The Random Vibes

You Get What You Pay For

2012-01-17T20:59:00.000-05:00

Last month I found myself in need of a cheap New York hotel room. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever been to New York knows, the words "cheap" and "hotel" are seldom, if ever, used in the same sentence (The word "room" however, is used freely in sentences throughout the city). The reality was I had to sleep somewhere, so after a somewhat frustrating Internet search, I settled on a hotel whose chief advantages were it's close proximity to the location I'd be working in and naturally it's price. It should be noted that "cheap" in New York was still $180. At that price, how bad could it be?

I arrived in New York and after a full day of work, with some trepidation, made my way a few short blocks to my New York accommodations. The front door to the hotel was locked but was promptly answered by a charming young woman who doubled as a both front desk clerk and porter. After she checked me in, although I declined her offer to carry my bag to the room, she insisted on accompanying me anyway.

Now, you wouldn't expect that a hotel of this stature would be equipped with a gym and in this case you would be right. Fortunately an excellent workout is not only available but also required, as the hotel has no elevator. The porter and I trudged up four flights of stairs to room 46 and while I was in dire need of rest and perhaps oxygen, I toughed it out and walked into what would be my home for the next four nights.

The first thing I noticed was the crooked floor. It evoked memories of the old Batman TV series where the villain's hideout was filmed on a slant. With no TV villains in sight, the porter showed me the room’s numerous "amenities.” She pointed out the mini-fridge, which was stocked with over priced bottles of water, the microwave oven, the flat screen TV, and even the clock radio, which she excitedly explained could accommodate an iPhone. Despite the crooked floor, I agreed to take the room and with a smile, the porter thanked me and left. I never saw her again. In fact, for the remainder of my stay, regardless of when I passed the front desk (more of a counter really), I never saw anyone manning the post.

Alone in a room that was barely wider than the bed, I began to unpack. There was ample room in an old dresser and a variety of mismatched hangers in the closet to hang up my shirts. The closet also contained a safe. Part of the safe's unique security system was the incredible amount of stuff piled in front of the actual safe. In order to get to the safe, one would need to move the cot, the mattress, the weird little luggage rack found in hotels that no one actually uses, the ironing board, and the air conditioner. Instead I opted not to leave any valuables in the room.

Before venturing out for dinner, I went to use the bathroom. The toilet cover was down and there appeared to be a small piece of soap stuck to it. I thought that was odd. AS it turned out, it was not quite as odd as the hair in the toilet. This was not the single hair in a salad that grosses out the average diner. This actually appeared to be the result of a full-blown haircut. It looked as though someone finally had had enough of their hair and simply hacked it off. All of it. Ordinarily I would have immediately dialed the front desk to complain. Of course, ordinarily the room would have been equipped with a phone. The mere thought of hiking down to the desk, and worse, hiking back up, was more than my oxygen-depleted body could bear. Instead, I quickly flushed the toilet and tried to put the hair out of my mind.

Over the next four nights I discovered some more “amenities.” For instance, the hotel thoughtfully made it easy to turn out the lights when leaving by providing only 1 single overhead lamp in the entire room. And, I discovered that the room had only “too” temperatures. That’s not a typo. The room was either too hot or too cold. The thermostat, more commonly known as a window, did allow for some temperature adjustment. Letting the cold December air in managed to make the temperature tolerable and had the added advantage of allowing me to soak in the sounds of the 14^th street revelers below. You wouldn’t think that there would be that many people out making noise at 2am on a Tuesday night and in this case, you would be wrong.

As my stay came to a close, I received a card from the maid who claimed to have cleaned my room that week. While no additional hair had appeared in my toilet, the little piece of soap never disappeared either and I was reasonably certain that cleaning the room involved making the bed and very little else.

This is normally the part of the story where a sentence might begin like this: “The hotel was not without it’s charm,” or “On the positive side” or even, “One redeeming quality was…” But in New York, for $180, sentences simply do not begin that way. I wonder what kind of sentence I could write for $185?

The Go Guy

2011-10-28T20:17:00.000-04:00

Recently a company that I've worked for many times in the past opted to hire someone else for an upcoming job. I took the news rather well, assuming of course, that swearing loudly at one’s cat can be construed as taking something well. Although I was disappointed, the truth is that things like this happen in the freelance world and I was quite sure the earth would somehow continue to spin.

I assumed that my replacement is good at what he does and would most likely do a fine job. I know very little about the replacement with one exception. When the phone rings, while most of us simply answer with "Hello," the replacement apparently picks up the receiver and says, "Go."

It seemed I'd been replaced by the “go” guy. Again, I took the news well. Just ask my cat. Eventually, I began to wonder if perhaps this “go” business was yet another trend that I’d somehow missed. After all, as anyone will tell you, I’m not exactly Mr. Hip. Translation: I still listen to the Stones. For all I knew, “go” was the new “hello.”

I decided some research was in order so I dialed up a number of friends to see how they answered their phones. I learned two things. First, either no one answers their phones anymore, or second (and much worse) unfortunately, no one wants to take my calls. A lesser man may have been discouraged but I persisted until finally, someone answered the phone and I’m happy to report that when they did, the word “go” was not used. Technically it could be argued that “go” would be a wildly inappropriate way for Wilson Pizza to answer their phone but I was so thrilled that someone answered at all, I simply chose to overlook this fact.

After consuming a most excellent pizza it occurred to me that I was going about this the wrong way. I realized that before I could be critical of the “go” guy, I needed to walk a mile in his shoes. Since I had none of his shoes and the chances of actually obtaining a pair seemed unlikely, the only thing left was to try his “go” approach myself. I turned to my phone and waited. Again I learned two things. First, my phone doesn’t ring a whole lot and second, when it does ring, it is almost never a human being on the line. While I’m convinced the automated CVS computer that calls regularly to remind me about one prescription or another doesn’t care how I answer my phone, somehow, even when I knew it was a machine on the other end, I couldn’t quite bring myself to answer with “go.”

I wondered if perhaps “go” wasn’t for me so I considered some alternatives. “Speak” was a possibility but of the few calls I receive, none seem to be of the canine variety so “speak” was out. “Shoot” made the list. But it sounded too much like I’d spilled coffee while answering the phone and then said, “shoot!” I thought about a non sequitur approach but even the CVS computer seemed confused when I answered with “mushroom omelet.”

With nowhere else to turn, I sought the advice of my teenage kids. At least I tried to, as my kids are seemingly unable to answer their phones and instead respond only to texts. Naturally, my texting of “go” was met with an immediate response of “???” at which point I decided to give up (but not before texting them “mushroom omelet” just to mess with their heads).

In the end, I guess I’m just not a “go” guy and until I can come up with an alternative, I’ll have to live with the risk of less employment. All of this explains why, if you should happen to call there is an excellent chance you’ll be greeted not with “hello” or even “go but with “What the fuck do you want?” instead. On second thought, that’s not going to work either. The search goes on. I wonder if I should ask the cat?

Almost Famous

2011-06-03T10:56:00.000-04:00

They say everyone has a twin. In my case, it’s more like quintuplets. While I am neither rich nor famous (not yet anyway), I often get mistaken for someone who is. The fact is, I probably would be rich if I had a dollar for every time I’ve been told I resembled one celebrity or another.

Most recently, the woman at Home Depot who was selling me a screen door, insisted I looked just like her favorite golfer, Phil Mickelson. This was a new one for me. Although I’m familiar with Mr. Mickelson, I can’t say that I’ve ever paid much attention to what he looks like. After Googling him, I found that there is indeed a resemblance in that we are both men. Beyond that I just don’t see it. Also, my golfing experience has been limited to one unfortunate incident involving a squirrel that surely thought he was safely out of range of even the most errant of golf shots. Tragically, he was not.

Phil Mickelson

Not Phil Mickelson

Actually, Michelson is only one in a long line of my supposed doppelgangers. In the latter part of my teen years, I often wore a beat-up old cowboy hat. Looking back, I have no idea why. I never wanted to be a cowboy. I had never at the time, been farther south than New Jersey, and my one experience on a horse, which fortunately involved no squirrels, lasted less than a minute. Despite all that I wore the hat and because of that, I was often told I looked just like Arlo Guthrie.

Arlo Guthrie

Definitely Not Arlo Guthrie

Just like him? While it’s true that we both have hats on, after that it’s a stretch. Add to that my incredible lack of musical talent (the only thing I can play is an ipod) combined with my complete inability to carry a tune and I think you’d agree that any resemblance starts and ends with the hat.

My all time favorite “you know who you look like” story happened at of all places, the World Series in Oakland, California. Soon after my friend Ken and I took our seats, the guys in front of us turned around and said “You’re Jerry Seinfeld aren’t you?” Although this was before Seinfeld became a household name, I was familiar with his work, not from television but from the radio ads he did at the time for 7-11. So I shot back, “You mean the 7-11 comic? I’m way funnier than he is.” They laughed and despite my protestations to the contrary, kept insisting I was Jerry Seinfeld. And while I cannot hit a golf ball or sing a song, I have been known from time to time, to be able to make people laugh. It could have been the copious amounts of beer I’d consumed (or more likely the amount they’d consumed), but whatever the reason, for that one day, I was on a roll. And they loved it. Eventually, I left to get more beer and they turned to my friend for confirmation. “That’s Jerry isn’t it?” they said. Ken smiled and said, “Oh yeah, that’s him.” And that is how I found myself signing autographs at the end of the game. I have no doubt those autographs have been sold on Ebay several times now.


Jerry Seinfeld

Wishes he were Jerry Seinfeld

In the end, it’s comforting to know that should fame ever find its way to my door, I already have the autograph thing down. But I don’t think I’ll ever feel truly famous, until somewhere, some guy gets stopped on the street and hears: “Hey, has anyone ever told you, you look a lot like Jeff Vibes?”

The Glamour of Show Business

2011-02-08T13:46:00.001-05:00

I make my living as a Producer and Assistant Director on commercials, infomercials and movie publicity shoots. Over the years I’ve worked in faraway places such as London, Prague and Australia. I’ve worked with lions and tigers and bears (plus an elephant, a snake, and a herd of sheep), the occasional athlete, and a long list of celebrities. Right now you might be thinking this sounds pretty glamorous. I get that a lot but the reality is, it’s not.

