Clever gets crickets

Sit down ad kids, and let me tell you a story of days gone….hey! hey! Get off my lawn!

Where was I? Oh, right. Story of days gone by.

You’ll find this hard to believe, but before the interwebs, once people got their foot in the agency door, they had to drag a giant, sometimes heavy black portfolio in with them. Inside were usually unjustifiably expensively laminated samples of their work and a fat three-quarter inch video reel of their broadcast spots if they had any.

But before you got in the door for that interview, you had to get the attention of the creative director or at the very least their gatekeeper. And a lot people, including yours truly, tried to do that with self-promo pieces.

Eleven years ago, Venables Bell in San Francisco did an Audi spot called Prom for Super Bowl. And I loved it. I don't know if it's the best car commercial ever, but man did it land with me. The minute I saw it I decided I wanted to work there.

I sent them the promo piece above (mounted on black foam core, as one does). Why? Because Audi was their biggest account, I loved the work and I drove an A6.

Instead of submitting a conventional résumé which I was sure they got inundated with, I sent my Audi registration slip to show off my experience with the brand. In my mind, I imagined the team opening it and saying, “This is clever, unexpected, exactly the kind of thinking we want for Audi!”

I sent it off with all the confidence of revving an R8 next to your father's Oldsmobile at a green light. Then I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Not a single word. Not a “Wow, this is clever.” Not a “Thanks, but we’re going in another direction.” Not even a polite “Who dis?” My inbox was emptier than a republican promise.

At first, I thought maybe they needed time to gather the team and properly marvel at my ingenuity. Or maybe the job was already promised to someone else, and my clever little stunt was simply a victim of bad timing.

What it turned out to be was a reminder creativity is a gamble. Sometimes you hit a home run, sometimes your ball lands in the neighbor’s yard.

Even though I didn’t hear back, I don’t regret sending it. I thought it was a fun idea at the time and I went for it. And maybe, just maybe, one day someone at Venables will stumble across my registration slip and think, "Wow, we missed out."

I believe that will happen right after Scarlett Johansson returns my call.

Anyway, I left the agency side for client side about five years ago, so I'm out of the agency shopping biz. But if I ever decide to go back, I’ll keep in mind the lesson I learned sending without hesitation what I thought was a funny promo piece to an agency.

That creativity, much like an Audi, isn’t about stopping.

The cars

I bought a new car over the weekend. I'll keep you in suspense until I actually take delivery, at which point I'm sure there'll be a post about it. But it got me thinking about a couple of things.

One is that no matter how faux friendly the salesman is with their mimicing technique-"You have a German Shepherd? I grew up with German Shepherds." "You used to live next to the beach? I live a block from the water." "So you like Breaking Bad? Best show ever!"—the car buying experience is awful.

Again, details for another post.

The other thing it reminded me of was all the cars I've owned.

Like the 1965 Plymouth Fury. It was my first car and it was an eight-cylinder beast. It ran great when it ran, which was usually about ten minutes at a time before something broke on it and had to be fixed. My parents bought the car for $500 from my cousin Mark, who I don't think I ever saw again after that. Wonder why?

By the way, the Fury was my first and last American car. Sorry Detroit, you had your chance.

Then there were the VWs. First was a 1971 Orange Super Beetle. I can still hear the gas sloshing around over my lap when I came to a stop since the gas tank was in front. That car got wiped out in a bad accident which left me with a little souvenir you can read about here.

Anyway I swore I'd never own a VW again, much less an orange one. That was right up until my 1973 Karmann Ghia called to me from the showroom floor. I loved that car, but what I didn't know is that it had originally come from the east coast. I found that out when the rocker panels started disintegrating. Rust never sleeps.

Just as a side note, when I met the wife she was driving a 1972 orange VW convertible, fully restored. Coincidence? I think not.

With my 1980 Celica, 1986 Supra, 1999 Land Cruiser and 2010 Lexus ES350, Toyota was well reprensented in my garage over the years.

Of course I speak metaphorically. There hasn't been room for a gnat's ass in my garage since the wedding. I'm not naming names.

There was the 1986 Mercedes E190 we bought from the wife's grandma in 1994. It was eight years old and had 12,000 grandma miles on it. There was a four and a six-cylinder model, and grandma had the four. It was like driving a brick, but the car didn't have the power to get out of its own way. Neither did grandma.

Then there was the 1995 Volvo 960 Wagon, which despite being the longest car I ever owned, could turn on a dime in the middle of the street. Volvo made its chops selling safety. They should've been selling turning radius.

