Shred this

Telecasters, gnarly waves and skateboards are just a few of things the word shred applies to. But this past weekend, I decided to finally get off my fat yet supple ass and go shred classic: documents.

The IRS, those friendly government folk who have their hands in your paycheck every two weeks, suggest keeping your tax returns forever, and the backup documents and receipts for seven years before getting rid of them.

Well, never let it be said I can’t take direction. In the cabinets above my son’s closet were accordian files and boxes filled with receipts for every year going back to 1995, and actual tax returns going back even further.

You do the math. Never mind, I’ll do it for you. That’s 26 years and then some.

It was a chore I’d been putting off, because frankly every time I’d look at my little personal shredder I could see it trying really hard not to make eye contact with me. It was like it was in the front row at an improv show when they were asking for volunteers.

Also, it never could’ve handled it. The motor overheats after about five minutes of straight shredding, and the tiny bin fills up fast and has to be emptied over and over and over.

After sorting out what I was going to keep—the most recent ten years worth—I decided to have the rest of it one and done by calling a professional shredding company. A quick search on Yelp, and I landed on PFS Shredding. In a word, they were awesome.

The truck you see above pulled up to the house. Immediately all the neighbors started wondering what secrets I had that were so important I had to hire a professional to do my shredding. I imagine the international spy theories were flying fast and furious—something I'm accustomed to given how similar Daniel Craig and I are built.

Or maybe they thought I was part of the last administration, just tiding up the paper trail before leaving the White House.

Anyway, my new best friend Mark, who owns PFS, rolled that trash bin up to my front door, and I emptied my boxes and folders full of papers into it. He rolled it back to the truck, where it was lifted and dumped into the shredder.

There’s a camera inside the truck, and I got to watch all my documents being shredded on that screen to the left of the bin elevator. I can’t adequately express the thrill of see decades of papers turned into confetti so fast. 26 years of documents were shredded in three minutes.

Also, PFS was out to my house within two hours of my call. So yes, the minute he left I wrote him a stellar Yelp review.

Now I’m on a complete tear. Every piece of paper and receipt I don’t need from now on is going into a box, and when I have enough I’m calling Mark again and having him bring his big old confetti making truck back.

It'll give the neighbors something to look forward to.

Survey says

Since when did companies become clingy, needy little entities clamoring for approval of every interaction you have with them?

Oh right. Since social media.

Inevitably, every restaurant I eat at is waiting with a survey for me to take to rate them. And, to entice me into doing it, I also get a chance to win a $25 gift certificate! They explain it, circle the website on my receipt, and make it sound like my customer transactional obligations don’t end at paying my bill.

They want me to engage.

At least they don’t flame my inbox the way car dealerships, online merchants and even my doctors’ office does. After every single contact with any of them, invariably the next day in my email is a survey asking me to rate the experience - no matter how miniscule or insignificant it may be.

Look, I’m happy to tell companies what I think. If the service, product, meal or whatever has been spectacular, I’m the first one to sing their praises on Yelp. Conversely, if it’s been awful, then the CEO, President and a few board members of the holding company will get what’s affectionately come to be known as a Jeff Letter, telling them what went wrong and asking them to make it right (Jeff letters have proven to be an extremely effective way to get results – and no, I’m not writing one for you).

This Sally Field-ing (“You like me! You really like me!”) of the American corporation has to stop. If I want them to know about my experience I'll tell them. But for the love of God and all things holy, stop asking me at every turn.

I used to go out with this girl who’d ask me every time there was more than a five second gap in the conversation “What’re you thinking?” What I was thinking was I wish she'd stop asking me that question every five seconds.

This is all driven by the popularity contest that is social media. A platform for instant feedback, now companies have a way of inviting you to "Like" them on Facebook ("You like me!). The more followers, the better the company. Allegedly.

I hear Kleenex and Tide are tied at 8 followers each.

Anyway, that’s it for now. If you wouldn’t mind, please take a few minutes to rate your experience reading this post. Your comments will be used to help improve the quality and subject matter of future posts.