That’s not to say there is no glamour at all in my business. Recently a good friend of mine attended the DGA (Directors Guild of America) Awards and rubbed elbows with a bunch of A-list celebrities. He wore a tuxedo to the event, the one from his closet. Unfortunately, there is no such item in my closet. I am however, totally prepared for any event involving shorts and t-shirts. Glamour it seems eludes me. My career, if anything, has been the antithesis of glamour. As proof I offer up the following examples.

Early in my career, when I was a PA (production assistant), I was often tasked with driving the production truck to and from the set. This truck contains everything from walkie-talkies to the tables and chairs for lunch and was also the truck, in those days, where all of the garbage ended up. Whoever was driving the truck was responsible for dumping that garbage. This usually involved stealthily finding a dumpster behind a supermarket, tossing the trash bags in and driving off at top speed. Already one can see how little glamour there is in that job. One night, before we had a chance to drive away at top speed, we were caught. Which is how I found myself along with another PA, inside the dumpster, where there is precious little glamour, taking the trash out.

Another low point on my personal glamour scale occurred while shooting on a ranch in Los Angeles. The ranch was home to a variety of animals including some dogs, some cattle, and a few llamas. The llamas, specifically the incredibly loud noises they make while mating, are the key to this story. In the middle of an interview with a well-known actress, the llamas decided to “get busy.” We dispatched a PA to look into the situation but there was really nothing to be done. Although unable to convince the amorous pair to stop, the PA, who will no doubt include this tale on a blog of his own someday, did manage to upload a video of the llamas to YouTube. Meanwhile, the rest of us could only wait and listen for the action to stop.

The llama story pales though when compared to my all time least glamorous experience in the film business. This one occurred while scouting locations with the technical crew. After riding around in a van assessing various locations for shooting, a few of us needed a ride back to our cars. One of the crew, let’s call him “Joe”, offered to give us a ride.

I rode in the back with the location scout and the gaffer rode up front with Joe. The ride began amicably enough. We talked about the upcoming shoot and told war stories as we inched our way through rush hour traffic. Eventually the traffic became a problem for Joe as he suddenly announced his increasingly urgent need to “relieve himself.” At the next light, Joe jumped out of the car, ran around to the passenger side, opened the door, and shoved the unsuspecting gaffer into the driver’s seat. The light went to green and we were off. Joe then grabbed an old Starbucks cup from the cup holder, dumped the remaining coffee out the window and used the empty cup, with all of us in the car, to, well, create the least glamorous film experience I’ve ever had. Moments later he was dumping the new contents of the cup out the window, which of course created the least glamorous driving experience the car behind us has ever had.

I suppose there is always the possibility that I’ll someday have the opportunity to write about a glamorous experience or two. Until then I’m grateful for the wealth of material that my rather “unglamorous” life has provided although I do admit to viewing Starbucks in a slightly different light.

A Twitter Story

2011-01-19T12:11:00.001-05:00

The story begins with the purchase of a new Tivo. In order for Tivo to function, one must install something called a Cable Card. The card, which comes from the cable company (in this case Comcast) is about the size of a credit card and fits into a slot on the back of the Tivo unit. It can be installed by a fourth grader or in the absence of a fourth grader, anyone with a modicum of intelligence will do. I know this because my own modicum of intelligence was more than sufficient to install a card myself on a previous Tivo unit.

The trouble started when I called Comcast to inquire about the card. When I finally got an actual person (although not a clever one) on the phone, the unclever and ultimately unhelpful customer service rep gave me still another number to call. As this would be the third number I’d tried, I asked if he was sure it was a Comcast number. He was. It wasn’t. He’d instead given me Tivo’s number.

Although Tivo was thrilled to hear from me, the card really does come from Comcast so it seemed a different approach would be required. The new approach involved going directly to an actual Comcast office where I was told Comcast no longer gives out the cards for installation and that a trained technician would now be required to install the card. Naturally Comcast charges a fee for this high tech work. I explained that I’d previously installed a card myself and that I’d charged nothing at all for the service but unsurprisingly that fell on deaf ears. Comcast insisted that was simply not possible. With no other choice, I made an appointment for the “trained technician” (who presumably had passed at least fourth grade) to come out at the end of the week.

Then, in frustration, I posted the following on Twitter:

Resolution: I will find something good to say about Comcast. Anyone can lose weight. This is a far bigger challenge. #comcast #resolution

Ten minutes later, much to my surprise, I got a response via Twitter from someone claiming to work for Comcast, offering to help. This implies one of two things. One, this Comcast employee just happened to be skimming the Twitter wire or two, and more likely, Comcast is actually paying someone to watch over Twitter in a big brother kind of way.

In any event, my new Twitter pen pal eventually gave me an email address to write to about either a self install kit or the possibility of waiving the fee. I wrote the email and sure enough, later that day, I received a call from someone at Comcast. Unfortunately, the caller was condescending at best, scoffed at the idea of self-installation and also insisted it was completely impossible. Then he dismissed with almost no discussion, any notion of the waiving of fees.

I wasn’t surprised and wrote to my Twitter pen pal to say so. To her credit, she seemed unhappy and insisted I email her with all of the details. Two days later, coincidentally while the “trained technician” was installing the card, I received another call from someone else at Comcast. Unlike the previous caller, this guy was apologetic and immediately offered to waive the fees. What's more, rather than insist that it was not possible I’d ever installed my own card, he admitted that Comcast “no longer lets customers install cards themselves because too many cards were damaged.” Of course he left out the part about Comcast now making piles of money on the fees they are imposing on their customers. Mr. Apologetic went on to say that other Comcast employees perhaps were unaware of this because they “hadn’t been at the company long enough.”

Overall, there are several lessons to be learned here. One is that there is apparently a considerable turnover problem at Comcast. Another is that while Comcast may appear to be a huge, unfeeling corporation, it does fortunately employ at least one person who is not only willing to listen but seems to genuinely care about the customer. This leads us to the most important lesson of all which is that big brother is not only watching, he’s tweeting, and in this case that was a good thing.

Twas the Night...

2010-12-28T13:25:00.000-05:00

“Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” Except in our house. There was definitely something stirring and we had the evidence, which unfortunately presented itself in of all places, the silverware drawer. This is curious because this drawer contains no food at all, thus the name, as opposed to the somewhat cumbersome and completely inaccurate “silverware and food for a mouse drawer.” There is always the unlikely possibility that our mouse was one of the more well mannered rodents and simply preferred using a knife and fork to eat whatever it is that well mannered mice eat. Or perhaps the mouse left his “evidence” behind as a means of venting the frustration he surely felt at being unable to access the aptly named bread drawer.

Whatever the reason the mouse had arrived and it was clear that he had to go so I turned to our cat for help. Everyone knows that cats catch mice so this seemed to be a logical course of action. But it turns out that “everyone” actually means everyone except our cat, who would have trouble catching a mouse or anything else for that matter even if the poor creature happened to miraculously become stuck in the cat’s food dish and even then the odds favor the mouse.

With nowhere else to turn, I took matters into my own hands and the great mouse hunt was on. I secretly replaced the silverware with a mousetrap, which of course, looks nothing like silverware, but I was hoping the mouse wouldn’t notice. In the morning I carefully slid the newly christened mousetrap drawer open and I’m happy to report there is one less creature stirring in the house.

Then I began to wonder about the mouse. Was he a rogue acting on his own? Or was he part of a bigger more diabolical plot involving, dare I say, more mice? That night I once again filled the mousetrap drawer with another trap. As I had before, I baited the trap with peanut butter and went to sleep secure in the knowledge that any additional stirring creatures would soon be, well, not stirring.

Upon rising I once again slowly slid the drawer open but there were no creatures, stirring or otherwise inside. Even more disappointing, there was no peanut butter! This new four-legged adversary had managed to pick the trap clean without setting it off. It was clear I was up against a very clever mouse.

That night I baited the trap again, this time taking great care to ensure that it would not be possible to steal the peanut butter without setting off the trap. But I had failed to take into account just how devious a mouse I was pitted against for the trap once again had been picked clean and yet still somehow remained unsprung. I knew that somewhere, a mouse with a belly full of peanut butter was laughing.

I also knew the trap must have been defective as I refused to accept the alternative explanations, i.e., operator error or an incredibly smart mouse. That night, armed with both a new trap and renewed determination, I closed the drawer confident that I would at last outwit a beast whose brain was a mere fraction of the size of my own. In the morning that confidence was rewarded and once again there was one less creature stirring.

Realizing that stronger measures were required, I pulled out all of the drawers and searched for any nook or cranny that a mouse could possibly squeeze through. When every possible means of entry had been plugged I sat back to admire my work and suddenly realized that it really was now December 24^th. In other words:

Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, except maybe still another mouse

The holes near the drawer had been plugged up with care

In hopes that the mouse could no longer get there.

The children were nestled all snug, wait a minute, let’s try that again.

The children weren’t nestled, they were playing XBOX.

As I set my mousetrap like a sly little fox.

Then I thought to myself, as you’re about to see

Do we really need one more twas the night parody?

Of course we don’t. Here is what happened: In the morning the trap was still full of peanut butter and hadn’t been touched. It was definitely a Christmas miracle.

TIVO Kills

2010-12-22T13:55:00.000-05:00

The advent of the DVR is another nail in the coffin for the television commercial. This unfortunately means a lot less work for some really clever people including (although I hesitate to call myself one of the clever ones) yours truly. Part of me (the part that enjoys making a living) thinks this is a shame as I look back on my countless hours on a commercial set with great fondness.

Readers who have no experience in the commercial industry might think that making what essentially amounts to a thirty-second film is relatively easy. Those readers would be wrong. The effort involved in selling for instance, paper towels, is equal to if not greater than that required to not only put a man on the moon but ensure he has the right toothpaste when he gets there.

The stakes are always incredibly high and every decision is not only agonized over but requires more approvals than the average bill making its way through Congress. College educated adults will debate the ramifications of the color of pillows on a couch deep in the background of a set for hours while others will argue about whether or not a house chosen for a location is “aspirational” enough (yes the house aspires to be a mansion). This may sound bizarre but I assure you the list of such things is endless. Whether it’s the variety of tricks used to make food look appetizing or the detailed instructions about the proper way to shoot an actor putting gum into his mouth, there is simply no shortage of absurdity, all in the name of advertising, on the commercial set.

