Word

Like a lot of writers living in Southern California, I’ve worked on many car accounts. From top end $90,000 luxury vehicles to $14,000 coffee-grinders, I’ve written it all.

Commercials, collateral, radio spots, print ads, online banners, interactive content, Twitter posts, Facebook posts, outdoor, customer kits, dealer kits, CPO kits, sale kits, employee bonus kits, warranty kits.

Oddly enough, no matter the price or quality of the car, they all have something in common. The words used to describe them.

Pick a car, any car. I bet it’s exhilarating. It’s probably also a leader in innovation. No doubt it’s been engineered to maximize your driving experience, and designed to turn heads as well as corners.

Let’s not forget the fact it’s also loaded with state-of-the-art technology, as well as class-leading aerodynamics whose job it is to keep you connected to the road. How else could you get a car that makes setting the standard, standard.

But there's no point to any of it unless you're around to enjoy it. That's why the car you're thinking about is loaded with the latest active and passive safety features.

The cars come with airbags. The agencies come with windbags.

Differentiating parody products - different brands with the exact same features - has always been a problem in advertising. Often the only thing that does it is the quality of the creative idea, the consistency of the execution and the personality it establishes for the brand.

I bet you know what BMW builds. But I'm fairly sure you aren't nearly as familiar with the tagline Toyota - which builds awesome cars for all income levels - just spent millions to introduce.

Unless there's a real product difference, almost every category from athletic shoes to cars to fast food use the same words to describe their product. Which makes it even harder to tell them apart.

Sort of like ad agencies.

The thrill is gone

There's a saying when you like a car so much, you can't get it out of your mind. Since this is a family blog I'll paraphrase it: "If it were a person I'd marry it.".

I remember how completely smitten I felt the very first time I ever saw the PT Cruiser. It was a blue-line drawing in Motor Trend magazine two years before Chrysler actually put it into production. And it looked awesome. The retro styling, the street-rod, American Graffiti-ness of it. It appealed to me on a completely visceral level. It was sexy.

But because you think something is sexy at one point doesn't mean you'll always think it is. Just ask my high school girlfriend.

Anyway, having fallen hard I immediately made it my mission to learn everything I could about it. I also started saving my pennies and counting the days until Chrysler actually rolled it off the line. I wanted to be one of the first in California to own one.

Then a funny thing happened. I was over it.

When they came out, they looked tamer than I'd expected. They also looked like a fad car - there was nothing timeless about the design. In fact just the opposite: it evoked a very specific time, you know, the one that's passed. Because of that, it was just a novelty.

When I finally rode in one, turns out it wasn't fast (It had the Neon engine in the first model, although to be fair they boosted the power in subsequent versions). It was roomy but not comfortable. And after the Highway Institute and insurance companies had a chance to rate it, come to find out it wasn't all that safe either.

I saw a black one on the road today, waxed to a gloss and reflecting the sun into my eyes. And in the same way you see an old flame and can't help but wonder what might've been, I tried to picture myself behind the wheel of that Cruiser today.

I couldn't. All I could see was the white-haired, 65-year old lady straining to see over the wheel, going 45 on the freeway.

Bobbleheads

I had a decision to make about what to call this post. It was either going to be Bobbleheads or Asshats. Either one would’ve been just as applicable, although I suppose the one I chose is more specific.

I was driving – and when I say driving I mean crawling – to work today on the 405 which, for those of you outside of L.A., is the world’s biggest parking lot. Kevin and Bean on KROQ were pretty funny this morning (especially on their phone call with “Justin Bieber”), so I was looking around at my fellow gridlock victims to see who else was laughing. What I saw was more than a few of them bouncing their heads up and down. And not because they were laughing.

It took me a second, but then it all made sense. They were texting or reading texts while they were trying to drive.

Alright. Asshats.

Suddenly the 405 was even more frightening than usual. While these human bobbleheads were busy with their smartphones (something something about phones smarter than the people using them), I saw more than a few of them narrowly avoid rear ending – and not in a good way – the car in front of them.

There needs to be some kind of “Idiot Behind The Wheel Texting” hotline where you can report these lamebrains. Of course, it would only be available to cars with Bluetooth and voice-dialing.

Or maybe a Megan’s Law kind of website where texting-while-driving offenders have their pictures posted, along with the messages they were texting when they ran into the car in front of them. Just to make sure they're really put to shame, their driver's license photos would also be posted.

Texting fines have to be jacked up. Like the carpool lane fines, their wallets need to hurt if they're caught. Or even better, a mandatory night in jail for being a threat to every car on the road ahead of them. That'll give 'em something to text about.

I don't like it any better, but at least the nose pickers keep their eyes on the road.

Seeing red

There's good news and there's bad news.

The good news is that for the past week, and the next couple coming up, I'm working in Santa Monica. I lived here for almost 20 years, and the city feels like home to me. I can see the ocean from my office, the sunsets are stunning and I know the shortcuts when I need to get where I'm going.