My second experience with a Swedish car brand was the Saab 90 I bought off my friend Rob. It was a stick shift, and was technically my son's first car. But I was the one who wound up driving it the most, zipping around town and reliving my VW days when I learned to drive a stick. You know, real driving.

My 2000 Audi A6 was great right until it caught fire, which actually was a more pleasant experience than having the oil changed at the Audi dealer (there may be a hint there as to my new car).

Now you're up to date on my wheels. Or you will be when I post about the newest addition soon. And if you're keeping score on colors, it's one blue, two orange, two silver and six black.

They say the car you drive says a lot about you. Mine say, "Oh yeah, I'll have one of those."

Gone Dogs

It's taken me years, but I've finally written something I believe people will actually want to read and enjoy (and I think we both know it's not this blog).

Not that you don't already love my spellbinding prose about twin-turbo engines in Korean sports sedans. Or my memorable musings about the unparalleled amenities, Nappa leather and 22-way adjustable driver's seat in the top-of-the-line, flagship of the fleet. And I have no doubt you're waiting with bated breath—and who would blame you—for the next installment of a little gem I like to call Exceptional Lease Offers.

I'm just messin' with ya. I don't read 'em either.

What I'm talking about here is the story I've written about the world's greatest German Shepherd—the late, great Max—in the newly released, beautifully produced coffee-table book Gone Dogs.

A project by dog lovers extraordinaire Jim Mitchem and Laurie Smithwick, Gone Dogs is a heart-warming, heart-breaking and ultimately life-affirming collection of stories about the power of love through our relationships with dogs who are no longer with us.

A call went out to parents of all kinds of pups to submit stories of their dearly departed canines, and I was lucky enough to have the one I wrote about Max selected for the inaugural volume.

Since I am in advertising—I'm not proud—I'm going to be shameless about it and just ask for the order. What you need to do right now is go to Amazon and buy several copies for your dog-lovin' friends. And their dog-lovin' friends. In fact, I know it's only August, but why not beat the Christmas rush and stock up on a few copies for the holidays.

I also want to say that I can't thank Jim and Laurie enough for including my story. It means the world to me knowing people will get to see what a magnificent dog Max was, and how much I loved him.

Here's what I'm saying: order yourself a copy today. And when it comes, just sit, stay and enjoy every one of these beautiful, heartfelt stories.

Starting with mine.

Sounds familiar

Almost six years ago, I wrote the post you see here. I know what you're thinking: "He's been pumping out this crap for six years?!"

One man's crap is another man's shinola, or something like that.

The point is I don't like to recycle my posts, but six years later this one is still as relevant as ever.

How do I know? Because in my day job writing about a luxury automotive brand, I find myself using the same exact words I speak about in the post. I'm not proud.

I guess what I'm saying is even though this is a pre-owned article, it's been through a 140-word inspection and reads just like new. Take it out for a test read, and experience it for yourself.

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 parity 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.

Tony Shalhoub. What do you need, a roadmap?

In the brilliant Coen Bros. film Barton Fink, Barton (John Turturro) asks producer Ben Geisler (Tony Shalhoub) for advice on getting started on the script he's been hired to write. Geisler takes a beat, then says, "Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture. What do you need, a roadmap?"

With apologies to the Coens, I'd paraphrase it to "Tony Shalhoub. Great in everything. What do you need, a roadmap?"

I've been a fan of Shalhoub from the first time I saw him as cab driver Antonio Scarpacci on the sitcom Wings. Like some of the actors I enjoy and admire most—Gene Hackman, Will Patton, J.K. Simmons, Richard Jenkins, Chris Cooper, Tracy Letts, the late great J.T. Walsh and the late great Jon Polito to name a few—Shalhoub is just money in the bank. Regardless of the quality of the material, Shalhoub elevates it.

From Galaxy Quest to The Man Who Wasn't There. Spy Kids to Monk. Men In Black to Nurse Jackie. Big Night to Primary Colors. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel to Luigi in Cars, he's simply scene-stealing in every project he's in.

What's so impressive is his range of characters, and level of commitment to them. Nuanced, organic, complete, they're at once interesting, compelling and intelligent—even on rare occasions when they're not written that way.

I suppose with a Masters in Fine Arts from Yale, his intelligence has always been on display. Look at the brain on Tony.

Shalhoub also proved he doesn't need words written by a screenwriter to be funny. He had one of the funniest real-life lines ever when he won one of his Emmys for playing Monk, a detective with an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

"To my fellow nominees, whoever they are - I'm not that familiar with their work - I just want to say, there's always next year - except, you know, for Ray Romano."

