Can it

I believe the decline and eventual demise of the service culture started with gas stations (What is this, a blogpost or a masters thesis?!) For the most part that is. Unless you're shopping at Nordstrom - those people are awesome and completely disprove that part about the service culture dying. But let's not worry about that right now. Stay with me.

Where was I? Oh, right. At the risk of sounding like my parents, there was a time when the gas station attendant didn't live in a bullet-proof box, stocked to the rafters with Pepsi, motor oil, off-brand Kleenex, Gatorade and all sorts of heart-stoppin' salty snacks. They'd actually come out to your car, give you a wave and smile and ask you to pop the hood (no, that isn't a euphemism). Then they'd wash your windshield, fill the tank, check the oil - and the tires - all for the price of the gas. No add ons, no extra fees.

But those days, like gas for $1.29 a gallon, are long gone.

Now, consumers are asked - in some cases required - to do things we assumed were included in the cost of doing business.

Instead of the station attendant coming out of the office, we get out of our cars to pump our own fuel, clean our own windshields, check our own oil and tell that creepy guy hanging around the gas pumps that no, we don't have two bucks so he can get gas for his fictional car that ran out two blocks from here.

Despite twelve checkout counters, three of which are open, and one of those a 15 Items Or Less Express Lane, we check ourselves out (no, the other way) at the supermarket. And we put our groceries in bags that we've brought with us.

Thanks to the interwebs, former travel agents, whose value wasn't just in booking a trip, but in letting us know the secret hotels, best deals and off the beaten path places to stay or visit are now serving fries at McDonald's. That's because their occupation has been decimated since we started booking our own flights, picking our own seats and paying a la carte for any extras. Airlines even charge a fee for you to talk to an actual representative on the phone.

We can also diagnose what's ailing us online. Plug in the symptoms, and pages of unreliable, pharma-sponsored medical advice suddenly appears. (I told my doctor I was looking up something on the internet, to which he gave me a disapproving look and said, "Oh good. We HIGHLY recommend the internet.")

Under the camouflage of improving the customer experience, businesses have found ways to cut their costs dramatically by turning many of their job descriptions into do-it-yourself positions. The same way companies tell you how productive open office seating is.

Despite all the personal and intimate information I've shared on here over the years - and really, we have no secrets - you may not be aware I took a Consumer Law and Economics class in high school. It was taught by Mr. Blackman, and was basically a Ralph Nader-esque hour every day, instilling in me the squeaky wheel theory: my right as a consumer to complain and keep complaining until I get what I want. You know, like creative directors.

So in that spirit, I'm drawing a line in the sand, well, in the garbage, at sorting my own trash.

To start with, I have a trust issue with restaurants that ask me to separate landfill items from recyclables. Bless their well-intentioned little corporate hearts, but really, I don't want to work that hard after I eat. I'm too full and I usually need a nap. Besides, there are no guidelines about which trash goes into which bin. One man's recyclable is another man's landfill. I'd probably ignore the guidelines even if they had them, but you see where I'm going.

The best I'll do is not throw away plastic baskets the tacos come in, or the glass bowl for the salad. Silverware however is a cruel tease, sometimes hiding under a napkin and accidentally winding up in the trash. Which is where it stays, because if I want to go dumpster diving I'll do it in Tiffany's trash bins, not Rubio's.

Anyway, I'm done griping now about the way things used to be. I suppose the good outweighs the bad in the end, and the speed at which things can be accomplished by doing it myself is what's gained, even if personal interaction and a more leisurely paced world is lost.

Besides, as long as no one's asking me to do my own prostate exam I'm good.

Case of the blues

I only own one real piece of art. You're looking at it. Well, you're kind of looking at it.

The original painting, the family seated at the table, is called The Aioli Dinner by George Rodrigue. But when he added Tiffany (his corgi who passed on only to be reincarnated as the Blue Dog) to the painting, it was retitled Eat, Drink and Forget The Blues.

Despite the fact there are several of these paintings around, each one is unique. Rodrigue created a limited number of direct image transfers from the original and mounted them on masonite. Then he repainted the entire work again over them, adding nuance and variance to the colors, contrast and shadings each time. In every one, Tiffany is in a slightly different position with subtle differences in her expression.

As you can see, on the one we own she's sitting more to the right, just in front of the older blonde man looking to the left at the head of the table. And in case you were wondering, yes that is the frame the picture came in (they can't all be adman black now can they?).

This picture of the picture was taken with my iPhone 3GS. I can't believe I'm still using that relic - I need a new one if for no other reason than the 8 megapixel camera. I'm going to wait for the iPhone 5 though since it's only six months away. And I know I'd hate myself for not having the bigger screen.

But I digress.

I fell in love with the Blue Dog a year before I actually bought it. The wife and I were visiting her family (don't get me started) in Carmel. As we were strolling the quaint blocks of the seaside town, looking for Mayor Clint Eastwood and seeing if we could find a restaurant open after 9PM, we found the Blue Dog Gallery.

Among all the Blue Dog paintings on display, I couldn't stop looking at the Aioli Dinner.

We spoke with the curator of the gallery, Wendy, who wound up years later being the next Mrs. Rodrigue and the subject of many of his paintings like this one to the left. (She also has a wonderful blog called Musing's of an Artist's Wife). I asked her how much it cost, and she told me. It's probably worth noting that at this point in my life, the only things hanging on my walls were my Springsteen posters. And the Blue Dog cost way more than those.

I told her we'd think about it. So we thought about it. For a year.

When we walked in a year later, two great things happened. One was that Wendy remembered us. The other was that George Rodrigue happened to be at the gallery. Wendy introduced us and we all talked for a bit.

Then the discussion turned from art to commerce. She broke the bad news to us as gently as she could: the price of the painting had doubled in the course of a year. But because she recalled how much we'd loved it and how badly we'd wanted it, she generously offered to split the difference between the prices.

Rodrigue also happened to be in a particularly good mood, so he threw in this Blue Dog lithograph.

He put it on the counter, picked up a silver marker, and started drawing on it (I particularly like the Groucho glasses). My wife went into a panic, leaning over to me saying, "He's ruining it!" To which I replied, "Are you serious? He's just made it even more valuable. Now it's really one of a kind."

He signed it and gave it to us.

I don't know if it's still there, but at the time the Blue Dog Gallery had a layaway plan called the Kennel Club. They held onto the painting until it was paid for. No minimum payments. No time limit. I was extremely diligent about sending a check up whenever I could spare it.

I couldn't wait to see it in my home.

I waited four years to see it in my home.

But that's not the point. The point is it's here and we love it. Just like my wife, I still feel the same way about it as when I first saw it (can you say "marriage points").

One thing I particularly love is how much it's appreciated (the painting and the wife). The other thing I love is just how damn happy it makes me.

Especially when I'm the one who's blue.