Of course the other part of me (the part that writes this blog and is also partial to pizza - though not any pizza seen in a commercial) applauds this turn of events. That same part almost feels sorry for the advertisers who have labored for years under the assumption that I, and no doubt the rest of the public, care about the color of the pillow on the couch in the background. I don’t. And these days, thanks to the DVR, I’m not watching your commercial at all. Instead I’m fast-forwarding through your pillow and couch with my thumb firmly planted on the Tivo remote. The odds of me stopping during a commercial are similar to those of Brett Favre retiring. There is always the possibility but in the end it just doesn’t happen.

Even if I were to sit through a spot it certainly wouldn’t influence what I buy or whom I vote for (politicians are you listening?). I won’t buy a certain SUV because it looks great crashing through a stream nor will I purchase a truck because it can tow something like the space shuttle. The fact is, I can’t remember the last time I needed to drive through a stream of any size and I’m quite confident the shuttle can get around without my help.

Come to think of it, there are a few more things that advertisers should know. First, no amount of bikini-clad women will ever convince me to drink one beer or another (although I reserve the right to drink said beer if a dozen or so of these women miraculously appear at my doorstep). Second, no amount of celebrity endorsement will sway my decision to buy a particular shampoo, cell phone, cereal, or other product. You should also know that I’m quite happy with my car insurance already and have no intention of wasting even five minutes on the matter. And lastly, if you ever find yourself in a meeting where a decision is made to have singing in a commercial for anything at all, you should run. And don’t stop until you can find the fast forward button for your life. I could go on but NASA just called and it seems I’ve got to go tow the space shuttle.

The Big Mistake

2010-12-08T11:17:00.000-05:00

Decisions, decisions. We make them constantly every day. Most are small mundane things such as what should we have for dinner, or should I wear the blue shirt or the red one, and so on. But sometimes we’re faced with larger, life altering decisions like should I take that job in another state or can we afford this house or do I want paper or plastic? Okay maybe that last one isn’t exactly life altering. But those that are often require a great deal of thought in addition to the counsel of family and friends. Unfortunately it is impossible to know, except in hindsight, whether or not we’ve made the right choice. Some decisions will prove to be the smartest move we’ve ever made and others will turn out to be enormous errors in judgment.

In looking back at my own life, there are several big decisions that have proved to be life changing. I’ve married, had children and twice moved across the country. But what is the smartest move I’ve ever made? I thought it through and getting married was easily the best decision I’ve ever made. I couldn’t ask for a better partner and would without question do it again. But then I thought, if getting married is the smartest thing I’ve ever done, what is the dumbest thing? What is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made? And therein lies the problem. I’m worried I haven’t made it yet.

It’s not that I haven’t made mistakes. Like everyone else, I’ve made plenty. But none of my numerous errors have been so big that I spend each day filled with regret. This in turn has led me to another big realization, namely, if I haven’t yet made the big mistake, there is a chance it could come at any moment.

Consequently this has lead to a sort of paralysis in my decision making process. I’m suddenly unable to order a beer without worrying if the dreaded draft or bottle choice might prove to be the big mistake. Driving has turned into a nightmare since every fork in the road could potentially lead to the big mistake. I now find myself wondering if medium or medium rare is the right way to go. And choosing a movie to see has become a herculean task.

In an effort to relieve myself of this burden I’ve tried, without success, to assign big mistake status to some of my smaller faux pas. But somehow neither the purchase of the wrong size coffee filters or the decision to eschew lima beans fits the big mistake criteria, so my search goes on.

Even if you have made the big mistake, there is unfortunately no guarantee you won’t make an even bigger one in the future. One needs to look no further than the world of sports for examples of this occurrence. In the third round of the 2000 NFL draft, the San Francisco 49ers selected a quarterback named Gino Carmazzi who became neither a household name nor a quarterback. Meanwhile, 134 picks later, the New England Patriots drafted future Hall of Famer Tom Brady. This was obviously a big mistake by the 49ers. Then in 2005 they did it again. With the number one pick in the draft they chose Alex Smith, whom five years later has yet to prove himself. Twenty-three picks after that the Green Bay Packers selected Aaron Rodgers. While Smith was recently benched in favor of the third string quarterback, Rodgers has led his team into play-off contention.

I could go on about the big mistake phenomenon. For instance, while I cannot yet recognize my own big mistake, I seem to have no trouble identifying the big mistakes made by others. But I am unable to elaborate on this as the thought that this column might itself be the big one has found its way into my mind and if I don’t publish it now I might never do it. Of course not publishing it could also be the big mistake. You can see the dilemmas I find myself in. At least when the choice is draft or bottled beer, I still end up with beer.

The Man in the Mirror

2010-12-02T15:48:00.001-05:00

Earlier this year I managed to reach fifty years of age. Those of you who haven’t yet reached the half-century mark will no doubt be surprised to learn that the AARP begins sending you literature immediately upon your fiftieth birthday. And I mean immediately. Moments after you’ve blown out that fiftieth candle (which in itself is exhausting and may require a nap after the first twenty-five), your mailbox will somehow fill up with a ton of information from the AARP that simply cannot be for you. The unfortunate truth is that one-minute you’re fifty and moments later you’re using those dreaded words “senior discount.”

This all hit home for me recently when I glanced in a mirror and was horrified to see a gray haired man wearing glasses looking back. I assumed this had to be a window to a parallel universe as it most certainly couldn’t be me behind those glasses but as we all know, this is not the case. I suppose at my age I should be happy to have hair of any color, it’s just that the gray is another not so subtle reminder of my ever-advancing years.

The reading glasses are relatively new for me. Aging and denial have always gone hand in hand and I certainly spent a good amount of time ignoring the problem before finally succumbing to a pair “cheaters”. Previously I convinced myself that all that was required for me to read the newspaper was good lighting and lots of it. I briefly considered replacing all the 60-watt bulbs in the house with 300-watt versions but the fear of disobeying the little sticker in the light fixtures as well as the corresponding fear of burning down the house eventually prompted me to seek a better and ultimately safer solution. In short, I got some reading glasses.

There are plenty of other reminders that I’m not as young as I used to be. Last summer, in an effort to shed some pounds and perhaps regain some of my lost youth, I did some running at the high school track. It should be noted that here the word “running” is used when perhaps “shuffling” would be a more appropriate choice. As I neared the last one hundred yards of my mile run, my youngest son urged me to sprint to the finish line. “Are you kidding?” I said between gulps of air, “I am sprinting!”

And now a new family milestone has created another reason for me to feel old. The state of Connecticut has issued a drivers license to my oldest son. When he showed me his shiny new license (with a picture he already hates), I couldn’t help but think back to when I got my own license. Times were different back then. The test was much easier. I recall only about four minutes of driving and no parking to speak of. I should point out that contrary to popular belief (popular at least in my house), I did not take the test in a Fred Flintstone car. The reason I didn’t hate my picture was quite simply because in those ancient days licenses had no pictures and were instead mere pieces of cardboard. All of this reinforces just how long ago it happened which in turn reminds me of just how old I am. What’s worse, the very thought of the number one son driving on his own will no doubt result in a phenomenal amount of additional gray hair.

Many people opt for face-lifts or tummy tucks or other procedures designed to ward off the appearance of aging. I’ll pass on all of that. I prefer to wait for the invention of a time machine. Until then, I just realized there are other mirrors in the house. I’m sure the younger me must be in a parallel universe in one of them.

A Nine-Year-Old Can Do it

2010-11-18T17:24:00.004-05:00

As an aspiring screenwriter, I follow a variety of blogs, twitter feeds and websites all related to the film industry. Today I watched the trailer for Jon Faverau’s “Cowboys and Aliens.” I found out that George Clooney is in talks to play the “Man from U.N.C.L.E.” for director Steven Soderberg. And I learned that Robert Downey Jr. and his wife have signed on to produce a project called “How to Talk to Girls.” Downey will also star in the family comedy, which is based on a book by Alec Greven. Greven, the author of three other books, is nine years old. That’s right, a nine-year old. After reading that, I immediately went out to my yard, dug a large hole, and climbed in.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with screenwriting, allow me to shed some light on the process. It seems simple enough. One has an idea. One turns that idea into approximately 110 pages of pure genius. One rewrites those pages about five hundred times. One does anything he can (including but not limited to bribery, thievery and general skullduggery) to get an agent to read the afore mentioned five hundred times rewritten 110 page of genius. Said agent ultimately sells the script and eventually a movie gets made. Unfortunately, the odds of this happening are similar to but not quite as good as being struck by lightning. Twice. While trapped in a Chilean mine.

The point is it is a very hard, nearly impossible thing to do. So to suddenly hear that a nine year old has pulled it off is somewhat disheartening. It leads me to wonder if perhaps Geico will ditch the caveman and instead go with “It’s so easy a nine year old can do it.”

In 1969, when I was nine, the Vietnam War in was in full swing, the Mets won the World Series, and I most certainly was not writing a book. Instead I was daydreaming in Mr. Rooney’s 4^th grade class. Mr. Rooney was the old school substitute who filled in for most of the year when our regular teacher Mrs. Matson had some kind of surgery. He wore a bow tie and had a unique system for maintaining discipline in the classroom. Whenever the class got out of control (which was almost all of the time because, well, I mean, the guy wore a bow tie!), Mr. Rooney would yell “Responsibility One, Freeze!” And we would freeze no matter where we were or what we were doing. You can imagine a bunch of nine year olds trying to freeze in mid task without giggling. It was nearly impossible and only made things worse in Mr. Rooney’s eyes which led to more yelling of “Responsibility One” and so on. Consequently, instead of writing, I spent most of my 4^th grade year frozen. On a side note, during the following year, which I spent perfecting my spot on impression of Mrs. Collins’ Boston accent when I also could have been writing, there was an unconfirmed rumor that poor Mr. Rooney had suffered some sort of nervous breakdown. There was no word on the fate of his bow tie.

More recently, when my own children were nine, I don’t recall either of them penning any great works of literature. They each by then seemed to be majoring in baseball. If only I’d pushed them to write instead, perhaps I could be meeting with Robert Downey Jr. right now.

