First class warfare

Yesterday I flew home from San Francisco on Jet Blue. Unfortunately it wasn't the Jet Blue flight where they played tackle the captain, but even without that it was an interesting flight.

Looking around at my fellow flyers, it got me to thinking about how much flying has changed. There are the necessary inconveniences that have been instituted since 9/11 (by the way, all for them - scan, frisk, question away - no problem with it). But there have been other changes that haven't been as sudden or as obvious. Ones that've crept up on the flying public slowly over many years, so subtly that we've gotten used to them in a way we would never have stood for had they been imposed in one fell swoop (by the way, one fell swoop is a manuever pilots try to avoid).

Most airlines only have two or three cabin classes: First Class, Business Class and Coach Class. But if you've been on a plane even once since airlines were deregulated 35 years ago, you know they should rename those sections Low Class and No Class.

The currency of air travel has been cheapened by catering to the lowest common denominator. I'm just going to say it: there really are some people who shouldn't be flying.

Mr. Hefty Garbage Bag for Luggage, Greyhound has a seat waiting for you where I'm sure you'd feel much more at home. Mr. Wifebeater Shirt & Shorts Guy (Flip Flops optional), you're already living in a trailer - why not just take it off the blocks, put the wheels back on it and let your absence be felt. And, let me put this delicately, I think the words wide body should apply to the planes, not the passengers. Especially the passengers spilling over next to me.

With all the absurd fees the airlines are charging for everything from extra legroom to bathroom privileges, you'd think they could put some rules in place that would insure a more pleasant flight for everyone.

There was after all a time when flying was glamorous. It was an adventure. People dressed for the occasion (people used to dress for a lot of occasions but don't anymore. Been to a play lately?). I'm not saying there should be a dress code, but even some restaurants ban shorts, t-shirts and flip flops. They do it for health reasons. Airlines could too. For starters it would lower the blood pressure of the rest of us who have to fly with the sartorially and hygienically challenged.

It's great that almost everyone can afford to get where they're going by plane. But people, good Lord, check the mirror before you leave for the airport.

Just because self-respect has made an early departure doesn't mean it's a one-way trip.

Wrongful Termination - Chapter 4

Two of the officers who’d first responded to the call had escorted Dean Montaine’s secretary to the Cressman/Krate coffee room. They'd sealed it off so they could have a little privacy while they questioned her. Which was unfortunate, because once word of Dean’s death had gotten around the agency, the only thing everyone wanted was a cup of coffee. Ad people.

Jack Sheridan came in the coffee room, and walked past the mason jars of Starbucks blend over to one of the officers, who handed him a small notepad and said a few words to him in quiet tones.

Then Sheridan walked over to the woman.

“Miss Beckwith, I’m Detective Jack Sheridan, L.A.P.D. I’m very sorry about what happened here today. If it’s alright, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’ll try to keep it brief.”

“O.K.” She started to sob again.

Sheridan placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and gestured to one of the other officers who brought him a glass of water.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”, she said, downing the water.

“Miss Beckwith,”

“Call me Barbara.”

“Sure. Barbara, is there anyone you can think of who would’ve wanted to see Mr. Montaine dead?”

At that, Barbara started laughing hysterically, spilling water out of both her mouth and nose.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t.”

Now how much would you pay?

Once in awhile I get an email from the Writer's Store. This one came today. My first thought was "What're they trying to say?"

Here's what they're trying to say: apparently there's a whole copywriting industry waiting to be broken into. And the best news is you don't even need experience or talent. If you're "even just an avid reader, you can turn your love for words into a lucrative career as a freelance copywriter."

I wish to hell someone had told me that sooner.

I wouldn't have wasted my time crawling out of the mail room at two different agencies. I never would've inhaled all those toxic chemical fumes I did as a stat camera operator. I would've passed on the chance to be the world's worst traffic person (excuse me, project manager). I wouldn't have bothered being the agency producer's assistant.

I now know how overrated all that getting to know how an agency works was. Of course, that first time I had a chance to write an ad for Bran Chex, when the account guy came running to me in a panic because all the creative teams were out of the agency, I do think it helped that I was actually in the agency.

But again, according to The Writer's Store, experience isn't a necessary tool in the copywriter's box.

I did find it amusing this ad asks me to "Find out how you can become part of this rising industry..." For the last three years, the only thing that's been rising is the rate of unemployed copywriters. No matter how avid a reader you are, the economy wins every time.

I'm old school about this, but I think you should have to pay more than $99 to become a copywriter. You should also have to pay your dues.

Unless of course you want to write ads like this for copywriting classes.

Wrongful Termination: Chapter 3

Any similarity to persons living or dead, locations or incidents is purely coincidental.

As he walked the hall towards Dean’s office, he passed framed copies of ads Cressman/Krate had produced. Sheridan was amazed that this brain clutter could be displayed with such misplaced pride.