As the flashy, expensive litigator Reidenschneider in The Man Who Wasn't There, during the trial of Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thornton), Shalhoub is talking to the jury. At one point he says, "He is your reflection."

The same might be said of Tony Shalhoub.

That's the ticket

Much to the dismay of both my kids, we weren't the parents that ran out and bought them cars when they got their license. They've had to make do with sharing our cars when they're available - which we do our best to see that they are.

But a few weeks ago, that changed. The wife had been driving a sixteen-year old Land Cruiser, and was next in line for a new car. So she got one.

Not new new. A certified pre-owned, 2012 model with considerably less mileage (19,400) than her current wheels (245,000). We hang onto cars for a long time.

So now, instead of moving two cars in and out of our driveway, we have three to juggle. Which requires considerably more planning than two. It's like one point higher on the Richter scale is a thousand times more powerful quake.

Alright, we know analogies aren't my strong point, but you see where I'm going.

The daily ritual now is who's leaving first, who's coming back with a car at what time and who drives which car. The only thing we know for sure is no one but the wife drives the wife's new car, although recently there's even been some leniency with that rule.

The problem is there are three cars and four drivers. But that'll change in August when young Mr. Spielberg goes off to film school in the blue dot on the great red state of Texas. Needless to say, his sister is quite excited thinking she'll have a car any old time she wants one after he leaves. We won't spoil her little fantasy just yet.

Besides driveway parking, the other situation exponentially worse with the addition of a third car is insurance. We were already paying an arm and a leg to insure everyone. Now the premium has increased to a small fortune. And if one of the teenagers happen to get a ticket, we've been told it gets jacked up to a king's ransom.

Anyway, we'll continue to plan accordingly when it comes to jockeying the cars in the driveway, even if we have to invest in new equipment to do it.

I don't mind. I look pretty good in those little red jackets.

Things I was wrong about: GPS in cars

Beginning with butt heaters and remote controls, my wildly popular “Things I was wrong about series” continues.

You’re welcome.

Here’s a little number you may not have heard before: $965 million. That’s how much is being requested in the 2016 federal budget for the Global Positioning Satellite (GPS) Program. It covers both military and civilian positioning satellites.

So you say “what does that have to do with me?” Well, you know that navigation touch screen in your car, the eight-inch color one that gives you the shortest route to Whole Foods and the Prius dealer, plus real time traffic reports so you know when to start swearing on the 405? It gets all that information from those GPS satellites orbiting over your pretty, lost little head.

There was a time, a primitive time, a bygone time, when I didn’t have a car with a nav screen. My feeling was exactly how freakin’ lost do you have to be that you need a bazillion dollar satellite network, in medium earth orbit 12,500 miles overhead, to get you where you’re going.

Like I said, this was before I had a nav screen. Now, I like to file it under how did I ever live without it.

Sure, I used to be one of those drivers who relied on my common sense, finely honed sense of direction, knowledge of roadside landmarks and social skills (I asked) to figure out how to get where I was going if I didn’t know. But seriously, all that thinking and resourcefulness just made my head hurt.

Now I can just punch in an address, and one of two voices – a woman’s voice I’ve named Priscilla, or a man’s voice I haven’t named – will guide me turn by turn, offramp by offramp, street by street to within about 200 feet of my destination. I think if I’d ponied up for the more expensive Mark Levinson sound system it would’ve guided me to the front door. Whatever. I see it as a chance to use those rusty common sense skills.

Private roads, dirt roads, toll roads, I drive with the confidence of knowing Priscilla will get me where I need to be.

So here it is, the part you've been waiting for. Yes, I was wrong about navigation in cars.

As much as it hurts to admit it, and it doesn't hurt that much, I'd be lost without it.

Let's keep this short

Today is Super Bowl Sunday, so it probably doesn't matter what I write since no one will be reading it (I know, why is this day different from any other?)?

I've written here a couple of times, here and here, about my futile, humiliating, nothing-can-make-me-feel-more- stupid-with-the-possible-exception-of-my-children attempts to become a contestant on Jeopardy.

However, as I was watching the show the other night, it hit me like a bolt of what is lightning (see what I did there?). I've been applying for the wrong position.

Instead of contestant, I should be going for Jeopardy category writer. It's not like I don't know how to bring the funny. Depending on who you ask, I do it for a living. And those category titles and answers are short. Nothing I like better than short copy, with the possible exception of the paycheck that comes with writing it.

