Taking license

Over the past few weekends, I’ve spent more hours than I care to think about looking for a used—excuse me, certified pre-owned—car for my son. Or daughter. We’ll see whose room is cleaner when I get home.

What struck me about the whole ordeal is how monumentally unpleasant the experience is. Not a revelation if you’ve ever bought a car, but always a surprise to me. I guess it’s because like surgery or Christmas shopping, I don’t do it often enough to remember the amount of pain involved.

On paper, it should be one of the most exciting, fun experiences you can have. You get to test drive lots of different models, pick one that makes you happy, and drive off into the sunset, preferably up a winding coastal road where you can let your right foot loose and see how many curves your new investment wants to hug.

Well, not so fast there Edsel.

Because of an incident at Keyes Toyota years ago, where the wife and I were virtually held hostage for three hours because they wouldn’t give us back our car keys (they were checking it out for trade in—no we didn’t buy there, yes we finally escaped), I’ve been adamant about laying down a few ground rules when car shopping.

The first is never give them my keys.

Here are the others: I don't go inside the dealership and have a seat if I’m just shopping. Instead, I’ll have the salesperson go inside, get their best price and walk it back out to me. I make two things clear—they only have one shot at it, so the number they give me has to be the final offer the first time. And I won’t wait longer than fifteen minutes.

Which brings me to my next rule: I don’t deal with anyone but the salesperson. No closers, no sales managers, no fleet managers coming out the door with their shark tooth smile and hand ready to shake mine. If the salesperson can’t make the deal, meeting his boss isn’t going to help.

Speaking of the deal, I never take the deal. Any number they give me has profit built into it, otherwise they wouldn't be selling it at that price. So even though I've asked them for their best offer, I have no qualms about being the bad guy and letting them know it isn't good enough. I'll try to knock another ten to fifteen percent off whenever number they give me. If they're willing to negotiate, I know they haven't given me their best price (which they never do). If they're not willing to negotiate, there's always another dealer who is—all you have to do is remind them and they usually change their tune. However if they start whining about how they're not making any money on the deal, or ask me to come up just $200 more on my offer, I'm out of there.

With car salespeople it doesn't take much for my bullshit meter to go into the red.

For the time being I've taken a break from car shopping, although I still peruse online to see what's out there. But my time right now is mostly being spent figuring out how to pay for the upcoming kitchen remodel. Plus for the moment we seem to be managing with the cars we have.

But if anyone has a fairly new model, safe car they'd like to sell, we can always talk about it.

C'mon inside and have a seat.

There goes the neighborhood

We've lived in our home coming up on eighteen years now. In that time, the house to our west—with the one-bedroom guest house in back that's always rented, used as an Airbnb or deducted for tax purposes as a home office—has sold three times. The house next to us to the east—the one with the pool my daughter learned to swim in—has sold five times.

Restless owners? Hot real estate market? Maybe it's us.

I think this up and coming songwriter I'm rather fond of, Bruce Springsteen, put it best: "There are nice guys and assholes on every block in America."

Can I get an amen?

In the ever changing, inherently risky game of neighbor roulette, we've been fortunate to have had some great ones. And, sadly, our luck has occasionally run out and we've had a few monumental assholes (who may or may not still live in one of those houses and not the one to the west—who's to say).

The great neighbors who've passed through are the ones I enjoyed and miss the most. The ones I have common interests with, shared great conversations, and just generally enjoy their company. Which reminds me, Sebastian, as far as all of us here at the ponderosa are concerned you can't get back here fast enough. Make the offer. Get on it will ya?

Like many neighborhoods, mine has a homeowner's association, allegedly there to protect property values, keep tree-lined streets looking respectable and prevent residents from painting their home puke green, neon magenta or that dusty rose color that's really orange.

