter of my neighborhood, and had to turn onto a busy main thoroughfare, I got to recapture that freedom.

In case my kids are reading this, you are never allowed to ride in a car without your seat belt for any amount of time. When we were younger we didn't know the dangers as well as we do today. I apologize if I've mislead you by making it sound fun. It's not.

(Yes it is.)

The truth will set you free

Free from deductibles that is.

Remember a few posts ago when I was talking about the woman who hit my car, and how she was practicing revisionist history with regard to how the accident happened?

Well yesterday the issue of responsibility for the accident was resolved.

Here's how I think it went down.

The short story is she backed her Chevy Tahoe into the side of my Lexus. Her story was we collided and therefore were both responsible.

Not so fast there missy.

The problem and the beauty of facts is that they are the facts. And people who deal with this kind of situation day in and day out have a finely honed ability to see them clearly.

My field adjustor from Mercury, the field adjustor from her insurance company, my body shop rep and the photos of the damage all tell the same story: she hit me. I'd like to believe that her insurance company, after they stopped laughing at her story, told her the bottom line was that she backed into me in a parking lot, and she wasn't getting out of it.

So when my adjustor called yesterday to tell me the other party had taken responsibility - whether she wanted to or not - I was relieved.

It means I won't have to front the $500 deductible while the insurance companies duke it out. And I won't have the additional stress of worrying about it (not that I couldn't handle it - apparently stress to me is like the bottomless lemonade cup at Islands. Don't get me started).

Oddly enough, this whole incident didn't restore my faith in people.

But, as odd as it feels to say this, it does make me feel ever so slightly better about insurance companies.

It's lonely at Lexus

When my Lexus service writer asked me this morning what I was bringing my ES350 in for, I said, "It's losing a $1000 a week. Anything you can do about that?" He was not amused.

But, after looking around, it was clear I'm not the only one unhappy the value of my car is going down like a bobsled to hell.

I like going to the Lexus dealership in Newport Beach. First of all, just being a Jew in Orange County always makes me feel like I've gotten away with something big. The dealership is like an extremely upscale mall - South Coast Plaza with 30-weight. While I was sitting on one of the many plush leather chairs in the customer waiting lounge, next to the Lexus café, in front of the video arcade and just around the corner from the Lexus clothing store, listening to the Georgetown basketball game on one of the three 62 inch HD televisions that surrounded me, I noticed something unusual.

I was alone.

Not just in the waiting area, but in the dealership. Not one other customer waiting for their car, not one person looking at new cars on the showroom floor. Obviously news of the recall being blasted across the front page and leading the news day after day is taking it's toll.

I took a bite of my all-butter croissant and a sip of my decaf latte I'd bought at the Lexus café and pondered this for a while. And looking out at the lot, with all those shiny, lonely new Lexus cars, here's where I came out.

It's kharma at work. It's the recall for Toyota/Lexus, and the economy for the rest of the dealers.

For years, these smarmy, slick, slimy, unctuous jerks have been sucking all the joy out of what should be one of the happiest and exciting purchases you ever make. Their service departments have been staffed by people who, if there were any real justice in the world, would be serving five to ten for armed robbery. When I used to have my Audi, I would bitch and moan to a friend how much it cost every time I took the car to the dealer for service. He looked at me, shook his head, and said, "How old do you have to be before you realize the dealer is always gonna screw you." He was right.

So this emptiness at Lexus and all the others? The pundits can call it what they want, but I think we all know what it really is.

Payback.

*photo courtesy GettyOne