Unstuck

Letting go. It's never easy.

Case in point: a week ago, thanks to the record-setting stock market (Bidenomics bitch!), I was able to sell some shares and treat myself to my first brand new car in seventeen years. German car, expensive to maintain, expensive to repair, ridiculously expensive to own.

What the hell. I'm not taking it with me. And as the wife said, "Life is short. Buy the car."

The point is in purchasing my new wheels, I have to let go of my old ones, a fourteen-year old Lexus ES350 with over 155,000 miles on it. While I was initially thrilled at jettisoning the Lexus, I started thinking about all the times of my life that car has been a part of.

Driving the kids to school.

To rehearsals.

To game practice.

Nights out with the wife.

Emergency trips to urgent care or the ER. Fortunately not many of those.

I'm not gonna lie: thinking about the outgoing car in that light got me more than a little misty. It shouldn't come as a surprise. If you know anything about me, and if you don't by now then I just don't know where we go from here, you know I'm a sap.

I cry at Hallmark commercials. I never had a chance.

Because I have a new car, and a new windshield, I also have to say goodbye to something else I've been holding onto for the last two cars I've owned. My Chiat/Day parking sticker.

I always loved the Chiat sticker. The pirate culture it represented. The skull and crossbones shadow it made at high noon on the dash. The bragging rights it gave me. And the fact I could visit Chiat weeks after I was done freelancing there, park unnoticed amongst them, and sneak upstairs for one of their great breakfast burritos from the in-house restaurant.

I'm not proud. But on a stack of bibles, it was a pretty fuckin' great burrito.

When I was still working at agencies, before finding the most awesome client side job ever, that little blue sticker was also proof positive, tangible evidence, something I could point to whenever I'd play the Chiat card.

Which almost everyone who works or worked there does at one time or another.

The sticker's faded now, and years of sunlight exposure have given it a little curling around the edges. And just like the velcro strips that hold my FasTrak transponder, or the Magic Castle member parking discount sticker, the time has come to lower the pirate flag, and let go of the Chiat sticker.

All to say that if you want to sneak in for a breakfast burrito, we're going to have to take your car.

Wyndham? Damn near killed ‘em

Last week I piled the wife, daughter and the son-in-law into my fourteen-year old Lexus ES350—really just a Camry dressed up for Saturday night—and took them down the coast to San Diego, where we were meeting up with my son and his fiancé to go see Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band.

I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

They were playing at Pechanga Arena, a venue I was unfamiliar with and had never been to, even though it’s been there over sixty years under various names.

Since it was just an overnight trip, and arena shows are notorious for hellish parking and hours-long traffic jams leaving afterwards, I used my big brain and thought the best thing to do would be to book us three rooms at a nearby hotel, where we’d be able to leave the car and just walk to the show.

The hotel I found, the Wyndham Garden San Diego Sea World (the arena is right behind the orca prison) was literally across the street from the arena.

Being the hotel snob I am, after perusing their website and seeing that the rooms and the hotel in general—while not up to the usual Hotel Del Coronado/Fairmont San Francisco/Essex House New York/Four Seasons Seattle accommodations I’ve grown accustomed to—looked decent enough for an inexpensive overnight stay.

But as we all know, when it comes to looks, as in used cars and the opposite sex at closing time, they can be deceiving.

Most arenas are not located in the better part of town, and Pechanga is no exception.

When we pulled into the hotel, which come to find out was more of a motel, it looked decent enough. The woman at the front desk who checked us in was pleasant, and directed us to the building our rooms were in. On the way over, we noticed several extremely sketchy characters not just around the property, but staying there.

It reminded me of the Crystal Palace on Breaking Bad, except without the charm. Although if they had room service, like the Crystal Palace, I was pretty sure meth was on the menu.

We went into the room and, as they say, it was nothing like the brochure. Dingy, dirty and with a prison bathroom, there was only one window with a transparent shade out to the upstairs walkway. I imagine that was to make it easier for the addicts to decide what to steal.

All I could think was Gitmo must’ve been booked for the weekend.

If I’d been a little more thorough in my research, and the only reason I wasn't was because I was pretty danged pleased I'd found a place within walking distance, I would’ve seen the pictures of cockroaches in the rooms and Wyndham’s less than stellar ratings on Yelp.

That would’ve been the first clue.

I told everyone not to put anything on the beds, we were getting out of there.