I always think the categories reflect the writer's personal tastes. So it'll come as a surprise to no one that my first Jeopardy categories would be Springsteen, Breaking Bad, The Godfather, Sushi Bars, German cars, Helen Mirren and Potpourri (have to keep some traditions alive).

Moving on to the double Jeopardy round, which is always harder, I'd have Movie Palaces, Star Trek, Stand-Up Comics, Seinfeld (I know he's a stand-up, but really, a category unto himself), Is This Thing On and Star Wars Geography (This planet was destroyed by the Death Star super laser in Episode IV: A New Hope...).

Unfortunately you can't go online to apply for the category writer job, so I'll have to see who I know and how to get stuff to them.

Another great job for me would be lotto winner. Working on that one as well.

By the way, it was Alderaan.

Call time

I guess I haven't been paying attention, which will come as absolutely no shock to anyone who's ever been in a status meeting with me. But as I was barreling up the carpool lane of the 110, alone, thanks to my FasTrak transponder that charges me to use a lane my taxes have already paid for, I was genuinely surprised to see there are still freeway call boxes lining the four-lane.

These intermittently spaced call boxes, with their reassuring blue signs, are a throw back to my childhood. Which, if you ask anyone who knows me, I'm still in.

When I was a kid, my parents would take us to Gilman Hot Springs. Or Murrieta Hot Springs. Or Desert Hot Springs. Apparently Jews are attracted to hot springs like moths to canasta. I remember the drive always seemed like it took hours to get there. It was just in Riverside county, but it may as well have been another world.

I mean, have you been to Riverside county?

It didn't help that I was a worried little kid and always thought our dark blue Dodge Coronet would breakdown on the way. Actually, the only time I remember it breaking down was when I stole it one day to take it for a drive to the valley to see some girl before I had my license. I wound up at a Union Oil station on Van Nuys and Riverside, and called my parents to come pick me up. They said they'd be happy to drive out and get me, to which I said, "Yeah, about the driving out part..." They had to call friends of the family to drive them out.

It was a very long, quiet ride home. But I digress.

Anyway, my parents would always tell me we were fine, and that even if the car did break down, we'd just use the call box and, like magic, help would be on the way. It was very comforting. A lot more comforting than being the only person under 75 at whichever hot springs we were going to.

It's easy to think of call boxes as old technology. The truth is they're now equipped with the latest digital whammy-jammies, and probably have fewer dropped calls than AT&T. I always thought they were a little Jetson-y because they were the first things I remember that used solar panels to power the lights that made them visible at night.

You don't see very many people using them, because standing on the side of the freeway isn't the brightest idea, and almost everyone has a cell phone now.

But I still find knowing they're there very comforting.

It may be the only thing on the 110 that is.

Things I was wrong about: Butt heaters

This time, I think I've stumbled on to a series that, as my wife would be the first to point out (can I get an "Amen" from the husbands), will give me a limitless supply of material to drone on about.

Joining the already wildly popular series on this site like Don't Ask, Guilty Pleasures, Things I Love About Costco and What Took So Long is now Things I Was Wrong About.

First up, car butt heaters.

I used to laugh at people who raved about butt heaters in their car seats. After all, it's not like we live in Minnesota. It just seemed like a useless option no one needed, a waste of money and a car fire just waiting to happen.

That is, it seemed like that until I finally got a car that had them.

Suddenly, magically, I couldn't get enough of those frigid Southern California nights, you know, where the temperature plummets to around 58 degrees. With my driver's seat butt heater set on high, driving on chilly nights became a comfy, cozy ride that I wanted to go on for as long as possible. Especially since on my car, the heat also extends to the mid and lower back. Which, if you've never experienced it, is just a little bit of heaven on wheels.

As the seat warms up, so does my attitude behind the wheel. The asshats who text while they drive, the people not signaling when they turn or change lanes, drivers with the eternal turn signal or just plain slow drivers seem to bother me a little less when my butt is warm.

I'm pretty sure Einstein had a theory about that. Look it up.

So I'll just say it. I was wrong about butt heaters. It's one of those things, like remote controls and GPS navigation systems (by the way, watch for those items in future installments), I didn't know I couldn't live without.

Until I didn't have to.

Telling the difference

Quick, can you tell the difference between these two images? If you can, thanks to your keen powers of observation and discernment, you may not be suited for a job in advertising.