For $125 a year in dues, some other things they do are tell me how many trees I can have, how tall and what kind they can be, why I can't have a garage sale despite a garage desperately screaming for one, charge me hundreds of dollars for their "architectural committee" to "review" addition and remodel plans, and send out a quarterly newsletter with poorly done 1/4 page ads (Hmm, freelance opportunity?). There's also always a grainy, black and white picture alongside a message from the HOA president, who I wouldn't know if I fell over him at one of the third Thursday of the month association meetings.

Besides fighting lawsuits from homeowners who don't like being told what they can't do, they also spend yearly dues on an annual Labor Day weekend resident get together at the small park by one of the entrances to the neighborhood. Attendance is less and less every year. I don't know whether it's the rubbery hot dogs, the not-quite top 40 band, people going back to their house instead of use the Porta-Potties, dog souvenirs randomly scattered around the park or the fact it's a major holiday weekend and almost everyone is out of town.

I've gone a few times, but I'm not gonna lie—my community spirit is seriously lacking.

Which brings me to my point (see, if you wait long enough...). I'm baffled as to why I signed up for this Nextdoor app that supposedly gives me all the news about what's going on in my neighborhood.

The latest notice is apparently Ava has moved into the hood. Welcome Ava. I'm sure I won't know you from the other 624 families with homes in our development, but I wish you the best and I'm glad you're here. At least I think I am. Unless you're like the meth tweakers that lived in the rented house across the street for years, or share the same asshole tendencies as my neighbor to the east. Then don't bother unpacking.

When Nextdoor isn't announcing new arrivals, it's showing posts from neighbors who need babysitters, want to get rid of furniture, argue about social responsibility for the homeless who wander through the residential streets on the way to the boulevard, packages stolen off of front porches, coyote sightings ("Anyone seen Rags?") and other various neighborly inquiries.

If there were a preference I could set to one update a week instead of one a day, I might spend more time going over it and get more involved in the critical questions, like who parked an RV on the street instead of their driveway—behind the fence. But there isn't. And I won't.

I'll just have to somehow reconcile the fact I've been here over 18 years, and still only know a handful of neighbors beyond my own block.

So you don't get the wrong idea, I'm not saying the Nextdoor app doesn't have anything I'm interested in. After all, the asshole neighbors have two loud, yappy little barking dogs they have to walk.

Perhaps I'll start paying more attention to those coyote sightings.

No know how

As I've written about on here before, I'm about to embark on a bold, new, money-sucking, patience-straining, marriage-testing, argument-inducing adventure: my kitchen and living room remodel.

Like everyone who goes down this road of no return, my journey began at Home Depot and Lowe's. The wife and I didn't just go there to get ideas about bathroom vanities, kitchen sinks, drawer pulls and countertops. We were also armed with a list of items from our contractor we had to either purchase or make decisions on before they start.

If you know anything about me, you know I like figuring out how things work and, if needed, could MacGyver a way into building a house from the ground up using only a hammer, spatula, paper straws and lawn grass.

Nah, I'm just funnin' you. I can't put together a bookshelf from Ikea. But I can tell you the first film Jeff Goldblum was in—that's gotta be worth something at some point.

Where was I? Oh, right. So to paraphrase Blanche DuBois in Streetcar Named Desire, when it comes to construction I do depend on the knowledge of strangers. Of course it helps if the strangers actually know more than I do. And while there are a lot of scary things about this process, not least among them is the frightening fact I may already have more answers to my questions than the people who work at Home Depot or Lowe's. That just ain't right.

The good news is the big box hardware and lumber stores aren't the only game in town. Fortunately, thanks to a trusted recommendation, we discovered the family-owned Faucets & Fixtures in Orange. They have a quiet little storefront in a not great section of Tustin Avenue that comes nowhere near tipping its hand to the remodeling wonderland waiting inside.

In an experience that was a first, their employees know all about the inventory and are able to answer all the questions. "Yes it comes in polished nickel, but it's plastic-y on the inside." "You can get the one-piece Memoirs toilet, but the two-piece is about $400 cheaper." "That's a stock medicine cabinet, but we can custom build one for you no problem." "The sink is ten inches deep, but the porcelain finish is brighter and thicker on that one." The store has a big selection, yet isn't overwhelming.

