At least it's not a Prius

I'm sure your photographic memory of all things Rotation and Balance will remind you I've already posted in the past about getting a loaner car, and a hybrid loaner at that.

Well, it's happened again.

Apparently the air conditioning in my car decided to give up its relentless pursuit of perfection just in time for some record-breaking March heat. I took it into the dealer because, you know, it was that or run down the middle of the street tearing up twenty-dollar bills and throwing them in the air. They diagnosed it as a broken blower motor (I'll wait while you insert your own joke here).

It's going to take a couple days to get the part. So the dealer, obviously sensing my green lifestyle and unwavering commitment to saving the planet, gave me, yet again, a hybrid to tool around in while I wait for my blower motor to be swapped out.

This time it's the Lexus CT200h F Sport. And against every instinct that's good and holy, I have to say it's pretty fun.

It has two modes, eco and sport - just like my high school girlfriend. BAM!

Eco is like dragging boulders uphill against a hurricane, and goes from 0 to 60 in, well, it hasn't reached 60 yet.

Sport mode however is another story. Turn the dial over to sport, and a tachometer appears on the gauge cluster, and the lighting changes from white to red. Suddenly, it's the little hybrid engine that could. And it hauls.

The picture up top doesn't do it justice. It's actually considerably more on the bad boy side of quirky looking in real life.

What I like to do is pull my fire-engine red loaner up next to a Prius. Then, when the light changes, leave them in my environmentally friendly, high mileage, low carbon emission dust.

I take my thrills where I can find them.

The car is smaller than mine. And since I'm a, um, fuller version of my younger self, the fit is a little tighter. Still, once the leather sport seat wraps its arms around me, space considerations are forgiven. I have the nicest go-cart at the track.

I'll be glad to get my own car back Monday or Tuesday. But until then, I'll be enjoying this attention-getting red hybrid in a way I never thought possible.

From behind the wheel.

The great escape

When I hear the words escape plan, like everyone else in advertising I think it's referring to a way out of the business. A gentle transition into another career, preferably one that isn't ranked below car salesman and personal injury lawyers.

With all the rockin' and rollin' that's been going on in places like the Philippines and Mexico City, I know it also applies to earthquakes.

But the more jokes I hear about the zombie apocalypse, the more I think maybe it's no joke at all and that's what's really coming. They just want you think it's a joke. And that's what I need an escape plan for.

Hear me out.

I don't think the dead will rise and start slow-chasing down a brain buffet. At least not at first. What I think is they've already ingratiated themselves, hiding in plain sight among us. If you've ever worked in an agency, people feeding on the brains of others for survival is nothing new to you.

And while it may not result in the zombie gore portrayed in movies, comics and television, I promise you more often than not it's just as messy and no less brutal.

I believe the theory of Occam's Razor - the simplest solution being the right one - applies here.

Walk faster.

At least this'll work against the slow-walking, brain-eating zombies. However, their more subtle agency brethren have already mastered the World War Z art of the fast walk, usually while carrying a Powerpoint deck or an iPad so as to look important - and alive.

You'll have to be more resourceful planning your getaway from them. If they trap you in a meeting, you're a goner.

One of the most valuable tools in the fight against zombies is a quality shovel. Always good for clobbering them in the head and buying yourself some time.

Of course if you work in an agency, you already know it comes in pretty handy there too.

Clock in

Every clock in my house reads, acts and sounds different from the other ones.

Not unlike my high school girlfriends, some are fast, some are slow. Some are loud, some are quiet. Some are easy to read, others not so much.

My friend Kelly Kliebe posted a picture of the Word Clock on his Facebook page awhile ago (although interestingly, he didn't mention what he had for breakfast, which team he was rooting for, or how I could get free tickets on Southwest).

The minute I saw it I had to have it.

For obvious reasons, it's a real writer's clock. And if I ever run into a real writer, I'll make sure and tell him about it (who of us didn't see that one coming?). Because the time is in words, there's no mistaking what time it actually is. I don't have to make an educated guess about the proximity of the hands to the numbers. There's no annoying ticking while I'm trying to sleep. And it serves a dual purpose: it also makes a great nightlight.

I ordered it from Doug Jackson at Doug's Word Clocks in Australia. I ordered it at the beginning of December, and actually forgot that I did until it arrived today.

Time gets away from me like that sometimes.

On his page you can see some of the variations in colors and materials you can order. I know it'll come as a surprise to all who know me that I chose black. Each one is custom ordered and hand-made, which makes it even more special. And more expensive.

I can see from the clock on the wall that IT IS TWENTY MINUTES PAST EIGHT.

An excellent time to wrap this up.