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."

Hedging my bet

Bruce Springsteen, this up and coming singer I listen to occasionally, put it best: There are nice guys and assholes on every block in America.

Let me put it this way, my neighbors are not the nice guys. I'm not talking about every neighbor on the block, many of whom we have varying degrees of friendly relationships with. I'm talking about my immediate neighbors who live next to us in the very same direction the Wicked Witch was from.

Coincidence? I think not.

There's a long list of intrusions and offenses we've been the recipients of ever since they bought the house next door. Things like them building their deck onto the side of our garage facing their yard. And without asking or mentioning it, painting said garage wall to match the color of their house.

Permission? That's just crazy talk.

I won't bother you with the details of how we found out about it all, but suffice it to say that since we did, lawyers, phone calls, texts and fragile agreements have all been called, made and followed so far.

After two property surveys showing the property lines along our garage were right where we said they were, we've settled for a long term truce and absolutely no relationship with them.

Which is fine by me. Because they're assh...not nice guys.

What makes it so very frustrating, besides the obvious, is before they bought the place we had the best neighbor ever. We loved him, my kids loved him, the American people loved him. Sebastian, if you're reading this, seriously, it's time to buy the house back. Don't make me beg, it's so undignified. But I'll do it if that's what it takes.

I only wish the layout of my house were such that I could trim hedges on my property (if I had them) the way it is in the picture.

It may be a character flaw, but I tend to hold on to things like this. I'm not forgiving when it comes to my garage wall. Ask anyone who knows me.

I'll never understand the point of deliberately doing something you know will result in eliminating any chance of having a neighborly relationship. After all, the only thing separating our house from theirs is a driveway. If they ever needed something done like picking up newspapers or packages while they were away from home, or just wanted someone to keep an eye on the place, we'd be the natural choice as well the closest people to lend a hand.

But after their transgressions and aggression towards us, I can't put into words how badly I'm waiting for the day they come knocking at my door asking for help. Because, you know, being the forgiving, benefit-of-the-doubt-giving, understanding, sensitive to other people's dilemas individual anyone who knows me will tell you I am, I'll be ready with the most charitable answer I can muster in their time of need.

Kiss my hedge.

The 12th of never

As I've said many times here, I'm the least disciplined writer you know. I'm not proud, but I am consistent. To that end, you'll be glad to know that finely honed, well practiced lack of discipline carries over into many other areas of my life as well.

Here's the thing: I had big plans coming into 2018. A whole new me in almost every aspect. Extreme makeover, Jeff edition. While I didn't voice my ambitious plans to a lot of people, I did make a list for myself. Reviewing that list now, it really begs the question— is it really breaking a resolution if you never started it?

In what seems like a nanosecond, I suddenly find myself halfway through January, and I'm already checking things off my evil twin list.

Not walking every day. Check.

Not working out. Check.

Not riding my bike. Check.

Still carrying on a torrid love affair with bread. Check.

Still cheating on bread with sugar. Check.

But it's not just the personal improvement goals and deadlines I'm not accomplishing. I'm not accomplishing so much more than that. In fact, I can not accomplish more in a day than most people can't do in a month.

Simple things like reorganizing my dresser drawers so they're not all "that drawer."

Making the bed every day, although the 90 lb. German Shepherd laying on it doesn't make it any easier.

Cleaning out the garage.

Emptying the boxes from the remodel still in the garage.

Reorganizing shelf space in the garage.

Putting a window in the garage.

Putting up the wi-fi extender in the garage.

Clearly the garage is a thorn in my side, and perhaps my inability to get to it and put it in order represents a more significant issue that needs to be dealt with.

Which begs a different question: Who asked you?

Anyway, it doesn't take a stable genius to see the pattern of avoidance and denial, two qualities I'm far more comfortable with than I should be.

I don't want you to get the wrong idea, although it may be too late for that. This may ruin my underachiever reputation, but since the new year I actually did manage to get two new pair of glasses, a haircut and the flu. So there's that.