Of course I could choose to look at this as a glass half full type of thing. In other words, if a nine-year-old can do it, there is still hope for the rest of us. After all, I have just recently finished a rewrite of my comedy script, which means I have only another 482 rewrites left to finish it. In the meantime, if you can’t find me, try the hole in the back yard.

The Day the Earth Shook

2010-10-22T08:58:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was on my way out the door when the phone rang. I chose to ignore it and continued on my way. As far as I know, that decision had no impact on anyone’s life. But that’s not always the case. I bring this up because this past weekend marked the 21st anniversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake, which struck the San Francisco Bay area in October of 1989. Which means it’s been twenty-one years since a similar call had a huge impact on my life.

Most people spend very little time worrying about the threat of earthquakes and manage to push the very thought of a quake into the far reaches of their minds. I was one of those people. Like many people, on that October day, my attention instead was on Game 3 of the World Series. The press had dubbed this “The Bay Bridge Series” as it pitted the San Francisco Giants against the Oakland Athletics. And as it turned out, the Bay Bridge, which connects San Francisco to Oakland, and actually collapsed during the quake, is where I happened to be when the temblor hit.

It wasn’t where I was during Games 1 and 2. If the quake had hit then I would have been with thousands of others at the Oakland-Alameda Coliseum watching the A’s defeat the Giants. I had the opportunity to attend Game 3 as well. A friend had assured me he could somehow get us into the park but we would have no actual seats. I turned him down and opted to watch the game at home. This turned out to be a fortuitous decision as later I would learn that it took my friend more than five hours to make the normally 45 minute trip from Candlestick Park to his home in Oakland.

While my friend was wandering around Candlestick Park (perhaps wishing he had a seat), I was finishing up work at my office in San Francisco. It was nearly 5:00pm and I was anxious to get home before the first pitch of the game, which was scheduled for 5:30pm. My office at the time was only a few blocks from the bridge that would soon collapse. Before leaving, I made a simple phone call and it is that call that quite possibly changed my life. I dialed some friends in Alameda, intending to see if they wanted to watch the game together. When no one answered, I briefly considered going directly to Alameda. I had no way of knowing that I would never have made it. Even if I’d managed to make it over the bridge before it’s inevitable collapse, I almost certainly would not have made it past the section of the Cypress freeway in Oakland that I would have taken to Alameda. This is the section of freeway that collapsed upon itself and killed dozens of people. But as I said, there was no answer, so on that sunny afternoon I steered my car onto the bridge that unbeknownst to me, would in a few minutes collapse.

Ordinarily, the Bay Bridge is a traffic nightmare. But this was no ordinary day. For some reason (I always assumed people had already gone home to catch the game), traffic on the bridge was incredibly light. When the quake hit, I was moving along pretty well, listening to the pre-game show and thinking about the game. Suddenly I had no control of my car. It was fortunate that traffic was light as I was unable to stay in one lane. As I swerved all over the road, I remember wondering if I’d blown a tire. How else to explain my inability to steer? It hadn’t yet entered into my mind that a 6.9 quake had just hit. Suddenly, the pre-game show was no longer on the air. In fact nothing was on the air. Before I could think about why, I heard what sounded like an incredible explosion behind me. I could only think some sort of tanker truck had lost control and exploded. I glanced in my mirror but saw no hint of an explosion.

As I continued on, I regained control of my car and it finally dawned on me that there had been an earthquake. Unfortunately the magnitude of the quake still escaped me. I remember thinking, “hmm, I wonder if they felt that at Candlestick Park?” As I was getting off the bridge, I could see water and mud spewing up through cracks in the road. There were people pulled over to the side pointing back at the bridge. I still couldn’t see what they were pointing at (later I would learn it was the collapsed portion of the bridge that I had only moments earlier crossed) and I had no intention of stopping. Believe it or not, somehow I still thought I was going to get home to see the game.

Up ahead what little traffic there was had slowed to a crawl. The road had separated and had dropped a good twelve inches. Cars slowly made their way past this giant “step” in the road one at a time. Fortunately no one, including me, got stuck.

When I finally got to my exit I was relieved to get off the freeway. That relief immediately turned to annoyance as I reached the end of the exit ramp and found the traffic lights were out. My first thought? “If my house has no power, where am I going to watch the game?” Again the sheer magnitude of the event hadn’t hit me yet.

When I pulled up in front of my house my neighbor was outside. It was she who told me the Bay Bridge had collapsed. We hadn’t heard about the Cypress freeway yet. About then I finally realized there wasn’t going to be a World Series game that night. As if to punctuate that fact, an aftershock hit and my neighbor and I stood and watched my car shaking back and forth. Soon my wife arrived home and was relieved to see me as she’d heard about the bridge collapsing and knew that I had to take that bridge home. Fortunately our neighborhood in Oakland fared pretty well. We had no power for three days and no hot water either as we’d turned off the gas.

Others were not so lucky. Sixty-three people lost their lives that day and thousands more were injured or lost their homes. When the Bay Bridge reopened a month afterward, it was easy to see the spot that had been repaired while driving over it. I compared that to where I was when I the quake hit and figured out that I missed it by a mere half-mile or about thirty seconds. So if my call had connected, even the briefest of conversations would have delayed me enough to at the very least trap me on the San Francisco side of the bridge collapse or at worst…well, who knows?

So the question is, the next time the phone rings and I’m on the way out the door, will I answer it? Will you?

Take This Job and...

2010-09-07T15:40:00.000-04:00

When former Jet Blue flight attendant Steven Slater quit his job in spectacular fashion, he became an overnight media sensation. I’d bet that most of us, at one time or another, have wanted to quit a job in a similar way and go out in a blaze of glory but the truth is very few of us do so. Instead we give the requisite two weeks notice of our intention to pursue other options rather than announce in a dramatic voice, “I quit!” before storming off to those other options.

After Mr. Slater became a hero of sorts I began to think about jobs I’ve had and left under somewhat sudden circumstances. I had to go way back to my youth to find examples of times I’ve actually quit and unlike Mr. Slater, I did not become a celebrity afterward. But also unlike Mr. Slater, I never faced felony charges that could lead to up to seven years in prison when I quit.

It turns out that I’ve only quit a few jobs in my life, each of them before I was twenty. And while, none of my exits were as dramatic as Mr. Slater’s trip down the emergency slide, each comes with a story.

Discounting my time delivering newspapers, the first job I ever had was washing dishes in a well-known restaurant chain. Although I was primarily a dishwasher, there were times I would also be called upon to wait on customers. I was only sixteen and it was a good first job but it was mostly nights and eventually began to seriously cut into my burgeoning social life. When the summer rolled around I found myself dreading my shifts on a regular basis until finally one day I realized I just couldn’t do it anymore. And that’s exactly what I told the stunned manager who’d hired me. “I just can’t do it anymore.” And from that moment on, I didn’t. I do recall some guilt over my sudden departure but overall I felt (as I’m sure Mr. Slater must have) a great sense of relief.

While my restaurant job lasted a fairly long time (in teen years), my time at the self-service gas station did not. Such stations were relatively new in those days and I had no idea what to expect when I arrived on the day that would be both my first and last day on the job. I was supposed to be trained by the assistant manager but he had other ideas. After the briefest of explanations regarding my responsibilities, he produced a stack of pornographic magazines and disappeared into a back room, leaving me to fend for myself. I suppose I would have been bored silly if I wasn’t so busy trying to teach myself how to work the electronic machines that ran the pumps. It was easily apparent that this was not the job, nor the coworker for me, so later, when my shift was over, I left and simply never returned.

The gas station stint would have been the shortest period I’ve ever been employed were it not for my time in the machine shop. A friend of mine and I got ourselves hired at a shop that made little pieces of metal that were no doubt important to someone somewhere but to me were just, well, little pieces of metal. The big boss was nice enough. He had an office with glass windows overlooking the floor where the little pieces of metal were made. On our first (and yes it would be my last) day, he gave us a long lecture about what a great career we’d chosen and how ultimately we’d have to invest a large sum of money (otherwise known as the first red flag) into our own tools. After the lecture we were dispatched to the floor for training where each of us was assigned to an experienced employee. I remember two things about the guy who was training me. First, he was older than dirt and had apparently been making the little pieces of metal since some time in the early Roman Empire. And second, he smoked, not a lot, just constantly. This man was never without a cigarette dangling from his lips and in the 70’s this was never questioned. I managed to make it to lunch with all of my fingers intact (did I mention the danger involved in making the little pieces of metal?) and even more remarkable, in an effort to avoid the second hand smoke, somehow held my breath for the entire training period. When lunch finally came I sought out my friend and told him this was not the job for me. He tried to convince me to stay but when lunch was over I made my way up to the bosses office where naturally the entire shop could see me anxiously waiting for the boss to return. When he did I explained that I didn’t think I was cut out for this kind of work and I didn’t want him to waste a lot of money training me. To my surprise, he couldn’t have been nicer about it and my machine shop career was over before it began. As it turned out, two days later my friend would quit as well.

I will admit that since I began to work in the film industry over twenty years ago there have been a few times I’ve wanted to jump into the proverbial emergency slide (especially as Slater did with a beer) but fortunately those times have been few and far between. Even on the worst production job I’ve ever had (a Hidden Valley Ranch commercial in the 90’s), I stuck it out to the bitter end. After all, as bad as that one was, it only lasted a week and it could have been worse. I could have been stuck making little pieces of metal or perhaps, facing felony charges.

The Check Engine Light

2010-03-18T11:09:00.000-04:00

I am not a car person. You’ll never find me changing my own oil or doing my own tune-ups. So when my truck’s “check engine” light came on the other day I did what I always do; I ignored it, hoping it would somehow turn itself off. It didn’t. Technically the light in question is the word “check” and a cute little picture of an engine but the message is clear. Or is it? When the light failed to turn off on it’s own accord I popped the hood and following the advice of my truck, I checked the engine. The engine was still there. Beyond that I had no idea what to do. Does anyone? The check engine light is unlike any of the other lights that appear in a car. It is nowhere near as useful as some of the other lights.