I could make a hundred trips to Home Depot and Lowe's, and never get as much done as we accomplished in a couple hours at Faucets & Fixtures with our man Austin.

The point is this-once you've had knowledgable, friendly, patient customer service, there's no going back. It's like going from J.C.Penny to Nordstrom. Stater Bros. to Trader Joe's. Winchell's to Starbuck's (Those are big corporations, but you get my continental drift).

From now on, it's mom and pop, family-owned, highly recommended merchants for all things having to do with the remodel and beyond.

And in case you're looking to win a bar bet, his first movie was Death Wish.

In the zone

Here's a sign you'll never see in advertising agencies. Not because it's a bad idea, but because you couldn't buy enough of them to cover all the areas, cubicles and open seating that would need them.

That and the fact no one would observe the rule anyway.

There are a lot of ingredients that fuel successful agencies. Coffee. Creativity. Insight. Brains. Energy. Endurance. Optimism. Pessimism. Humor. The ever shifting line between art and commerce. Those innocent, wide-eyed, crazy bounders who believe against all evidence and reason what consumers are really looking for are more ways to engage with your client's brand.

But because of the nature of the beast—buildings loaded with egos, knit caps, planners, egos, man-buns, ironic t-shirts, skinny jeans, millennials, unrestrained enthusiasm, egos, people who know better, egos, people who enjoy inhaling their own fumes, egos and meetings, help me Jesus the meetings—agencies can't help but run on another more fragrant ingredient.

It is after all a sales job. And while there are good salespeople and bad ones, tolerable ones and insufferable ones, at the end of the day (EOTD = ad term, don't get me started) it all boils down to the size shovel they're using.

I know a lot of people in the business will call bullshit on this post.

But that's only because they didn't read the sign.

Lesson learned

This isn't going to be a funny post tonight (I know, why is this post different from any other post?). But for some reason a particular incident has been on my mind and I can't stop thinking about it.

Years ago, I worked at an agency which shall go nameless. Y&R. There was an art director I worked with there who I never clicked with, nor she with me. Her creative sensibilities were completely different from mine, and it made for a lot of disagreement. Nonetheless, during the occasional times we worked together, we managed to forge ahead and get it done.

I'd never describe us as friends, even though she did ask me to write her wedding invitation because she thought I was talented and funny (some truths can't be denied). I wouldn't say I was glad to do it for her, but I was pleased she liked what I came up with.

It was a cool relationship at best, and only got cooler when I was assigned another art director—one of my favorites to work with and a great friend to this day—and she was going to supervise the project.

Here's where my memory gets a bit like an oil company executive at a senate hearing. I can't recall the exact circumstances, but for some reason she didn't like what my art director partner was doing and decided she wanted to get him fired.

I would have none of it.

After several attempts by her to get rid of my partner, I unloaded and read her the riot act. I did it loudly, in the middle of the department, and at length. It was not my finest hour, but in the heat of the moment, lines clearly drawn, loyalties clearly defined, I was unable to stop. I was a bully in the worst, most unprofessional way. To her credit, she kept her cool and listened to my angry ranting until I was done.

Needless to say we didn't work together after that, and my partner never got fired. Surprisingly, neither did I.

Years later, after I'd left the agency, I heard she was battling cancer. A few years ago, she lost her battle.

I was invited to her memorial service by several people, but I didn't go. It wouldn't have been right or honest given the nature of our relationship.

As I think back on it, she didn't deserve any of my angry antics. Not because she became ill, but because she was a human being.

I believe so much in the golden rule, and I'm embarrassed and shamed by my complete abandonment of it during that encounter. If I could go back and do it differently, I would in a heartbeat. If she were around, I'd tell her I'm sorry, and I had no right to treat her like I did.

But she's not.

What I can do now is pray her two children grow up healthy, with their loving father and nothing but beautiful memories of their mother who was taken too soon.

