Fighting fire with fire and fury

I've seriously stopped counting how many ways our dipshit, liar-in-chief, fake president, and Putin's personal lapdog, is unqualified to hold the position he has. Frankly, I can't count that high. But here's a good example that happened just today: apparently he's decided to fight stupid with stupid. On learning news North Korea most likely has been able to miniaturize a nuclear warhead that can sit on top of a missile aimed at the west coast of the U.S., Trump said they'd better stop making threats or they'd face "fire and fury like the world has never known." He then followed it up with "Nyah, nyah, nyah."

I suppose there are two ways to look at this. First, Trump is smarter than any of us think, and he's speaking in language the chubby psycho with the bad haircut in North Korea understands. But more likely, he's an idiot completely ignorant of the ramifications of the sabre-rattling he's doing, trying to overcompensate for a dick he couldn't find with a flashlight and a search party, and at the same time edging us closer to nuclear conflict than we've been since the '60s.

And what does he care? He'll be holed up in his gold-leafed bomb shelter, watching Hannity on Fox News and Dancing With The Stars, complaining how unfair North Korea is being to him.

Or maybe it's just all a rouse to get Melania to finally hold hands with him (insert small hands joke here).

Regardless, this is what happens when hillbillies, greedy billionaires and spineless Republicans give nuclear codes to clowns.

At any rate, with all this going on it seemed like a good day to repost this piece, which was originally called "Gimme shelter, or not." It's a little personal plan of attack (pardon the phrase) if you will about what to do as we reach the final chapter.

Put on your sunglasses, pop open a beer, rev up the credit cards and grab that guy or gal you've been thinking about. The big bang is getting serious. Please to enjoy.

Back in the mission accomplished, strategery, fool me once days of the George W. Bush presidency, everyone had a great time making fun of the way W mispronounced the word nuclear. It never mattered much to me. I say nuclear, you say nucular. Either way we're toast.

Lucy, our one-year old Sock Finder terrier absconded with a tasty argyle the other day and hid it, poorly, in her den which is under the dining room table. I had to go under there and retrieve it (who's the retriever now?), and in a flash (SWIDT?) it reminded me of the drop drills we did in elementary school.

We'd be sitting there, either doing school work or counting the minutes until we could get home and watch Engineer Bill or Sheriff John, and suddenly the teacher would yell "Drop!" We'd all hit the deck under our desks, as if that was going to prevent us from looking like one of Johnny Depp's ash trays on a Saturday night.

It's a lot like when a potential client is about to tour the agency, and the account guy yells "Look busy!" The difference is at the agency nothing changes.

Anyway, with enough nuclear bombs on submarines alone to take out the world, and the Stay-Puft dictator in North Korea shooting off his firecrackers towards Malibu, I started thinking about preparations I need to make in the event of the event.

There's this very informative website that tells how to prepare for a nuclear blast. And while there are a lot of helpful tips on it, I have a few of my own I think will come in handy should we get close to that edge.

First, get to Vegas.

For almost four decades, the U.S. Department of Energy did above-ground testing of over a thousand nuclear bombs at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-five miles northwest of Vegas.

And to no ones' surprise, Vegas did what they do best: turned the detonations into a tourist attraction.

It's where the saying, "It ain't the heat, it's the radiation." originated. My point is if they're going to drop the big one, shouldn't there be swimming pools and free drinks involved?

Who's with me?

Next, run up the credit cards.

The minute the news shows interrupt the season finale of The Bachelorette and start tossing up the Breaking News banner to report on on tensions getting higher between nuclear-armed third-world nations, and we're reaching a point of no return, reach for the credit cards.

A quick shopping spree is better than none at all, and you'll probably have a few days at least before the big boom. Those things you always wanted? Buy 'em. Enjoy 'em. Even if only for a little while.

Just because you're going to die soon in a flash of brilliant white light doesn't mean you have to do it with regrets. 82-inch flatscreen, hello?

Then, grab someone you've always wanted to kiss and plant one.

To some, the impending end of all life on earth might be the time to reflect on what your friends and family mean to you, and to tell them in a heartfelt final conversation so they can vaporize knowing how much you loved them.

Here's the thing: if they don't know by now, you really don't have time to explain it.

Instead, find someone you've always wanted to kiss, grab 'em and plant one on 'em. They'll be startled, maybe in shock to the point where they won't even know what to say. Which is when you say, "I'm so sorry. What I actually meant to do was this." Then plant another one.

Will they be mad? Maybe. Will they report you? Who cares. You can stay out of sight for a couple days until we're all gone.

Remember the part about no regrets?

Finally, remember to smile.

You don't want to look like those people from Pompeii when it's over. They were turned to stone and ash, and not a one of them looked happy about it. At least in the pictures.

If on the chance you wind up charred and not vaporized, you want to have a smile on your face when you go. It projects confidence, joy, a certain je ne sais quoi that says, "Even 500 kilotons of fissionable material can't harsh my buzz."

It lets them know you were having a party while you were here, and you're planning on a great time where you're going.