For instance, when the little picture of the gas pump lights up, I know that I need gas. And soon. Or if a light reading “Brake” appears, I’m aware my emergency brake is still on. But the check engine light is in a class by itself. It really should read something like “Nothing is actually wrong but you should bring your car to the dealer and be charged for repairs you don’t need.” And soon.

Which would be fine except for those times when there really is something wrong. For those times, I avoid the dealer and instead have a local mechanic who works on my truck. Once when the check engine light appeared I called him for advice. He wanted to know if I’d just put gas in the truck. I had in fact, recently fueled up. “Well it might be just a loose gas cap” said the mechanic. Imagine my surprise when an extra twist of the cap made the check engine light disappear. This makes no sense to me. My gas cap is nowhere near my engine. Wouldn’t a “Tighten your gas cap” light be more appropriate?

The last time the light went on he hooked a computer up to determine the nature of the problem and after hitting a few buttons he told me that I had three codes. “Codes?” I said. Isn’t “check engine” nebulous enough? On top of that they put everything in code?

The fact is, I can think of many lights that would prove to be more useful than “check engine.” Wouldn’t it be great for instance, to have a light that reads “Slow down there’s a cop right behind you” or perhaps one that blinks “Hey you idiot, your coffee cup is still on the roof!” Come to think of it, I’m sure a light that tells me “Don’t forget to get the dry cleaning” would mean more to me than “check engine.”

But my truck is equipped with none of those lights. So after a month of staring at the bright orange reminder that I don’t know a thing about cars I gave in and went to the mechanic. He dutifully hooked up his computer, decoded the message and diagnosed the problem. It seems that the heating element in the air fuel ratio sensor has gone bad. Naturally this was my first thought as soon the dreaded check engine light appeared. I mean, what else could it be?

The bad news here is that air fuel ratio sensors are not cheap. There is fortunately some good news as well. I’ve finally figured out what the “check engine” light really means. Unless your gas cap is loose, you’ll be writing a “check” for your engine. And soon.

Wanna Get Away?

2010-01-21T17:59:00.002-05:00

On Wednesday, January 20th I was scheduled to fly from San Jose, CA to Hartford, CT with a change of planes in Chicago.

It was like this…

I arrived at the airport two hours early, which turned out to be a good thing. Once I cleared security, the walk to the gate took me through several area codes and quite possibly a time zone as well. It was in short, not short. But because I was early I wasn’t worried. Little did I know what worries awaited me.

I boarded the plane and it appeared we were headed for an on time departure. But you know what they say about appearances. At 1:44PM, one minute before departure time, the gate agent (who we’ll call Chicken Little) came onto the plane and grabbed the microphone. Instead of the usual thank you for flying with us speech he announced that our plane would probably not make it to Chicago. Instead, it was likely said Chicken Little that we’d end up in Detroit or perhaps Minneapolis. He went on to say that those of us with final destinations other than Chicago might want to consider finding another flight. There was a lot of groaning from the passengers followed by a small stampede to get off the plane.

At the end of the jet way, Chicken Little directed us to see the two customer service reps at the counter. We’ll call the reps Clueless 1 and 2 because unfortunately, while Chicken Little had alerted the passengers to the likely fate (Detroit? Really?) of flight 1232, he somehow neglected to mention anything to the customer service reps. Clueless number 1 was on the phone doing her best to ignore the growing throng of people in front of her. With number 1 busy, it was left to number 2 to figure things out. Tragically, she was instantly overwhelmed and I began to think Detroit might be a better place to be. Eventually number 1 got off the phone and from nowhere a number 3 arrived to help out. You might think the line would move quicker with three reps involved. But you would be wrong because number 1 who was working with a passenger suddenly announced she’d be back and disappeared never to return leaving the passenger at the counter. Perhaps she went off to have lunch with number 3 because in no time at all, 3 vanished as well and also never returned. Eventually a number 4 arrived and seemed to have no better grasp of the situation than numbers 1, 2, and 3.

Meanwhile, flight 1232 was going to take off for Chicago or Detroit or parts unknown at any moment. I’d been in line for half an hour but still hadn’t made it to the counter. I had hoped to find out if I could get to Hartford from Detroit or Minneapolis and if not what were my options. But with Clueless people disappearing left and right I had no choice but to run back onto the plane and take my chances. I flopped into a seat and quickly called my wife to update her on the situation. Unfortunately, they chose that moment to close the doors and the next thing I knew a flight attendant was telling me to get off the phone. I told her I’d be off in a moment only to have her rudely tell me to get off now. I hung up immediately and told her that under the circumstances perhaps a little leeway was in order. Her snippy response? “Well sir if you’d like we can open the door and all of us can wait for you to finish your conversation.” The implication being that I was chit chatting about nothing rather than explaining that I might be on the way to Detroit or even parts unknown. Rather than respond I reached for my trusted notebook and began chronicling the events to date. She clearly sensed she’d gone too far because after we were airborne she offered to buy me a drink (which I declined) as though a drink would make everything okay.

The flight itself was uneventful and after circling Chicago for about twenty minutes we managed to land. I raced off the plane in hopes of making my connecting flight. I was in luck as the flight was delayed and it looked like I was going to make it home after all. I called home to update the family and learned that the airline had called my house to say that my luggage hadn’t made it on to the plane. Perhaps arriving two hours before the flight was cutting it too close? They went on to say that they were going to “expedite” the luggage to Baltimore. That would have been great if I lived in Baltimore but since I don’t and since moving there seems a bit extreme, my wife (who definitely has a clue) politely suggested it might be a better idea to expedite the bag to Hartford. When I approached the customer service rep in Chicago about the errant bag she was ever bit as clueless as numbers 1 – 4 in San Jose. Her suggestion? “It could have been anyone who called.” Right. It was probably one of those wacky airline luggage prank callers you read about. That comment earned her a Clueless number 5 in my book.

I found myself wondering if maybe my bag had ended up in Detroit and if it had I hoped it would pick up a Tigers hat for me. I couldn’t wonder for long though as suddenly the flight to Hartford was boarding. Ordinarily this is somewhat routine, but nothing about this trip would be routine. When the gate agent put my boarding pass into the machine, it beeped in a most disapproving manner. The gate agent looked at the machine and announced that I hadn’t checked in. This was news to me especially since it is virtually impossible to have a boarding pass without checking in. She insisted I speak with the same clueless customer service rep (number 5) I’d spoken to before. Number 5 again had no explanation (no one seems to know anything) but eventually handed me a boarding pass with an “ok to board” on it and I got onto the flight.

After another uneventful flight, I found myself in the Hartford baggage office at almost 1AM. The baggage agent knew who I was as she had received a curious message about my bag. She had no idea (perhaps you see a theme here) where it was or what had happened. Her message indicated flight 1232 had been canceled. I assured her it had not. The agent thought my bag “might” arrive the following evening on the same flight I’d been on, which would put it into Hartford at 11:30PM. Hopefully, a flight attendant will offer to buy it drinks along the way.

I left the baggage office where they didn’t have much of a clue either but were too nice to warrant a nickname and went out into the cold to wait for my aforementioned wife to pick me up. Unfortunately, while my wife does have a clue she does not it seems have two working headlights and at 1:15 in the morning was being ticketed by the State Police.

This morning the airline called to say they’re on the case and “searching” for the bag. Since the word “searching” implies something is lost, I asked if they in fact actually knew where the bag was at that moment. “Why, it’s in route,” said the nervous voice on the phone. “Great” said the irritated voice in my house. “In route to where?” “Uh, Hartford” stammered the voice. That was over six hours ago. So far no bag has appeared.

On a positive note, despite the dire predictions of Mr. Little, I did arrive home safely with not a moment spent in Detroit. I can only hope my bag eventually finds it way home too. And when it does, I’m sure it will have a great story to tell.

Breakfast with Boris

2009-11-09T14:25:00.002-05:00

After a recent road trip, “The Random Vibes” is back. The trip seemed simple enough. My wife and I would find a nice little bed and breakfast and get away from it all for a few days. As you might imagine, New England is loaded with bed and breakfast options and they all sound great. Each one promises “elegant lodging” in historic areas and plenty of warm hospitality to go with a “full country breakfast.” We finally settled on an old Victorian inn with a reasonable price and made a reservation for two nights. The innkeeper promised to send a conformation email. The email was the first red flag. Although the check-in times were listed, there was no actual check-in process upon arrival. Instead we were instructed to pick up a “welcome note” that would have directions to our room. Directions? I couldn’t help but wonder how big was this house that directions were required? And more importantly would there be food and gas along the way?

After a pleasant drive through spectacular fall foliage - There’s nothing better than riding along a back road lined with brilliantly colored leaves secure in the knowledge that one needn’t rake a single one of them - we arrived at the Inn and parked in the rear as instructed. We made our way to the front door, which swung eerily open on its own accord.

With some trepidation we stepped into the house. The haunted door closed afterward and we could immediately see that the door wasn’t haunted at all for behind it stood an elderly man who for reasons that will become clear brought Boris Karloff to mind. The man said nothing and instead slowly raised his hand in the way I imagine Death himself might do so. He pointed to a board near the door, which contained several notes pinned to it. We took the note with our name on it as it seemed silly to take one with someone else’s name. Boris our host had yet to utter a word and having completed his task began to walk away. Before he could escape we introduced ourselves and extended our hands. This gesture or perhaps the sound of someone speaking aloud seemed to stun our new friend Boris. He managed to get through the introductions and the handshake (which was nowhere near as cold and clammy as I imagined it would be) and soon left us alone in the foyer.

We turned our attention to the “Welcome Note” which did indeed contain directions to our room. We were instructed to go up the stairs, then through the pantry, down the hall and finally through the bathroom to our room. Go through the bathroom? Surely this was an error. Whoever heard of having to through a bathroom to get to a room? Boris, that’s who. Sure enough there was a shared bathroom at the end of the hall. The bathroom had one door coming in from the hall and a second door, just past the shower, which led into our room. I had visions of being trapped in our room while the other guests showered, shaved, and well, you get the idea but as it turned out our room had another private entrance that led directly outside skipping both the bathroom and Boris.

The room itself was spacious enough with a bedroom upstairs in a loft, a full kitchen, and large living room area. And there were notes. Everywhere we looked, notes were taped to the wall. The notes seemingly covered everything. There were instructions about the fan, some thoughts on the windows, advice about toilet paper, and what we should do in the event of a nuclear attack. Okay I made the last one up. The point is there were a lot of notes.