Speaking with the woman who’d checked us in not fifteen minutes earlier, I let her know the rooms weren’t what we expected and we weren’t going to stay. Without skipping a beat, she said no problem and gave us a full refund. Which told me this probably was a daily request.

Fortunately, the Hyatt Regency Mission Bay Spa & Marina had rooms available and we wound up staying there. Instead of across the street, it was a six-minute Uber ride to the arena, and a million miles away from the Wyndham.

In a word, the Hyatt was heaven. I can’t say enough good things about it. And I believe in my heart that their staff is as great and the accommodations as comfortable, clean and pleasant as they were all the time—not just because we’d made our escape from the bowels of hell.

I wasn't trapped in the Wyndham cell long enough to notice if they had movie channels on the TV. If they do, I'd recommend watching Escape From Alcatraz.

Not for the movie. For the plan.

Spoiler alert

First of all, for some reasons probably having to do with personal vanity and self-image, it's important to me you know this is not the front spoiler on my car. The scrapes and scratches on my front spoiler are much more symmetrical and artistic in their own unique, random way.

Pardon my Seinfeld-ness, but (high-pitched, whiny, East-coast voice) what is it with designing front spoilers so low? Don't they have curbs where these cars come from?

I drive a Lexus ES 350. Despite the fact you see them coming and going it's a nice car, but really nothing more than a Camry dressed up for Saturday night. Still, I like the smooth ride, the burled walnut, the rear-window shade I've never used and the fact it came pre-wired for SiriusXM. Even though it'll never give me the performance thrill my old Audi A6 did, before it caught fire, as far as cars go I file it under things could be worse.

What I don't like about my Lexus is how low the front spoiler is. It scrapes on curbs. Parking space blocks. Driveways that aren't properly angled. Speedbumps. Dips in the road. In other words, almost anything a front spoiler would be in proximity to.

I have a body shop I go to that's inexpensive and does great work. And when I tell them it's out-of-pocket and not through my insurance company, they give me even more of a break. They're located senseless-murder-district adjacent, so the overhead is low (no pun intended) and they can offer great rates. Sadly, they know me there because I've had to have the front spoiler repainted three times since I've owned the car.

I suppose I could choose to not let it bother me, and just go about my day not thinking about it. But in my heart, like I know the sky is blue, every time I'm behind the wheel I can't stop thinking about the fact I'll scrape it again. Probably pulling out of the repair shop driveway.

The Lexus is the latest black car in a series of them I've owned. And the white scrapes, while unavoidable, aren't a good look. I can only take it for so long.

So I've been looking for something higher. A little more off the ground. Which puts me squarely in the crossover/SUV arena. To date I haven't found anything I like and that I can afford. That's mainly because I can't afford anything in life since we remodeled two bathrooms, our living room and gave the kitchen a complete makeover.

If I'd only put a V6 and a steering wheel next to the microwave I'd be set.

But I'm determined not to let it get me down. Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you about my dogged persistence and laser-like focus when I set my mind to doing something.

Unless it's losing weight or vacuuming. Then, you know, screw it.

Anyway, I'll keep scouring AutoTrader and the OEM CPO sites (yeah, I work on car accounts) for something I can fall in love with and afford. Like my high school girlfriend.

Until I do, every time I hear the sound of my spoiler scraping the ground, I'll pretend it's my own personal reminder that the faster I can unload this thing, the sooner I won't have to hear that noise anymore.

Like my high school girlfriend.

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.

That's the ticket

There are a lot of people I've seen in concert not necessarily because I'm a fan, but because I think I should see them. The reason can range anywhere from they're a living legend, like when I saw Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. at the Greek Theater, to they may not be around much longer, like when I saw Elvis at what was then the Intercontinental Hotel in Vegas (although technically my parents dragged me to that one, but I can still say I saw him).

One group that falls into both categories is The Rolling Stones.

Every time they've ever toured, I've sworn to myself I'd see them. And after hearing this morning they're going to tour for the first time since 2006, I made the promise again.

What's stopped me in the past has been money. Now, if you know anything about me, and really, we don't have any secrets, you know I'm a pampered poodle: I don't sit in the back of the plane. I don't stay in the standard hotel room. And I don't sit in the nosebleed seats at concerts, unless it's Springsteen and those are the only seats left. I'm guessing you already knew that too.

