More hot air

This morning I took the wife's Land Cruiser - the car of choice I use to come up behind Smart Cars at a high rate of speed when they're stopped at red lights - to America's Tire Store. I don't know if it's really America's Tire Store, but I suppose they couldn't say it if it wasn't true.

Anyway, I was there because I think the last time my wife had the tire pressure checked was 2004, and I thought it was time to do something nice to make sure she was safe on the highways and byways.

And score some marriage points.

We buy all our tires for both cars there. The customer service is great, the prices are competitive and whether it's patching, replacing or inspecting, they're usually pretty quick about getting it done. Besides, even when they're not, they're in a shopping mall with lots of stores I like and an Edwards 26 Theater. So there's that.

They also check tire inflation for free. Instead of reading that little thing with numbers that used to pop up out of the air hose like it was really happy to see you, it's now all digital. They set the pump to the tire manufacturer recommended number, hook the hose to the tire and inflate it to exactly the proper pressure. As I suspected, all four of her tires were low, but they were the same amount of low so at least they were wearing evenly.

That's what Perkins, the person doing the checking said. I never did find out if Perkins was his first name or last name.

When it was over, Perkins said he was going to give me a "report card" on the tire inflation - the card you see here. Apparently, I got a passing grade, or "Green" in tire lingo.

By the way, great band Tire Lingo. Saw them at Coachella in '08 (that was for you Siegel).

Here's the thing: since Perkins gave me the card after he was done with the tires, wasn't it really more a report card about him than my tires? A little reminder to say, "Look how perfectly I filled your tires."

It wreaks of a desperate attempt at consumer engagement. Gee, I wonder where a mediocre and useless idea like a report card after the fact could've been generated from? Some mysteries we may never solve.

The tires were each under-inflated by 6 lbs. Not a huge number, but when I drove away I could definitely feel the improvement in the handling. I looked at the report card Perkins gave me, and smiled.

Maybe it'll help me get into a better school. These are the best grades I've had in a long time.

What does this remind me of?

It's deja vu all over again.

Have you ever seen or heard a story that reminded you of a place you've been, or know so well, and it's right on the tip of your tongue but you just can't manage to say it?

That's what happened when I read about the Lyubov Orlova, a 300-foot cruise ship that snapped it's tow line on the way to being scrapped, and has been adrift on the ocean for a year. It's what us seafaring folk call a "ghost ship", with no crew and filled with hundreds of diseased, cannibalistic rats named Hannibal.

Just kidding. I don't know how many of the rats are named Hannibal.

The point is, I was reading the article about it, and oddly enough, the idea of this once great ship, now years out of its prime, this giant of its industry, once filled with life and purpose, that at one time brought joy not only to those who worked on it but also those who experienced the fruit of that work, now floating powerless, wandering aimlessly adrift wherever the currents take it - so far off course for so long it can never get back.

I just feel like I've been on that boat. It all sounds so very familiar.

Especially the part about the cannibalistic rats.

Music lesson

I'm sure you know the guy on the right. Here's a clue: he's Angelina Jolie's father, and he's also a National Treasure (see what I did there?).

If you said Jon Voight, you're correct.

And if you think the guy on the left looks like him, except with Michael Landon's hair, the reason is it's his brother James Wesley Voight, who goes by the stage name Chip Taylor.

You probably haven't heard of James Wesley. And unless you're a music fan you also may not be familiar with Chip Taylor. But you should be.

Chip has written a lot of songs, but is most well known for two of them. The first, surprisingly, is an empowering female anthem that was first made famous by Merrilee Rush, then later a huge hit for Juice Newton ("Hi Mrs. Newton, can Juice come out and play?).

It goes a little something like this:

The other song he wrote has been a rock classic since the minute he penned it. To this day, at keggers worldwide, for no apparent reason groups of drunk frat boys break out singing it. It's also been used to full comic effect in many films, like Major League where it wasn't just a song but was also the character's nickname.

WARNING: There's some rough language in the clip:

It was also one of the many (alright, two) number one with a bullet hits for The Troggs, along with this one.