The bad news is those shortcuts don't do jack for me at quittin' time.

See that red cross going from where the 10 freeway starts to where it intersects with the 405? That's what I have to navigate every night to get out of the west side, and then crawl the rest of the way home to Long Beach.

As I've said many times here, I grew up on the mean streets of west L.A., north of Wilshire. And I don't want to become one of those guys that starts a lot of sentences with "back then", but back then this was a precision driving town. People knew how to maneuver. They knew how to go with the flow.

Which is hard to do if the flow's not going.

It's also gotten a lot more crowded since I was a kid. I blame it on the Rose Parade.

Every January, at the same time the rest of the country is digging out from fifteen feet of snow, playing hopscotch over downed power lines and holding on to lamp posts so they don't blow away, they're also watching the Kiwanis Club float celebrating "Togetherness Through Diversity" and the Davis High School Marching Band on television, and seeing the clear, beautiful and often warm sunny January days we get to enjoy here.

So everyone watching sells their house and moves here. The majority of them from the east coast. The thing about the east coast is they actually have public transportation that works, so many times the car they're driving here is their first one.

Which is no news to you if you've ever been on the 405 at rush hour.

Sirius-ly

On the giant fun-o-meter that is my life, taking my car to the dealer for repair rates right up there with root canals, status meetings, prostate exams and parent/teacher nights. Each in their own way, they're all equally enjoyable.

However there is one rockin' benefit when the car’s in the shop: they give me a loaner with Sirius Satellite Radio.

The reason I enjoy it so much is the same reason my family dreads it: E Street Radio. It’s like a big, double dose of disappointment. First I pull up in a different car that for a brief, fleeting moment they think is our new car. Then, not only is that initial surge of excitement snuffed out, but the realization dawns on them that for the length of time I have it, any music they want to listen to is only going to be a fond memory. They’ll only be listening to one thing: Springsteen.

It's no secret I'm a hardcore Bruce tramp. And since, so far, I've been unwilling to pony up for Sirius in my own car (which happens to be satellite radio ready), when I have the loaner it's E Street Radio 24/7 until the car has to go back. Which of course I make sure is at the very last minute.

My kids initially give me some pushback about it, but at the end of the day I remind them if they want to go to a good school, maybe they should just stop talking and enjoy Thunder Road, Born To Run and Rosalita for the billionth time.

It usually does the trick.

The downside is that in the same way they feel an immediate loss of their music when I pull up in the loaner, I feel a profound grief when I have to turn it back in. I actually watch the attendant drive off with it before I go inside and claim my car.

I know, I have issues.

Anyway, now as I’m writing this I’m thinking it’s a new year and a new day, and maybe it’s time to just take the plunge and put that languishing satellite radio button on my car to use.

After all, that's what college funds are for.

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.)

You're going to need a smaller car

I believe I speak for many people when I say clowns have always scared the living bejeezus out of me. I think you'll find that any nightmare worth it's weight in true terror usually has a clown in it.

Oh sure, I can already imagine all you red-nosed squeezing, boutonniere-squirting, floppy-shoe wearing, bicycle-horn honking clown fans greasing on your sad faces in protest. Alright, alright. Never let it be said I'm not being fair. I'll agree I shouldn't stereotype all clowns (he says coughing to conceal his laughter). Because as few and far between as they are, I have to grudgingly admit there are actually some that're enjoyable.

For example, Fizbo from Modern Family? Love him. Hysterical every time. And if you recall the scene at the gas station with Mitchell (which YouTube has pulled for some reason), you know that Fizbo isn't just hysterical. He's also an ass-kicking clown.

Chuckles, the clown from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show was also a good one. Not only is his name the quintessential clown moniker, his funeral is one of the most classic scenes in all of television history.

But for every Fizbo and Chuckles, there are a thousand clowns with hell for their home address.

I think the first time this one shows up in the kid's room in Poltergeist, we all know nothing good is going to come of him. Who was fooled at the beginning when he was benignly sitting on the rocking chair? Anyone? Thought so.

Not that imagining what might be lurking under the bed isn't already every kid's nightmare. But this little feller just kind of cemented the deal.

Under the bed isn't the only place evil is lurking. It's also hanging around in the sewers, waiting to drag little children under to an unthinkable fate. Pennywise over here, the clown from Stephen King's IT, always liked to remind children that, "We all float down here." If that doesn't make for sweet dreams I don't know what does.

Perhaps the most perverse take on clowns is Heath Ledger's Joker in The Dark Knight. Using clown makeup to represent the actual decay within the character, I think he also shows a side of clowns most of us don't want to believe is real.

But for all the kids reading this, especially the young ones, it is.

So the next time you're at the circus, try not to focus on all those clowns popping out of that impossibly small car. I'm sure they're not really rehearsing the way they'll spring out from under your bed or the closet in your room late at night after you've floated off to sleep.

"We all float down here." Goodnight.

Bumper. Car.