But when it comes to my New Year's list, I'm going to file it all under better late than never, and not wait another year before I think about addressing all those chores and promises. I'm going to pull myself up by my own bootstraps, if I can find them in the garage, and take care of them in the most timely way I know how.

Tomorrow.

Boxing lessons

What you're looking at here isn't actually my garage. It's a representative picture, you know, to give you an idea of what my actual garage looks like. In the same way, for example, a picture of Chris Hemsworth would be a representative picture of me.

You know I can hear you laughing, right?

When we started our kitchen/bathroom/living room remodel almost a year ago, the first thing on our to-do list was pack up everything and get it out of the house before the contractors came in to demo the place. After several runs to Box Bros., daily struggles with the tape dispenser and inhaling more marker fumes than I care or can remember while we were labeling them, we finally got it done.

That was then, and this is now. The remodel is complete, and looks fabulous.

But while the remodel proper is finished, we still have sixteen boxes sitting in the garage that have yet to be unpacked and moved back into the new kitchen.

So what's in the boxes? Who the hell knows.

We labeled them with the main items (Did I mention the markers? I can't remember), but there are lots of little gems also packed into each one just waiting to be rediscovered. The box marked "Mixing bowls" might also have clay sculptures the kids made in second grade. The "dishtowels" box could also have a stack of unpaid bills from last January waiting for us. The "Cups and saucers" box is probably filled with....well, that one is likely cups and saucers.

The thinking is one thing at a time, and do everything in the right order. First, we have to clear some room in our new kitchen cabinets so we can put away whatever is hiding in those sixteen boxes. We have yet to do this. And with the holidays upon us, it's a safe bet the boxes in the garage holding Christmas decorations are going to be unpacked way before the remodel ones. Right after we clear some room for the Christmas tree. Don't get me started.

I imagine we'll hit the year mark—January 26 to be exact—before we even start on the remodel boxes. But we'll get to unpacking them just as soon as we're able. And who knows, once we get motivated and start ripping those suckers open, we may even decide to really surprise ourselves and tackle a box or two that's been there since we moved in.

Twenty years ago.

Unfinished business

The road to being a couch potato, taking naps in the middle of the day and bingeing Breaking Bad - again - is paved with good intentions.

One of the increasingly dwindling perks of working in advertising is that almost all ad agencies close between Christmas and New Year's. Like the one I'm currently at. So, besides my wish list for Santa, which apparently he didn't have time to read (so much for the Audi R8 and Scarlett Johansson's phone number), I also make a to-do list of things to get done around the house during the week off that I never have time for when I'm working.

It includes seemingly simple things like clean out my closet (nope). Clean out the garage (nope). Get all the books I haven't read and are sitting on my nightstand organized (nope). Get everything off the top of my dresser (nope). Make and label files for all the paperwork I have sitting all over the house (nope). Get all the Christmas decorations organized and put away (nope). Clean and repair the gutters before El Niño strikes with a vengeance (paid someone do it).

Items like watching some movies, napping and Breaking Bad weren't on the list. Yet somehow, because I'm just that good at multitasking, I managed to get them done.

I think what actually happened is I took the idea of a work break to heart and brought it home with me for the week. And you know what? It's been a great week.

The good news is now I don't have to waste time thinking up a bunch of New Year's resolutions. I'll just use the list.

Plastics

FADE UP:

We see a four car garage attached to a large, white, modern mansion on the side of a hill in Malibu. It overlooks the Pacific Ocean. From inside, we hear a car door close.

The garage door rattles opens. As it rises, we see a pool of blackness inside.

Suddenly, two, low red lights peer at us like bloodshot eyes out of the darkness, and a throaty roar of a sports car engine blasts our ears. White reverse lights come on, and as the car backs out the morning sunlight hits it.

It is a perfectly mint, red 1967 Alpha Romeo Spider. The driver is Benjamin Braddock, Chairman and CEO of Braddock Plastics..

He turns the car and drives out of frame.

CUT TO:

Overhead shot of Benjamin Braddock speeding down Pacific Coast Highway on a postcard sunny day.

CUT TO:

CU of his hand turning on the radio.

We hear the first notes: "de dede de de de dede de de dede de..."