Sadly, I'm in a position now where I do get to have the last word. So here it is. I'm sorry I treated you that way. You didn't deserve it. And if it's any small consolation, I'm a better person as a result of it and it's a lesson I'll always carry with me.

Rest in peace.

Knock down, drag out

                                          BEFORE                                                                               AFTER

When my pal Janice MacLeod isn't writing about dating, breaking up or Paris, I'm sure she's thinking about what her next literary effort will be. I hope she follows through on one idea she told me about awhile ago. We were talking about her dad and the subject of carpenters came up since that's what he does. She started telling me some of his stories, and mentioned she wanted to write a book called The Secret Life of Carpenters (© Janice MacLeod). From what I could tell, it was going to be a scary book, not to be read at night or during room additions.

The reason that conversation's on my mind is we're about to get started on a remodel here at the ponderosa. And for several reasons, it scares the living daylights (family blog) out of me.

First, as my pal Rich Siegel will tell you, there are things Jews don't do (I think we all remember what happened to the last Jewish carpenter). Anyway, in my house, construction is one of them. Even if it was, I wouldn't remodel my own house. But at least I'd understand what they were doing and know what was going on.

The other thing is when I talk to people who've been through a remodel, they just give me the look. It's the same look you get when you tell someone you're getting married, or buying a house, or having children. The one that says you're about to go through initiation and find out what the club you're joining is like from the inside.

And from what I can tell, it's not pretty.

The consensus seems to be it all comes down to time and money. And how virtually every remodel takes too much of both.

We've saved a little money, but in conversations with our contractors—who we like a lot and come highly recommended by friends and people we trust—we can already see we're going to blow past whatever budget we had (Note to self: avoid the phrase, "While you're here...).

The job is supposed to run about four months. But we're starting right around Thanksgiving because, really, what better time than the holidays to begin knocking down walls and living without hot water. I'm sure the workers taking weeks off for the holidays won't delay the job. Much.

Another thing is I have a hard time seeing the finish line. I look at the plans and it looks great. But I know from the remodel of my daughter's bathroom going on right now that when we start the big job, all I'll see are open walls, exposed pipes, dust and more dust, wires everywhere, and people I don't know traipsing in and out of what was once my kitchen and hopefully will be again.

The good news is I hear it's like having my wisdom teeth out: I go through it once, and then it's done and I can get on with my life painlessly and carefree.

Except in this case, they take the teeth out through my wallet.

Pre-emptive strike

Just when you thought the world was running out of reasons to hate us and laugh at us comes this. Poo-Pourri.

It's a product that, how shall I put this delicately, masquerades certain odors after you've, how shall I put this delicately, dropped a deuce.

The way it works is you make (I said make) a pre-emptive strike against offensive odors by spraying the floral scent of Poo-Pourri in and around the bowl before you do your business. Then after, instead of smelling like, you know, a bathroom, the room smells like the Rockefeller Rose Garden.

Ask anyone who knows me, and when they're done raving about what a fine, upstanding, talented, funny, good looking, caring, compassionate and—what's the word....oh yeah—humble human being I am, there's a good chance they'll also tell you I've never been one to overthink or overanalyze things.

I mean sure, sometimes it'd be nice to know why I do the things I do. But then it always comes back to my parents, and while I'm sure they're at the root of many my neuroses and self-destructive bad behavior, they've both been dead a long time and I don't want to feel anger or hostility towards them. Where's the percentage in that?

Something tells me I may have wandered off point.

What I'm saying is I'm not a sociologist or psychologist. I don't even play one on TV. And maybe I'm reading too much into this. But it seems just the fact a product like this even exists is symptomatic of a larger issue: a society that wants to avoid any unpleasantness in every aspect of their lives. It's reality avoidance at it's most unattractive. It's the highest form of denial working at the level of one of the most basic human bodily functions.

Or maybe people just want their bathrooms to smell nice.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.