Stones tickets have traditionally gone for between $300-$600 face value. And me being me, guess which ones I want? That's $1200 before parking if I take the wife. I've never paid that to see anyone. Okay, well maybe once I might've paid close to that (twice as much) for front row seats to Springsteen at the Christic Institute concert with Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt. But it was his first concert in years and all acoustic. Front row seats, how often's that gonna happen? It was my money, I earned it and I don't have to defend it to you dammit, so how about you back off.

Glad we settled that.

Anyway, as we all know with Ticketbastards, er, Ticketmaster, the ticket price is just the beginning.

While hotels and airlines have just recently caught on, Ticketmaster has been tacking on bullshit fees to the face cost of a ticket for years. So even if you're seeing a show with a $65 face value ticket, you could wind up paying around a $100 after the extra charges.

Bands have fought Ticketmaster. So have fans. But the bottom line is they're not about to change. They don't exactly have a monopoly, but they have a majority of contracts with the major concert venues across the country. So it's pay or stay home.

I haven't made up my mind if I'm going to pony up for the Stones tickets this time, although I'm thinking I just might. Because you can't fight the law of averages forever.

I probably spend more time contemplating this than I should. I know it's only rock and roll.

But I like it.

Twelve chairs

From agency to agency, as a freelancer you have to adapt to all kinds of situations: tiny workspaces, unreliable wi-fi, uncovered parking, bad agency coffee. However those are much more easily overcome than what I think is the worst mountain you’ll have to climb – the communal writing table (or its equivalent, open cubicle seating).

I just returned to an agency gig after a three-month stint on the client side. While there, I had something I haven’t had in a very long time – no, not a 32” waistline – an actual office. With a door. That closed.

Not only was it a trip down memory lane, it was also extremely helpful in shutting out the world and the noise that comes with it. It was significantly easier to concentrate on my writing, or to make that extra special personal phone call to my doctor, banker or wife.

In one form or another, besides the few actual offices with doors reserved for upper management, almost every agency today has an open seating plan. I like to blame Chiat\Day and it’s phenomenal failure, the “virtual office” experiment almost 20 years ago.

The idea was run an office like a college campus. No one had any assigned personal space. You’d come in, see the “concierge” and check out a powerbook and cell phone. You were then free to work from anywhere you liked in the office. What this lead to was petty turf wars, people scurrying for private space and a high absentee rate since you could literally phone it in from anywhere.

The thought was all this togetherness would foster a more creative, collaborative environment and improve the quality of the work.

It did neither.

The other thought was that instead of building out spaces and moving walls to accommodate titles, it'd simply be cheaper to throw everyone into the mix and let them fend for themselves.

Chiat abandoned the experiment when they moved to their current Frank Gehry-designed space in Playa Del Rey. It's wide open, but at least (most) people have desks to call their own.

Whether it's open space or communal seating, it's like trying to work in the world’s largest Starbuck’s, where 200 baristas are yelling orders and names non-stop, and it all echos off the open-ceiling, exposed duct design. Or as I like to call it, Chiat-lite.

Maybe I’m just nostalgic for a time when effort was better spent doing the work instead of trying to block everything else out so you could focus on it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to throw these babies on and get back to it.

No parking

We can't park in their spots. Why do they get to park in ours?

First of all, I get that it's a free country. People can park where they want when they want.

But really, do motorcycles have to park in car spaces? At the mall? On a hot, busy Saturday?

I'm starting to feel a little like Charlie Brown each time Lucy yanks the football away. I come around a corner, and see what I believe to be a free spot. Instantly filled with a sense of optimism and accomplishment, I pull up to it and begin turning in, only to see a motorcycle parked there.

At that moment, I'm filled with something considerably less positive.

I always thought one of the reasons you ride a motorcycle - besides the fun of it, the mileage, the low maintenance costs and the cool factor - is so you can just park it in all the places a car can't get into. You just ride up, park it on that sliver of asphalt right next to the shop, or restaurant, or bar, or where ever, then hop off with the smugness of knowing you aren't circling the parking lot for hours looking for a spot.

To engage in car-like behavior just seems self-defeating.

It'd be like sitting in traffic on the freeway at rush hour, and crawling along at 3 mph along with the rest of us instead of zipping between cars, narrowly missing our mirrors and inspiring jealousy and hatred.

Some malls already have designated motorcycle parking spots. Maybe they all need to.

Until they do, try to take advantage of what you've got and don't park in our spaces. After all, we may be on the freeway but our doors still open.

Just sayin'.