There was an ad for a gas station convenience store showing two just regular blue-collar guys enjoying a beer. “I love it when they make it easier for people to drink behind the wheel,” Sheridan thought. There was an ad for a tennis shoe manufacturer he’d never heard of, a Nike wannabe, showing an extremely buxom girl spilling out of her ridiculously short tennis outfit. The headline read “Love All.” The last one before he turned the corner was a public service ad for a needle exchange program. It showed a drugged out heroin user balancing awkwardly on his knees in front of what looked like a Greyhound station men’s room toilet, throwing his guts up. Even Sheridan had to admit it was a powerful visual. The headline read “Without clean needles, you never know what position you’ll find yourself in.” It was a good message. Didn’t change his opinion about ad people, but still, a good message.

Sheridan walked into the corner office that had belonged to Dean Montaine. The first thing he noticed was the spectacular view overlooking the Santa Monica mountains to the north, and a glimpse of the Pacific ocean to the west. For the last thing Montaine ever saw, he could’ve done worse.

He stooped down next to the body that the coroner had cut down from the light fixture, and was now lying on the industrial carpeted floor covered with a sheet from the knees up.

Montaine’s boots were sticking out the bottom.

Sheridan pulled back the sheet. What he saw was pretty routine as far as hangings went. The head was sitting on the neck at a fifty degree angle, as if he’d been straining to get a better look at a girl in a short skirt walking away from him, or on the phone too long with the receiver between his chin and shoulder. Clearly some additional force besides gravity had been used. If, and it was a preliminary if, it had been murder, then judging by the ransacked looks of the office it appeared as though Montaine had fought the good fight against being placed in a noose and hung from the light. Putting up that kind of resistance, the murderer would have had to use force, yanking him down and snapping his neck. On the other hand, if it did turn out to be suicide, it meant Montaine literally would have to have taken a flying leap off his oak-grain desk with considerable force to do damage like this. His eyes, bloodshot and blank, had popped out of his head far enough for the corneas to touch the lenses of his Coke bottle, tri-focal glasses. His swollen purple, black tongue was sticking out and down to the left side of his mouth, with a thin thread of spittle running down it. Hanging was never a very dignified way to go.

Sheridan also made some personal observations. Montaine was in his late fifties, about six feet tall, hundred seventy pounds. He had a beer gut, and broken blood vessels all along his nose and cheeks. Hard drinker. His hair was straight, long and greasy. His glasses were Jean Paul Gaultier, very expensive, very fashionable. Round in a way that reminded Sheridan of John Lennon. Montaine was wearing stonewashed blue jeans, which had a large wet spot on the front where he’d pissed himself, though it was hard to say if he’d done it before or after. His fingers were stained yellow. His teeth were yellow, brown and decayed from years of alcohol and cigarettes. And probably other things as well. All in all, Sheridan thought, not an attractive man.

Looking at the desk, he noticed Montaine had a small plaque framed in shellacked driftwood branches. It read “Old hippies never die.”

“Guess he was wrong about that.” Sheridan said.

Wrongful Termination: Chapters 1 & 2

Any similarity to persons living or dead, locations or incidents is purely coincidental.

The first thing she noticed was his boots.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen them before, it was just that she’d never seen them this close up and personal. She’d never really been interested in men’s footwear, so even she was surprised by the fact she was taking the time to study them.

She'd been looking down at his morning mail as she walked into his office to drop it into his in-box. It was the usual collection of office memos, letters from production company reps, and a couple of comped subscription magazines. Today it was Playboy, with yet another tired photo spread on Pamela Anderson, and Men’s Health, featuring a cover story on how to get better looking abs in seven days.

But as she looked up from the mail, there were the boots staring right at her almost as hard as she was staring at them. She stopped to admire the intricate detail and craftsmanship that had escaped her all the other times she’d seen them. Maybe because then they’d been moving. But here they were - still - allowing her time to really notice things she hadn’t seen before. The fine sterling silver tips. The little moons and stars cut into the toepieces. The bright, golden sunlight reflecting off them because of the blinding shine. The polished, flathead silver tacks that held the toepieces in place. No doubt about it, these were quality boots.

She moved her eyes ever so slightly upward and looked at the leather. Black, wrinkled, worn, but with a look of comfort and familiarity.

“Like a pair of old shoes…,” she thought, smiling.

Yes, these boots were maybe the best looking pair she’d ever seen. And just as she was having that thought, another one came right on the heels of it.

Why were they at eye level?

She looked up, and saw Dean Montaine hanging from the light fixture.

The screaming went on for almost an hour.

Detective Jack Sheridan walked his six foot two frame into the offices of Cressman/Krate, the advertising agency where Dean worked. Or at least had until this morning.

Sheridan worked Westside long enough to see a few cases involving advertising people. He often wondered why more of them weren’t murdered. As far as he could tell, they were for the most part loud, petty, egotistical, annoying and self-loathing. And those were their good traits. He figured the city, which was essentially a company town, made them that way. They all liked to consider advertising a part of the entertainment community. They all thought they were in show business. But the truth was they were just on the periphery of it. If you could call commercials for Swedish furniture stores, Japanese car manufacturers and fast food burger joints show business. No, Sheridan thought, these were, on the whole, people who made a lot of money for contributing nothing to society but volumes of visual and verbal pollution.