The living room contained a gas fireplace which had been mentioned on the website. The fireplace looked nice. It looked like it could provide some warmth. If only we could turn it on…there were buttons to push and levers to turn but nothing seemed to work. Naturally there was a note to cover this subject too. According to the note, a thermostat controlled the fireplace. Tragically no amount of thermostat adjusting could induce the fireplace to turn on. We assumed we were doing something wrong and resolved to ask Boris about it when next we saw him. We also intended to ask about the room key, which was allegedly hanging near the door but in reality was nowhere in sight.

An hour later we were on our way back with supplies for dinner when we ran into Boris. First we asked him about the key. “It’s hanging right next to the door” he insisted in a most incredulous way. When we asked about turning on the fireplace, Boris shot us a look, threw his hands in the air and said, “That’s a new one on me!” as he walked away. I wanted to tell him that this kind of service was “a new one on me” but he was already gone.

So we made our way up the stairs, through the pantry, down the hall and through the fortuitously unoccupied bathroom. We searched high and low for the room key “right next to the door” but found nothing. Later by chance we finally came across the key hanging not near the door but on a desk that neither resembled a door or was anywhere near a door of any kind. Returning to the fireplace, we tried fiddling with any thermostat we could find but still the fireplace remained dark. Clearly it was time to give in. Eventually, while we were sipping wine and discussing Boris’s amazing people skills, the fireplace suddenly popped on with a whoosh. Moments later it just as suddenly whooshed off. This would continue for the remainder or our stay. The fireplace it seemed had a mind of its own and had no intention of being controlled by a thermostat.

The Inn was not without its good points. The room was clean, the breakfast was tolerable and in the event one forgot to bring a watch, the church across the street rang its bells every hour on the hour. Even at 2AM. You might wonder why I was awake at 2AM. Let’s just say that the Inn is located in a town of two thousand people every one of which apparently owns a car. How else to explain the almost constant traffic at all hours passing by the Inn?

The Inn is no stranger to celebrity either. The walls have numerous pictures of Boris posing with not one but two former presidents (neither of which I voted for). Also a now dead comedian apparently frequented the Inn (presumably when he was alive although one can’t be too sure). Our room in fact had a collection of the comedian’s movies on VHS available for our viewing pleasure. We passed. The comedian’s influence could be seen elsewhere in the Inn. There were pages and pages (several trees worth) of jokes apparently intended to brighten the day of the weary traveler. I’m still chuckling over, “If a mime is arrested, does he have the right to remain silent.” Or the classic: “Marriage is an institution where one person is always right and the other is a husband.” Funny stuff. I was about to toss the whole lot into our fireplace but at that moment it whooshed off.

After two nights, we whooshed ourselves off as well. I will admit that despite the lack of hospitality, we managed to have a good time although it is doubtful we’d stay there again. Beyond that the important thing remains “The Random Vibes” is back.

Publicity

2009-03-30T14:23:00.004-04:00

“Today Show” host Matt Lauer recently had a bike accident involving a deer (sometimes you just can’t make these things up). Afterward Mr. Lauer required surgery and his publicist issued a statement that he was “doing well and expected to make a full recovery.” It is not known how the deer is doing presumably because the deer does not have a publicist of his own. Yet. These days, with the advent of Facebook and Twitter, everyone seems to feel the need for publicity.

I was thinking about all of this while riding my own bike. True the bike is a stationary one in my basement where I have yet to spot any deer, but I suppose stranger things have happened. After all who would have thought Matt Lauer rode a bike, let alone in a place where he’d encounter a deer? Anyway, I realized if some accident were to befall me, I would be left to issue statements on my own instead of focusing solely on my recovery. With that in mind, as I carefully dismounted (keeping a sharp eye out for deer of course), I came to a decision. I need a publicist.

Previously I haven’t needed a publicist because, let’s face it, I haven’t done much of anything that needs publicizing. I’ve had no surgery to recover from and the occasional hangover is hardly worth issuing a statement over. Especially when that statement would probably sound something like this: “Jeff Vibes has a headache the size of Nebraska and is gobbling Advil like M&M’s. He is however expected to completely recover from last night’s over indulgence and vehemently denies all rumors concerning a moose and a cello (that he most certainly did not steal).”

Even if I ever thought I did need a publicist I’ve never wanted one. This is because I’ve actually met some of them and they are not happy people. They rarely smile and seem to find something wrong with most any situation. As an example, after being handed a check for several million dollars, most people would be ecstatic, but a publicist would likely complain about the color of the ink.

Publicists can be handy to have around though. Who better to have at your side than someone who apparently knows everything about everything? I remember once a major movie star and his publicist arrived for an interview and the publicist took one look at the lighting, screwed up her face and dismissed it as terrible. Who knew that publicists were also cinematographers? Never mind that the cameraman who had lit the set had over twenty years of experience and had forgotten more about lighting than the publicist would ever know. She was sure she knew better. Amazingly, after the cameraman fiddled with some lights but actually changed nothing at all the publicist was appeased and the interview was on. Naturally if the roles were reversed and the cameraman had suggested some changes to her latest press release there would have been hell to pay.

Despite these drawbacks, I still believe I could benefit from a publicist’s services. With a publicist of my own on the job I have no doubt I could probably double the readership of this column (bringing the total to twenty-four). Beyond that, my publicist would be ready to issue vitally important statements such as “Jeff is picking up his kid from baseball practice” or “come on everyone, dinner is ready.” What’s more, while everyone else is Facebooking or Twittering, I would have someone to do it for me. With the time saved I could then accomplish even more things (like cleaning the garage) that would of course need publicizing. This in turn would lead to still more free time and so on.

Overall, this sounds like a win-win situation and I plan to have my publicist issue a statement saying as such immediately upon being hired. The only question is what will I do with all of that free time? The obvious answer is to get my bike out of the basement and go off in search of deer. Don’t worry, if you’re at all curious about what happens next, we’ll be issuing a statement soon.

The Obligatory Spring Clean-up Column

2009-03-19T15:09:00.002-04:00

With the arrival of spring, the annual spring yard clean-up seemed to be a good choice of topic for this week’s column. I’ll admit that for me writing about the clean-up is far preferable to the actual clean-up itself. Of course I’m only putting off the inevitable; the lawn elves I dream of every year will most likely not be making an appearance in my yard and eventually I’ll be out there myself picking up fallen branches, raking leftover leaves and so on.

My problem is that I’m simply not a lawn guy. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good lawn. I would just prefer not to be the one creating and maintaining it. I somehow don’t have the time or the desire to obsess about my lawn the way others do. I call these people “lawn guys” and you might be one of them.

The obvious way to know if you’re a lawn guy is to simply look at your lawn. If it’s greener and better manicured than many golf courses you’re probably a lawn guy. Can you spot a weed from 100 yards away? If so, the chances are good you’re a lawn guy. Do you go into convulsions when a leaf lands innocently on your grass? Are you worried about the economy but even more concerned with crabgrass? These are more indications you’re a lawn guy.

A look through any garage or garden shed can also yield clues about lawn guy status. In addition to seeds, fertilizer and chemicals, a lawn guy will also have the very latest in lawn care devices. His shed will have mowers, trimmers, tillers, leaf blowers, and other loud devices all neatly arranged and ready for use. For a lawn guy, no expense and no amount of noise is too much in the quest for a perfect lawn.

While a lawn guy loves nothing more than caring for his lawn, talking about his lawn often runs a close second. Fluency in lawn talk is a prerequisite to being a good lawn guy. It’s not enough to know about the merits of Bermuda grass versus Kentucky blue grass. A true lawn guy knows all about what grows best in sun or in shade, is intimately aware of the nitrogen content of his soil, and can assemble a sprinkler system while blindfolded. What’s more, he’s happy to discuss all of this at parties. A lawn guy is never thrilled than when the talk of fertilizer is flowing like, well, fertilizer.

Lawn talk is never complete without bringing up the arch nemesis of lawn guys everywhere, the mole. Many a perfect lawn has been ruined by moles and every lawn guy has his own favorite method of ridding himself of the little beasts. I myself have even tried a few of these tricks but as I’m not a lawn guy they don’t seem to work as well for me. One friend stuck a garden hose into a mole tunnel, waited for the mole come out and bonked the emerging mole with a baseball bat. Unfortunately when I tried the same approach things did not go as smoothly. After inserting the hose into the tunnel and turning on the water full blast I found myself wondering if I’d be able to actually go through with the bonking. I needn’t have worried as despite what must have been thousands of gallons of water coursing through the tunnel, no mole ever appeared. No water came out anywhere either and I remain convinced that somewhere in Kansas a fountain erupted in someone’s yard that may or may not have contained a mole or two.

I’m sure my failure with the moles coupled with the large amounts of crabgrass and moss in my yard will forever keep me from being a member of the lawn guy club. It seems I’m doomed to write about lawns but not have the greenest one on the block. I’m okay with that. In fact, I’d write some more now but I need to go check for those lawn elves.

Dancing with my Dentist

2009-03-14T12:49:00.004-04:00

“Do I look fat in this dress?” Comedians have made both the question and the ensuing response a staple of their acts for years. The correct answer, as we all know is “no.” Honesty often goes out the window in these times as the answer is frequently not the truth but rather what the questioner wants to hear. It seems that those who ask the question are simply looking for validation. They already know the answer and that’s where the dance begins.

This is the fib dance. It’s a dance we all do and we do it often. For example, I recently danced with my dentist. He told me I needed to floss and I told him what he wanted to hear: “Floss? I’ll get right on that. Hourly. You’ll see.” The dentist did his part of the dance next. “Well, if you don’t, your teeth will fall out.” He says that knowing full well that there will be very little if any flossing going on. The dance continues in this manner until the appointment ends. Then as usual, I thankfully escape with a bag full of new floss that I’ll probably never use.

Perhaps you are an avid flosser and consider yourself immune to fib dancing. I assure you this is not the case. I can picture you whole heartedly nodding in agreement as your doctor tells you to quit smoking. I can also picture you lighting up with relief on the way home approximately seven minutes after telling the doctor you were going to quit for sure this time. It’s simply much easier to tell the doctor what he wants to hear rather than suffer through a lecture on the horrors of tooth decay or lung cancer.