With cars, as with life, sometimes you're the bumper and sometimes you're the bumpee. In this picture, my car is the bumpee.

While I was stopped in a strip mall parking lot near where I live, questioning what this beat up Chevy Tahoe angled in front of me was going to do, the Tahoe gave me the answer. It backed up into me. No one was hurt, my car was still drivable, and the Tahoe driver was insured. All good right?

Not so fast.

As we were exchanging information, the woman's husband who apparently worked at one of the businesses in the mall - and didn't see the accident - came out and joined us. They were both just as apologetic as could be. They had a short conversation between themselves, and I happened to overhear him say to her, "You're going to lose your license over this."

Clearly there were implications and incidents I wasn't privy to. By the way, Implications & Incidents - great band. Saw them at the Roxy in '98 (Note to Rich: you're welcome).

After apologizing again for hitting me, the husband asked me how I wanted to handle it. I said I wanted to go through my insurance company, but he had another idea. He said, "If you're open to it, I'd like to pay out of pocket for it. I have the cash, and I know a body shop you can go to."

Sounds perfectly legit - I know, right?

You know what body shops are like in California? I'll give you a clue: everyone has one.

Even though every instinct I had was screaming not to do it, I told him I was willing to get an estimate on the repair and bring it back to him. He could look it over and give me an answer that night. If he agreed, he'd have to meet me at the bank in the morning to get a cashier's check made out to the body shop.

Here's what I learned: in my next life I want to own an auto body shop. The estimate for this seemingly minor damage was $1703.00. After I brought it back and he saw the total he grumbled a bit, then said he'd talk to his wife and call me that evening.

When the phone rang at 8:30, I was frankly a little surprised since I figured I'd never hear from them again and wind up going through insurance anyway.

It was all very civil, she apologized again for hitting me, and said she'd called her insurance company and I'd hear from them. I said fine, I'll call my company and we'll go from there.

I'm with Mercury. Have been for almost as long as I've been driving. They've never been anything but amazing in past dealings, and they were just as awesome in this one. They took the information down and had a claims adjustor call me this morning.

After going over a few things with the adjustor, we got into a discussion about how they might change their story. She said she'd call the woman who hit me and find out.

You'll never guess what happened next? No, really, you'll never guess.

Apparently her new and improved version is that we collided. I told the adjustor that if by collided she meant she backed her big fat SUV into the side of my stopped car, then yes.

So it's going in the body shop tomorrow, I'll have some awesome rental for about a week, and the insurance companies will duke it out. But I'm pretty sure mine will win. The thing is to get the kind of damage my car sustained, I would've had to have driven sideways into her. The Lexus comes with a lot of options, but not that one.

Frustrated, I told my adjustor that you'd just hope people would do the right thing.

In that world weary voice only insurance adjustors who've heard it all have, she replied "I hope that every day."

The great crash of 2010

So here's what it felt like.

Remember the movie Duel?

It was a made for TV movie directed by Steven Spielberg that wound up being so good (go figure) it was released theatrically overseas.

Wonder what ever happened to that Spielberg guy? But I digress.

In the movie, an 18-wheeler, piloted by a mystery/ghost driver, decides it'd be amusing to run an unsuspecting Dennis Weaver off the road with his truck. One attempt involves rear-ending his car.

That's the image that went through my head last Monday night as I looked into my rear-view mirror a few seconds before getting rear-ended coming home on the 405 South.

Now, first things first. I didn't get hit by an 18-wheeler. I got hit by a 1999 Pontiac. I don't know which model it was, but at least it wasn't an Aztec. That would only be adding insult to injury for everyone involved.

Fortunately, unlike the truck in the movie, the Pontiac wasn't going 80 or 90. It was going about 25 mph when it hit my car. Unfortunately, I wasn't moving at all since I was stopped in rush hour traffic. Do the words "sitting duck" honk a horn?

I was taught when I stop in traffic, it's always a good idea to leave some room between me and the car in front of me. That way, if I get hit from behind, I won't get slammed into that car. Even though I didn't like the way I found out, it is nice to know that lesson actually works in the real world.

After the other driver and I pulled over to exchange information, I asked her why she hit me and how come she didn't see me. She said she was looking in the mirror and just didn't look up in time.

Now, when I heard that, two thoughts immediately ran through my aching head. I wanted to express the first one to her in two words, which I did not. The other was, looking in the mirror? Really? Why would she tell me that, even if it's the truth?

We tried to see the damage to my car, but the fact that I drive a black car and it was nighttime wasn't really helping.

I looked at her car and felt really bad. Not because it was trashed, but because it was a 1999 Pontiac.

The good news is my car was drivable, she was insured, and no one was hurt as bad as they could've been.

So while I wait for my bumper, and any hidden damage the body shop uncovers, to be repaired, I'm driving a rented Ford Flex. It's a huge, SUV-esque car that's as long as a school bus and drives like a truck. It's way bigger than a car needs to be.

Right now, it's the perfect car for me.