In the mid-70's, Chip Taylor left music to become a professional gambler. At one point he was betting $10,000 a day on blackjack, and eventually was banned from Vegas casinos for card counting. In the early 90's he returned to music and performing.

I'll end this post by leaving you with Angelina Jolie's uncle performing his version of the song that made him a bazillion dollars over the years:

The stupidest thing I've ever done

Sadly, there was about a fifty-way tie for the answer to the title of this post. What can I tell ya? Some lessons you have to keep learning.

But I'm pretty sure I've narrowed it down to the right one.

For almost twenty years, I had the very good fortune to live in a 17th-floor corner apartment in the South Tower of Santa Monica Shores (now called The Shores).

This being Santa Monica, the apartment was rent controlled. When I moved in, it was $450 a month for the top floor, 1000 sq. ft., two-bedroom, corner apartment that was about a hundred yards from the beach. When I moved out almost two decades later, it was $900 a month.

The reason I moved was because my son was two years old, and very mobile. See those windows just to the left of the patio? Those were almost floor-to-ceiling, and they were sliding windows. Once my son was mobile, we had to have window locks on them that only let us keep them open an inch or two. Plus we were getting crowded out with all his baby gear. I desperately wanted to stay in Santa Monica, but it was at the height of the market and tear-downs were selling for $850K. So that wasn't happening.

Anyway, in what was clearly a design flaw, all the patios slanted towards the patio door. Which meant when it rained, or storms would come in off the ocean, the water just seeped right under the patio door and flooded the living room. And while the wife and I both enjoyed splashing in puddles, not so much when they were in our living room. The building had a maintenance staff and a fleet of wet-vacs to clean up the water after, but I thought there had to be a better solution.

Well, a solution anyway.

So I had the bright idea of putting giant sheets of clear, thick plastic on the front and side of the patio. I measured the space, then went to Fastsigns and had them made, grommets and all.

Here comes the stupid part.

To hang them, I had to straddle the railing on the patio, screw hooks into the patio ceiling, all while my wife was hanging on to me by the belt of my jeans. I was stretching and leaning to reach the hooks, while below me was a 17-story drop. The only thing between me as tenant and me as roadkill was my belt.

And the wife. Fortunately she kind of liked me.

When we think back on it now, both our stomachs churn thinking about how unbelievably stupid it was. We'd complained to the building for years, as did all the tenants who had the same problem (the water, not my stupidity), and they finally did something about it. After we'd moved out.

The complex has since been sold, and a lot of money was spent modernizing and updating the units. It feels more like a luxury, seaside hotel now and even stood in for one on a recent episode of Mad Men.

I still know a few people there who are enjoying the restaurants on Main Street, the short walk to the Third Street Promenade, the beach bike path and their rent controlled view of the ocean. A view I desperately miss.

Still, looking back, and down, I'm glad I'm around to miss it.

Sirius negotiations

I've written before about how E Street Radio is the one reason satellite radio brings me so much joy. Frankly, the ability to listen to my favorite artist all the time is my personal runaway American dream.

So after my Lexus became a wreck on the highway, totaled last July, I had to find a car to replace it. I looked at a sixty-nine Chevy with a 396, Fuelie heads and a Hurst on the floor, but what I wound up with was the exact same Lexus I'd had, only a couple years newer.

Imagine how happy I was to learn my new, replacement pre-owned Lexus came with 3 months of complimentary Sirius Satellite Radio. I figured I'd enjoy E Street Radio 24/7 for that time, then when the offer ended I'd be back to Roy Orbison singing for the lonely.

But then something miraculous happened: the dealer selling me my new Lexus, after a little Tanqueray and wine, disclosed a very useful piece of information. He said, "No matter what Sirius wants you to pay, they'll negotiate it down to $10 a month or less." Good to know.

As the 3-month-end-of-Bruce deadline approached, I started getting mailers from Sirius almost daily about keeping my subscription going. The problem was to continue the same all-channel access complimentary plan I had, they wanted around $25 a month.

So I let the plan lapse. And then they called me.