Years - and I mean a lot of years - from now, when they discover your preserved remains and see the smile, they'll wonder what you had to be so happy about at that particular moment. They'll do documentaries about you. Scholars will debate that look on your face. And if you're lucky, your remains might actually get to go on a national museum tour just like King Tut did.

And of course, on the off chance politicians somehow manage to head off the attack at the eleventh hour, you won't want to miss my next post about right ways to apologize and strategies for debt reduction.

Hot enough for ya?

If you know anything about me from this blog, and I’m guessing you probably know more than you want to, you know I’m most definitely not a morning person. The reason I’m not a morning person is because I’m a late night person. I’ll stay up until all wee hours of the morning, catching up on shows I have waiting for me on the DVR, binging again on Breaking Bad, or thinking of things to post on this blog.

Which as anyone who reads it will tell you I have mixed success with.

To the point. I had a 10 a.m. meeting this morning. You’d think because I knew about it last night I would’ve gone to bed early in order to wake up early. You’d be wrong.

So when the alarm went off, I shuffled into the shower (no, it didn’t wake or refresh me), got dressed and headed out to the office to be in by 9 to prepare for the meeting.

And by prepare, I mean get coffee, chat it up, check Facebook, read Round Seventeen, and then, if there’s time, take a look at what I’m supposed to be presenting.

Being disciplined and focused has never been my strong suit.

Anyway, apparently I forgot about the fight the 405 south and I had years ago. To this day, it still spends every waking moment trying to exact it's revenge with me. And it succeeded this morning. Traffic was more horrendous than usual, so I was forced to get off and take surface streets into work in order to make it on time.

I rolled into the parking lot at 9 straight up, only to be greeted by people pouring out the doors of the building, a fire truck parked in front of it and people in bright orange vests, who looked like Walmart greeters, directing everyone to the far side of the parking lot away from the building.

Not being awake enough to really have anything register, I started walking into the building. I was stopped by one of the greeters, who told me it was a fire drill. It’s the exercise office buildings are required to go through to make sure they’re ready in case The Towering Inferno 2 ever gets made, and they use their building.

Once the drill was over, everyone went back into the building. Since everyone who was going to be in my meeting was in the parking lot, the meeting got pushed back almost an hour.

Nevertheless, I learned a valuable lesson about fire safety, taking the stairs and staying calm in an emergency.

I also learned to sleep late even when you're not supposed to. It won't matter.

Unacceptable behavior

I'm not sure what it is about advertising, but it seems to attract the very best of humanity and the very worst.

When it comes to the second group, I suppose the lesson to remember is never underestimate the profound, almost other-worldly ability of people to be thoughtless, inconsiderate, rude jerks.

We've all encountered them. I don't need to give you examples of their douchebaggery.

Alright, here's one.

I have a close writer friend who's mom has been battling cancer. She took a turn for the worse, and wound up in intensive care in a hospital out of state. My friend's brother called and told her to get on a plane and get up there if she wanted to say goodbye.

She let her boss and co-workers at the agency know what was going on. Of course, they understood and sympathized. Then she headed for the airport.

While she was in the intensive care unit with her mom - gloved, masked and gowned because it was a sterile, germ-free environment - the agency called her. They asked her to work on some brochure copy that need revising while she was there.

I guess they thought she'd get tired of keeping her dying mother company and would want something else to do. You know, all that sitting around waiting. All you've got is free time.

Since you asked, here's another one.

Unless you've been on a news blackout, you know about the fires that have been raging in San Marcos. I happen to have a close art director friend who had to evacuate his wife and one-year old daughter from their dream house they've been in a couple years, and happens to sit at the top of the hill the fire was rapidly burning up. They grabbed the items they couldn't bear to lose, threw them in the car and drove away from their house not knowing whether or not it'd be there when they got back.

While they were at the hotel, his employer called and said they needed him to do some work, and sit in on a meeting. It was okay with them if he did it by phone.

Because, like my other friend, he should have his priorities straight, right? Forget attending to his frightened family, dealing with the uncertainty, the added expense and the crushing stress of it all. That's just crazy talk.

What it comes down to for me is this gross insensitivity really solidifies our belief in the "It's not my job." philosophy. There's no sense of personal responsibility - when you have a soldier down, you just pick up the slack without being asked. Or without passing it on to someone else to do.

It's also clear to me at the agency orientation new employees get when they start, no one's bothering to instill any appreciation for the golden rule: treat others as you'd like to be treated. If any of the people calling my friends to work were in the same position - and in spite of their supreme jerkness I hope they never are - the last thing they'd want is a call asking them to work. Especially from people like them.

All I can do is shake my head and feel sad for the people making the calls. I imagine how cripplingly unhappy they must be in their lives to be so unaware of others and their situations.

My writer friend's mother has stabilized, and is doing better despite the fact there is an inevitable outcome to her illness. But for now, she's here, she's fighting and she's winning.

As for my art director pal, he got the all-clear to go back to their home yesterday. It is intact and untouched by the fire. They were lucky.

The work they were both called to do never got done. At least not by them.

As it should be.

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.