Just messing with you. No matter what you say, this is as good as it gets.

Smell good writer

What you're looking at to the left isn't a guarantee from a plumbing company. It's the reason people who work in advertising don't want to talk about what they do for a living.

When a plumber comes to my house, there's only one thing I care about: that they fix the job right the first time. And if for some reason my toilet is acting like Old Faithful when they get there, I don't even care what they charge as long as they just make it stop.

I can honestly say that what they smell like isn't on my list, Angie's List or Yelp's list of things to investigate before I call a plumber.

It's a scare tactic. They want you to believe that the enticing fragrance of a man who spends a lot of time with his hands elbow-deep in other peoples, um, plumbing is going to be wafting throughout your otherwise rose-pedal perfumed home.

It's a very distant cousin to the LBJ "Daisy ad. Okay, maybe not. But it's a good excuse to look at the Daisy ad. Subtle, no?

What plumbers, or any other vendor for that matter, smell like is one of those false promises concocted by:

a) the client

b) the small retail agency that "can't be bothered with award shows and promises verifiable results"

or

c) the client.

Here's the thing - if you're getting close enough to sniff the plumber, leaky pipes may not be your biggest problem.

The advertising landscape is lousy with poorly produced ads and bad radio blaring out these annoying, meaningless, false and unverifiable promises. Still, there must be a reason besides cheap airtime and non-union talent that they keep running them.

So I'm going to take a page out of their book and reposition my copywriting self. From now on, I'm going to be the Smell Good Writer. I guarantee that my copy will be done and delivered on time and it won't stink.

At least not as bad as Mike Diamond ads.

Padding my story

 If you know me at all, you know there are some things I have absolutely no trouble stopping.

Like work, cleaning, work, reading, work, eating – okay, maybe not eating.

One thing I was having trouble stopping was that two-ton hunk o’ depreciating Japanese metal I drive everywhere (although I suppose in light of recent events, there are worse things the metal could be than depreciating). Seems my rear brake pads were worn down to almost nothing (I know the feeling). Not quite metal on metal, but nanoseconds away from it.

While I had my car at the dealer for a regular service, my service writer broke the news about the brakes. Then he told me how much it was going cost to replace the pads and turn the rotors. After I shook my head and asked if I’d heard him right, that’s when I put the brakes on.

Now, I’m all about easy. I like having a relationship with my dealership, as well as recourse should something go wrong. It’s not my first rodeo - I know I pay more for that, which up to now I’ve been willing to do. Maybe that’s because up to now it hasn’t been that much more.

But I found out on this last visit that there’s only so much I’m willing to fork over for someone to smile at me while they’re picking my pocket (not exactly the phrase I wanted to use, but it’s a family blog).

Let’s get right to it shall we? $459. That’s how much they wanted to lighten my wallet for the work. Seemed a little excessive to me, so I decided to do something I should’ve done a long time ago – take my business somewhere else. After all, my car’s out of warranty, and it’s not like other places don’t guarantee their work.

I searched Yelp for brake places near me, and much to my checkbook’s delight there was a great one only three blocks from my house. I went there, and explained the situation to Bob. I assume it was Bob. That’s what the patch on his industrial, grease-stained jumpsuit said.

Bob smiled the knowing smile of a man that lives in a very big house thanks to people who are mad as hell at their dealers and not going to take it any more. Bob checked out the rear brakes, and agreed I needed the work done. For $210.

Not that I’m counting, because I don’t want to seem petty or anything like OH GOOD LORD IT'S 54% LESS!

Bob ordered the pads that day and I brought the car in the next morning. While they worked on it I walked over to the donut shop across the street for coffee and a maple twist (I told you stopping eating wasn’t my strong suit). By the time I got back, twenty minutes later, the car was ready to go. And stop.

My neighbor always asks me, “How old do you have to be before you realize you’re getting screwed by the dealer.”

Now I know the answer. This old.