I won't bore you with all the back and forth, but there was a lot of it. They kept trying to give me a plan that was more money and less channels than I wanted. Eventually the offshore operator asked me "How much do you want to pay?" I said my budget was $60 for six months. Total. All of it.

After putting me on hold, she checked with her supervisor, who said she'd like to see me. I said if she wants to see me, you can tell her that I'm easily found. But I guess she decided it wasn't necessary. The operator took a second shot offering me a bad deal, checked with her supervisor again, then gave me the all-channel access plan with Nav Traffic, weather and sports for only $157 for six months. But they credited me $97.

I'd say do the math but I've done it for you: I got what I wanted for the price I wanted - everything for $10 a month. So now, when I'm out in the street, I get to roll down the window, let the wind blow back my hair and listen to the music I love.

Since I now have the luxury of time on my side, I've actually explored a few other channels. I like Stern in small does. The comedy channels are pretty fun, except I've learned the hard way not to listen to them with the kids in the car. The Real Jazz station is unbelievably great. And, I'm just going to say it because my macho self-esteem is not threatened, the On Broadway channel is fun every now and again. But those are just distractions for a few minutes. I always come home to channel 20 - E Street.

I found that by taking a hard line with Sirius, and being willing to walk away from it all I wound up with exactly what I wanted.

When it comes to satellite radio negotiations, it's a town full of losers and I'm pulling out of here to win.

Failing the test

I love my mom. I love my dad. I think sons are the best thing ever. I think daughters are the best thing ever. I think cancer sucks. I'm a great friend. I support the walk. I think dogs have many better qualities than most humans. I think it's a good idea to donate blood.

But I also think I don't have to prove it to you.

Of all the annoying posts on Facebook - and there is no shortage of them - the ones that make me wish my eyes could roll further back are the ones asking me to re-post if I agree.

They're under the guise of a good cause, but the last line is always something aggressively patronizing and challenging like "I know many of my friends won't repost this, but I want to see who will...."

Screw you. Re-post if you agree.

Life is demanding enough without having to prove to you I agree with your cause. And if you think I don't agree with it because I'm not posting, I'm more than fine with that. I've lived through worse.

Plus if you feel you have to "test" me to see if I'll do what you want me to, we're probably not as close friends as you think we are.

Sorry, but you'll just have to trust that I'm a good person, and as a rule love my family and don't wish crippling diseases on anybody.

Besides, if you'd stop testing me to see if I'll re-post, you'd have more time to post things that are actually meaningful.

Like that sunset shot. Or what you had for breakfast.

Well-placed blame

My good friend Michelle Purcell once said you can never underestimate the power of well-placed blame. As usual, she was right.

Clearly this is something all ad agencies, or marketing communication collectives, or integrated media-agnostic think tanks, or whatever the hell they're calling themselves this week have a deep understanding of.

At agencies, blame gets passed around faster than a Kennedy driving to the liquor store at closing time.

Or to paraphrase Groucho's "whatever it is I'm against it", the internal battle cry is "whatever it is, I didn't do it."

The reason is pretty obvious. If you've ever been fired from an agency, all it means is that you showed up. But agencies, especially the ones owned by holding companies (is there any other kind?), run on fear and no one likes getting fired, especially for a mistake they made.

Like underestimating the client's budget by $12 million.

Scheduling a shoot on a Vancouver beach in winter.

Telling the client you can get it done without checking with anybody if what they're asking for can be done. Then not getting it done.

Rather than man up and face the music, walk into an agency and you'll see so much finger pointing it looks like a master class in giving directions. Ironically for a business that believes consumers have to have an emotional attachment to their product, many of the players have no personal attachment to their decisions or actions. At least if they backfire.

However if they succeed, then the ground shifts from the blame game to the taking credit game. That's the one where anyone who was in the building and passed a meeting in the conference room where they were presenting a successful campaign takes credit for it.

Agencies don't have a monopoly on either behavior. Anytime you have an office with the kind of politics, ego and ambition found in agencies, the same primal survival instincts kick in.

I don't mean to paint in broad strokes - this is not to say you can't find responsible people with a finely honed sense of integrity, grit, decency and honor in agencies. You can.

But if you can't, don't blame me.