Not that it stopped them from thinking they were better than anyone else.

Sheridan walked up to the receptionist who’d just gotten to work and was putting her purse in the drawer. She used to just leave it under the desk at her feet. But a couple months ago she’d run to powder her nose, and a messenger decided he’d help himself to her wallet while she was gone.

He asked to be directed to Dean Montaine’s office.

"Do you have an appointment?”

“Actually, I’m a little late. I don’t think he’ll mind.”

“Your name?”

He flashed his L.A.P.D. badge. “Tell you what. Just tell me where it is. I’d like to surprise him.”

She pointed down the hall towards the northeast corner office.

There was nothing surprising about the fact she wasn’t aware of what had happened. The way Cressman/Krate was laid out, reception was a huge atrium with a narrow, copper waterfall sculpture two hundred yards away at the other end, and a long wall of bad art that at least added color to the space. You had to turn one of the four corners in the lobby and go down a hallway to get to any of the interior offices, which left the receptionist sitting on an island of her own removed from the rest of the employees. Since Dean Montaine’s body was discovered two and half hours before the agency opened, there was no way she’d have seen the police and coroner personnel that were already securing the scene.

Besides, Sheridan thought, receptionists are always the last to know.

You're going to need a smaller car

I believe I speak for many people when I say clowns have always scared the living bejeezus out of me. I think you'll find that any nightmare worth it's weight in true terror usually has a clown in it.

Oh sure, I can already imagine all you red-nosed squeezing, boutonniere-squirting, floppy-shoe wearing, bicycle-horn honking clown fans greasing on your sad faces in protest. Alright, alright. Never let it be said I'm not being fair. I'll agree I shouldn't stereotype all clowns (he says coughing to conceal his laughter). Because as few and far between as they are, I have to grudgingly admit there are actually some that're enjoyable.

For example, Fizbo from Modern Family? Love him. Hysterical every time. And if you recall the scene at the gas station with Mitchell (which YouTube has pulled for some reason), you know that Fizbo isn't just hysterical. He's also an ass-kicking clown.

Chuckles, the clown from the old Mary Tyler Moore Show was also a good one. Not only is his name the quintessential clown moniker, his funeral is one of the most classic scenes in all of television history.

But for every Fizbo and Chuckles, there are a thousand clowns with hell for their home address.

I think the first time this one shows up in the kid's room in Poltergeist, we all know nothing good is going to come of him. Who was fooled at the beginning when he was benignly sitting on the rocking chair? Anyone? Thought so.

Not that imagining what might be lurking under the bed isn't already every kid's nightmare. But this little feller just kind of cemented the deal.

Under the bed isn't the only place evil is lurking. It's also hanging around in the sewers, waiting to drag little children under to an unthinkable fate. Pennywise over here, the clown from Stephen King's IT, always liked to remind children that, "We all float down here." If that doesn't make for sweet dreams I don't know what does.

Perhaps the most perverse take on clowns is Heath Ledger's Joker in The Dark Knight. Using clown makeup to represent the actual decay within the character, I think he also shows a side of clowns most of us don't want to believe is real.

But for all the kids reading this, especially the young ones, it is.

So the next time you're at the circus, try not to focus on all those clowns popping out of that impossibly small car. I'm sure they're not really rehearsing the way they'll spring out from under your bed or the closet in your room late at night after you've floated off to sleep.

"We all float down here." Goodnight.

The truth will set you free

Free from deductibles that is.

Remember a few posts ago when I was talking about the woman who hit my car, and how she was practicing revisionist history with regard to how the accident happened?

Well yesterday the issue of responsibility for the accident was resolved.

Here's how I think it went down.

The short story is she backed her Chevy Tahoe into the side of my Lexus. Her story was we collided and therefore were both responsible.

Not so fast there missy.

The problem and the beauty of facts is that they are the facts. And people who deal with this kind of situation day in and day out have a finely honed ability to see them clearly.

My field adjustor from Mercury, the field adjustor from her insurance company, my body shop rep and the photos of the damage all tell the same story: she hit me. I'd like to believe that her insurance company, after they stopped laughing at her story, told her the bottom line was that she backed into me in a parking lot, and she wasn't getting out of it.

So when my adjustor called yesterday to tell me the other party had taken responsibility - whether she wanted to or not - I was relieved.

It means I won't have to front the $500 deductible while the insurance companies duke it out. And I won't have the additional stress of worrying about it (not that I couldn't handle it - apparently stress to me is like the bottomless lemonade cup at Islands. Don't get me started).

Oddly enough, this whole incident didn't restore my faith in people.

But, as odd as it feels to say this, it does make me feel ever so slightly better about insurance companies.