The fact that both the dentist and the doctor are right means little. The fib dance has been ingrained in us from an early age. Ask a child if they’ve brushed their teeth and you’ll get the response you want to hear: “Of course I brushed.” Inquire as to whether or not they’ve studied for the big test and you’ll get the same answer regardless of whether or not they ever cracked a book: “Study?” I already did. See you. I’ll be out playing basketball now.” This continues throughout childhood. By the time we’re adults, we’re experts at fib dancing.

And while it takes two to tango, the fib dance is just as easily (and probably more frequently) done solo. How many times have you thought to yourself “I’m going to get in shape?” If you’re like most people, the number is high. Tragically, it’s also true that most people don’t follow through with this plan. The fact is you’ve been dancing with yourself, telling yourself exactly what you wanted to hear instead of what you know to be true.

There is an alternative to the fib dance. It’s called being honest. But is it really the best approach? Never mind flossing, imagine the consequences to the following: “No, I am hungry. I’m just not eating because it tastes like it came out of a vacuum cleaner bag.” Still think honesty is the best policy? How about this one: “Some people should never under any circumstances be allowed to sing and you are one of those people.” And for those who still aren’t convinced: “Why yes officer, I have been drinking.”

While complete honesty might not always be appropriate, constant fib dancing is not the way to go either. The thing of it is these little white lies will eventually come back to haunt you (just ask the Bush administration). In short, you will develop lung cancer and your teeth will fall out. Like most things in life, some sort of balance should be achieved. As for me, I’d be happy to tell you how you look in that dress if I only had the time. Right now I’ve got some more flossing to do.

Outsourcing Me

2009-03-06T16:18:00.001-05:00

I am frequently unemployed. It’s not that I can’t keep a job but rather the nature of my career as a freelance producer that leaves me sometimes between jobs waiting for the phone to ring. During these “down times” (or as some people say “vacations”) I’m often asked what it is that I do all day. The implication is that I’m home watching “All My Children” while simultaneously consuming huge amounts of potato chips and bean dip. Nothing could be further from the truth. To begin with, I don’t even like bean dip; and with kids to be shuttled, dinners to be cooked, and countless errands to be run, when I’m not working I am the busiest unemployed guy I know.

So busy that I’ve often thought if I could only get paid for being me, I’d never have to work anywhere else again. Sound absurd? Think about it. Being me is a job that few if any people would want, so that automatically makes being me a highly specialized career for which I am uniquely qualified. After all I have almost 49 years of experience being me and no one can top that.

I suppose there is a chance that someone else could attempt to be me but I still maintain that few would want to. I can also assure you the interview process for such a job would be quite rigorous. It would most likely include an exhaustive background check (one not conducted by the Obama administration vetting team) as well as a written exam. Applicants would be required to write an extensive essay on the merits of the designated hitter rule. This is of course a trick question as we all know the designated hitter rule has no merits and is a travesty that should be done away with immediately. Those who managed to get through the written test would then be subjected to an oral exam that would make a Senate confirmation hearing resemble a second grade math test. Questions would include but not be limited to: State three witty responses to the phrase “Have you been working out?” and “How many writers does it take to change an ink cartridge?” That’s another trick question as everyone knows that changing an ink cartridge always requires a trip to Staples as it seems that whenever ink runs out there are no ink cartridges to be found anywhere in the house.

Only after undergoing this thorough screening process could someone actually get the job of being me. This is a job that currently doesn’t pay very well but does come with some excellent benefits including an amazing wife, a nice house and two semi-amazing kids. Applicants should note however that the afore-mentioned amazing wife might not be so thrilled with this arrangement and that hazard pay will not be provided.

In theory, after I’ve outsourced being me I would then be freed up to do some of the things I can’t find time for now such as travel in Europe, wash my car or finish a thought. Unfortunately I would most likely want my family along for the European tour and if my family were with me then there would be very little for the hired me to do. The obvious solution would be to outsource even more people to be my family and thus free up my actual family to spend time with actual me. This sounds a bit complicated though and potential problems like an overcrowded house and the threat of a really high phone bill make this solution both improbable and unlikely.

Since hiring someone to be me doesn’t seem to be such a practical approach, I guess I’ll have to return to my original premise of simply getting paid for being me. It really does seem like the best solution for everyone involved. Now if I could just figure out where to send my invoice…

Writing on Roids

2009-02-26T16:35:00.002-05:00

Last week Alex Rodriguez played the “young and stupid” card to help explain his decision to use performance enhancing drugs. This may come as a shock to you the innocent reader but I was “young and stupid” once too. That is no longer true of course, now, I’m simply old and, well, just not very clever.

Times were different during my young and stupid period. Steroids had been around for awhile but were used mainly by East German Olympians, power weight lifters, and possibly by someone who would eventually become the governor of California. It is believed that these substances didn’t make their way into baseball until the mid 1980’s. I have no idea when they found their way into writing circles. But there is little doubt that some authors have dabbled with the juice. How else to explain James Patterson’s ability to produce a book seemingly on a daily basis?

During this time I was floundering about, churning out the occasional paragraph and like Rodriguez, “under pressure to succeed.” I admit it was tempting to get some help. After all if steroids could help an athlete, why not a writer? I imagined my fingers flying across the keys of my typewriter at the speed of light and page after page of brilliant words flowing freely. I liked the image but unfortunately, the flying fingers in the image were attached to a body which also included an enlarged head, the possibility of breasts, and the ever popular shrunken testicles. And even if I could have overlooked the charming side effects, I really had no steroid connections and more importantly no available cousin to perform the injections. In the end my steroid idea was a short lived one.

So there you have it. For the record, I have never used performance enhancing drugs of any kind. Of course, A-Rod told Katie Couric the same thing and since then we’ve learned he was lying. The lesson here just might be to avoid Katie Couric . I’m sure Sarah Palin wishes she had done so but that’s another story. I should have no trouble avoiding Ms. Couric as there is a greater chance of California dropping into the ocean than of my being interviewed by CBS news. On the other hand, I did meet Meredith Viera once so possibly buying soon-to-be-beachfront land in Nevada might not be such a bad move.

I now find myself concerned that Congress will soon take an interest in the possible use of steroids by writers. I worry about this mostly because this does not seem to be the best use of their time. Perhaps a little less time spent listening to Barry Bonds lie would have left more time to focus on pesky little issues like the economy and the war in Iraq. On the other hand it’s not every day you get to meet the all time home run king even if he did cheat his way to the crown.

And I suppose in the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that occasionally I’ve had a bit too much caffeine or perhaps a tad more alcohol than I should but neither seems to have had any effect on the quality or quantity of words spewing forth from my brain. The truth is that for me, I get great satisfaction from creating things with no artificial help whatsoever. It’s a pity that wasn’t enough for A-Rod and the others.

The Hitch Hiker's Guide to New England

2009-01-29T14:40:00.002-05:00

Recently, I picked up a hitchhiker. It’s not something I normally do and in truth I’m fairly certain it was the first time I’ve ever actually offered a ride to a stranger with his thumb out. It was a sunny fall day and I was driving in a well to do Los Angeles neighborhood when I encountered the thumb and the person attached to it. I don’t know what made me do it but the next thing I knew I was pulling to the curb and the hitchhiker was climbing in. You might think it foolish to pick up a stranger in this day and age but this was no ordinary hitchhiker. This one was at least 80 years old. When he asked how far I was going, I told him I’d take him where ever he needed to go. As it turned out his destination was only three or four blocks up a hill. On the way I learned that he’d lived in the neighborhood for 60 years and that the house he currently resided in once belonged to Elizabeth Taylor. “This was back when she was married to her first husband” he told me. “So you know how long ago that was.” When we pulled into his driveway there were no signs that Miss Taylor had left anything behind. There was instead, a woman with a worried expression on her face and she hurried right over. Thank-you’s and good-byes were exchanged and I was soon back on the road alone with my thoughts.

Those thoughts soon turned to my own hitchhiking days which although long over are still fresh in my mind. Hitching was very common in those days (sometime after the Vietnam War but still well before the Red Sox won the series) and I considered myself something of a master hitch hiker. While others with lesser skilled thumbs would leave extra time to reach a given destination, I set out as though I were driving myself. This could (or should) have been nerve wracking when the destination was for instance my job. But so great was the power of my thumb that I was rarely, if ever, late.

It wasn’t long before I decided to attempt a longer hitch and on a sunny summer day my thumb and I decided we were off to the beach which was a mere forty miles away. The thumb performed admirably as always and in no time at all I was lounging on the beach. After a full day of sand and surf, the thumb went into action again and managed to secure a series of rides bringing me closer and closer to home. As I recall, the master hitch hiker was feeling pretty good about himself. But then the master hitch hiker accepted a ride in a conversion van filled with wannabe bikers and their girl friends. The moment the door closed I knew I was in trouble. The group had obviously been partying hard and they immediately urged me to join in. This was something I had no intention of doing and when I tried to laugh it off the driver took offense and began screaming. On top of that, the two women in the van had taken a liking to me and their defense of me only made things worse. The driver continued his ranting until finally, with my exit approaching and the tension level equaling the speedometer; I began to think I might not get out of this one. But with one last maniacal laugh, the driver pulled over and I scrambled out to safety. I probably should have hung up my thumb for good after that experience but the episode was soon forgotten and in no time the lure of the road once again called to me.

I convinced myself that I simply needed to be more careful and as fall began my thumb and I were off to Boston. The thumb worked its magic and soon I was visiting friends who were attending college in Boston. Since I’d opted not to go to school immediately after high school, I was free to wander about and with my all powerful thumb the possibilities were endless. When I tired of Boston, I set my sights on Maine where I had many more friends to visit. It would be my most ambitious hitch to date.

Although the traffic in Maine is a lot sparser than Connecticut and Boston, I still managed to get around just fine. I appeared magically at college campuses all over the state and tracked down whichever friend I sought in a manner that would make any detective proud. After listening to the stories of my thumb and its exploits, one of those friends was eager to try his own hand, er thumb at hitchhiking and in no time we were off to Connecticut.