In the agency world, persuasion is the name of the game. There's the obvious job description of persuading consumers they need whatever it is you're hawking. Tacos. Cars. Insurance. Computers. Adult diapers. Cruises. Cereal. Cellular device. Web provider. Hemorrhoid ointment (two creepy words in the same sentence).

And while that effort sometimes hits and sometime misses, some of the people who have the job of persuading themselves a campaign is really good, in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, almost always succeed.

Here's how it usually goes. The Emperor wants to show off his new clothes - which are invisible to those too stupid to see them - in a parade. People in the crowd all see he has no clothes on, yet no one will tell him for fear of repercussions.

If you read the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale, you know there's a little boy in the crowd who doesn't go along with the pretense and shouts out, "He isn't wearing any clothes!"

In advertising, the little boy gets fired. Or promoted.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.

Drive she said

I wouldn’t go so far as calling myself a Disneyphile (although it would be one of the nicer things I’ve been called). But I did grow up in L.A., and probably spent an equal amout of time between school and Disneyland (well, maybe a little more at DLand).

I’m a California boy, and I do love Disneyland.

As a card-carrying Deluxe annual pass holder, I’ve done the math to figure out I have to go there at least 6 times during the year to make it pay for itself. No problem: between DLand, its sister park California Adventure, and summer it'll be a cinch.

The beauty of it is I can go anytime I want (except for a few blocked days) and pretty much forget the outside world and have a good time. Until I have to pay real-world money for food in the park (seriously, would it kill them to include a few meals in the annual pass fee).

But I recover quickly.

Anyway, last Saturday night it was time for my daughter and me to renew our annual passes. Instead of doing it online, which wouldn’t have given us any excuse to go into the park, we made the 15-minute drive to Anaheim and did it in person at a Disneyland ticket booth.

Disney cast member Linda from Laguna Niguel - who may or may not have been an audio-animatronic robot - efficiently and pleasantly helped us.

Afterwards, we thought we’d take the new annual passes for a spin. So we went into Calfiornia Adventure, got the passes scanned, and visited the newest land: Cars Land.

When Disney decides to wow you, no one does it better. Radiator Springs is the spittin' image of the fictional cars town in the movie come to life. It is incredible. Visually rich and detailed, stunning in its vibrancy, it actually is the only Disney "land" that feels like you're in another world entirely.

We waited an hour to get on the Radiator Springs Racers, the roller coaster ride that simulates the race in the movie. It leisurely takes you through the town of Radiator Springs, then suddenly you're at a starting line with another car full of people.

You get the green light, and you're off. It's not nearly a long enough or fast enough race, but it is fun. It has just enough of what I call "Disney Danger" on the curves to make you want to immediately go on it again. If the line wasn't a two hour wait when we got off we would have.

We went on a couple more rides, and then headed home. No need to do it all in one night.

We have all year.

My eyes are open

I've posted before here about my problem with floaters and flashes. And I'm not talking about the kind you see downtown at midnight. Ba dum bum!

Because of all these little suckers floating around in my eyes, I have to go to my world-renowned ophthalmologist once a year so he can make sure my retina isn't detached. And every year, he gives me the same answer.

It's not detached, it's just more of a loner. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, in order to do the exam he has to dilate my eyes. An assistant comes in and puts two drops of the dilating elixir into each eye. I think one of the main ingredients is gasoline because that's what it feels like.

Once my eyes - or anyone's eyes - are dilated, they let in a whole lot of light and there's nothing you can do about it. Usually I get this exam during the day, and I have to wear three pairs of sunglasses (not kidding) to reduce the light coming into my eyes so I can see well enough to drive home.

But since this time the exam was at night, I thought I could get away with not wearing them.

So you're asking, "How'd that work out for ya?"

This is what every headlight looked like on the way home. Each one was a starburst, and every lamp shining from a lamp post looked like fireworks. It was very pretty. I think they design it that way because they know it may be the last thing you ever see as you go careening out of control across four lanes into other cars on the freeway.

The good news is it eventually wears off in about four or five hours, and then once again I'm able to see things as they really are.

Which, as anyone who knows me will tell you, was never a strong suit of mine to begin with.

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.

Sign of stupidity

Now how are we going to thin the herd?

Can't government just stay out of our lives? Apparently they just don't care about the small percentage of people who want to walk in front of moving cars. They've taken away that right. Now those people can't say no one told them not to.

This is obviously a bigger problem than I thought. Or that I would have thought if I thought there were people stupid enough to need a warning about waiting for cars to stop before they cross the street.

At some point, I think local government just has to roll the dice and realize they can't protect people from everything.

Especially themselves.