Previously, I’d only hitched alone and although I was sure it would more difficult with a partner, the chance to share the experience was too tempting to pass up. We got out of Maine easily enough but eventually found ourselves stranded on the Massachusetts turnpike. This was not a good place to be and the state trooper who picked us up told us so. Rather than arrest us he drove us to an on-ramp and suggested we try our fortune there. And try we did but with no luck at all. Drastic measures were required. We decided that we needed more than anything, a sign. I always carried a marker as I’d learned that a sign was often helpful on the road. After scrounging up some cardboard, we created what I consider to be one of the best all time hitch hiking signs. I stood at the beginning of the ramp with a sign reading “Please Pick Up Trash” while my friend stood farther on with a sign that said simply “Trash.” In no time at all we had a ride with a couple who immediately complimented us on our cleverness. Unfortunately, when they were through praising us they went back to what appeared to be their favorite pastime: arguing. They argued so much they really should have been called the Bickersons. While my friend and I sat in the back seat, they were in the front continually sniping at one another. And whenever Mrs. Bickerson managed to get a good zinger in, Mr. Bickerson became angrier which then caused him to drive faster until ultimately his driving became a point of contention as well. He dropped out of warp speed long enough to let us out and after our laughter subsided we found one more ride and soon we were home.

With winter approaching, the frequency of my hitchhiking decreased until eventually it was simply too cold for me and my thumb. By the time spring finally rolled around I’d lost my passion for the road and my hitchhiking days were over. For a few months though, my magic thumb and I were able to go anywhere we liked. Although I’m never tempted to stick my thumb out anymore, my recent encounter has left me wondering. Maybe, just maybe, when I’m 80 years old, I’ll see if there is any magic left.

My Grandfather's Car

2008-11-16T09:04:00.002-05:00

Like most parents, I spend a great deal of time shuttling my kids from one exciting event to the next. So much time in fact that it often seems as if the purchase of a chauffeur’s cap might be in order. Although, I’m guessing most chauffeurs do not drive a seven year old Toyota truck. But this one does and the truck is always ready to go. And go we do, to baseball practice, to the football game, or the party at Brian’s house, my trusty old truck delivers the kids to their next adventure. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

It was different when I was young. Getting a ride in those days was a big deal. Of course, we didn’t have anywhere near the amount of activities to attend and when there was an actual event that required our presence we could often walk. But every once in awhile there were places we couldn’t get to without a ride and that’s where my grandfather (otherwise known as the option of last resort) came in.
He was a practical man and drove what was in his mind a practical car, while in my mind it was a rolling source of anxiety. Built by Plymouth in an ugly shade of brown that hasn’t been used on a car since and long enough that the front end had a different zip code from the rear, this was quite possibly the least stylish sedan ever to hit the pavement. It’s also fair to say “sedan” in this case could also have been spelled T-A-N-K. Besides being practical the car was also ultra safe. So safe that if the vaunted Hummer were around in the early 70’s, a collision between the two would have resulted with perhaps a scratch on the Plymouth and certain destruction for the Hummer.

By the time I was in my early teens my grandfather had retired and although he had plenty of time to cruise around in his giant Plymouth, he seemed to have no place he wanted to go. As a result the behemoth sat lurking in the driveway awaiting a destination.

So it was that my best friend Rob and I sometimes provided that destination. Looking back I suppose the “tank” quality of the Plymouth was a good thing as we never wore seatbelts in those days. There were no laws about that yet (Connecticut wouldn’t even allow turning right on red until 1975). The two of us sat in the cavernous back seat, sliding to and fro, finding humor in everything and anything. Often the humor came from my grandfather’s increasing inability to remember the route to our destination and his somewhat questionable driving skills. Of course we would no doubt have been impervious to injury in the Plymouth had any sort of collision occurred but thankfully we were never in an accident, although I do remember a couple of close calls. I attributed these lapses in driving ability to old age but the fact was although we didn’t know it yet, my grandfather was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

Soon the experience proved to be more embarrassing than humorous and ultimately I dreaded asking for a ride in the Plymouth. It was the increasingly adventurous nature of these trips that caused us to bestow “last resort” status on him and his Plymouth and eventually, when even simple trips became potential demolition derbies, it was decided that perhaps it was time for my grandfather to give up driving. Surprisingly, when my grandmother suggested to him that he no longer drive, my grandfather readily agreed.

Life went on. Unfortunately, my grandmother was one of only two people I’ve encountered during my lifetime that never learned to drive (Ironically the other one lives in car happy Los Angeles). Although it wasn’t easy somehow Rob and I managed to find other ways to get around while the Plymouth continued to sit gathering both dust and rust waiting for someone to pilot it.
Around the time of my sixteenth birthday my grandmother asked, almost as an aside, kind of just in passing, a simple seemingly innocuous question. “What” she asked, “did I think about my grandfather’s car?” Unfortunately I responded that it was a car I would never have bought. “It’s too big” I said. I left out my thoughts on its disturbing yet unique color. And that was that. I went about my business, my grandmother went about hers, and the Plymouth languished in the driveway.
Eventually the Plymouth was gone having been either sold or donated. Years (and I mean a lot of years) later the Plymouth somehow became the topic of conversation at a family gathering. “It was a shame that car sat around unused for so long” I said. “We asked if you wanted that car” said my grandmother, “and you didn’t want it.” It took awhile for me to realize that “what do you think about your grandfather’s car?” was secret family code for “would you like to have your grandfather’s car?” When I did, I immediately tried to explain the merits of direct communication to the family. I further explained that while I wouldn’t have purchased the Plymouth (or any other Plymouth for that matter), like any teenager I would have happily accepted and driven what amounted to a free car. Unfortunately, it was just not meant to be.

Meanwhile, back in the present, I’m happy to report no one in my house seems to dread asking for a ride in the Toyota. And because I want to keep it that way, I do my best to get them to their respective appointments with little or no adventure. I will admit though that with my eldest son approaching his sixteenth birthday, I’m sometimes tempted to ask, just for fun of course, “what does he think about my truck?”

TMI

2008-11-06T16:45:00.003-05:00

Recently I was at a party when the topic of conversation turned to people’s sleeping habits, specifically the group was interested in people’s choice of sleeping garments. The answers were what you’d typically expect. The women favored t-shirts and flannel pajamas while most of the men slept in their underwear. One of the men differed however and admitted to sleeping in the nude. After this revelation, amidst the laughter, someone started screaming “TMI, TMI!” For those of you who have been somewhat sheltered these past few years, “TMI” is short for “Too Much Information.” Apparently knowing that someone sleeps naked is too much for some people. But I believe those people are a minority. The truth is that “TMI” is a fairy tale and there is in fact no such thing as “Too Much” information. After all, we’re presently assaulted on a daily basis with all sorts of the most intimate details of people’s lives. This is especially true of celebrities of whom we can never seem to get enough. Whether it’s Lindsay, Brittany, or Brad and Angelina, we want details and the juicier they are the better.

Years ago when Monica had her fling with Bill, the media had a field day and people ate it up. Certainly the details involving practices with cigars or the oft mentioned stained blue dress would seem to qualify as TMI yet the public never seemed to tire of it. More recently, we’ve watched riveted as Brittany Spears life unraveled before our very eyes; we’ve kept track of who Jennifer Aniston is dating and still managed to follow Paris Hilton’s exploits ad nauseum. The proliferation of so called reality shows is further evidence of our insatiable need to know as much as we can about the rich and the famous.

But it doesn’t stop there. Celebrities are certainly used to having their dirty laundry aired on a regular basis but now the average person’s laundry has become increasingly fit for public consumption as well. In my small Connecticut town for instance, where everyone knows everyone and no one is famous, not only do the rumors flow freely, they often come from the unlikeliest of sources. While I expect to hear news at parties and the like, I’m no longer surprised to also come by a tidbit or two in the supermarket, the gas station, or the hardware store. Along with a gallon of milk I can easily pick up a dose of “He said this” and “she did that” and “I heard from you know who that they both denied everything.” In fact, small towns are perfect examples of how “TMI” is really just a myth. Every aspect of everyone’s lives no matter how trivial spreads through town like wild fire. And in the same way we can’t get enough of celebrity gossip, we eagerly lap up the small town details like a cat with a bowl of milk.

Naturally, the internet has contributed mightily to the demise of the “TMI” concept. With information instantly and readily available to everyone and anyone, there are few secrets left anymore and that seems to be okay with us. Furthermore, with the advent of web sites such as YouTube, MySpace, and Facebook, the public’s need for details can now be constantly satisfied and at a moment’s notice. While you might not think it’s important to let the world know you’ve gone out to rake leaves, believe it when I tell you that somewhere, someone wants to know about it. Of course if you’re raking in the buff that’s even better.

Like it or not, we live in a culture where privacy is a thing of the past and we not only value gossip but crave it. So the next time you hear someone say “TMI” don’t believe for one second that they mean it. They might be saying “TMI” but they’re really thinking “TMM” or “Tell Me More.” So it is in the spirit of “TMM” that I hereby admit to the following: I, sleep in the nude.

Politics and Plumbers

2008-10-28T15:51:00.000-04:00

The current Presidential campaign took an interesting turn recently with the introduction of a character called “Joe the Plumber.” It is safe to use the term “character” as Joe it seems is not actually named Joe nor is he a plumber. Senator McCain apparently was attempting to use Joe as a sort of everyman example of the supposed negative effects Senator Obama’s economic policies would have on, well, the “average Joe.” Rather than hold Joe up as a case in point, Senator McCain would have been better off seeking Joe’s (or perhaps an actual plumber’s) council for it has been my experience that plumbers are often filled with nuggets of wisdom.

As explanation I need to back up several years to a time when I myself was elected President. Not of the United States of course. Instead, I managed to somehow get elected President of the local Little League. Although this office holds slightly less responsibility than the one on Pennsylvania Avenue, the challenges are no less daunting.

While much has been made of Barack Obama’s supposed lack of experience, that same lack is never an issue in our league. The number one job requirement is only the willingness to take it on and while I certainly had the willingness I definitely didn’t have any experience.

Nevertheless, I took office and did my best to keep the league running. With the help of a lot of volunteers, things progressed smoothly and in no time at all, opening day was upon us. Opening day is marked by a parade of the entire league followed by a brief ceremony that includes a speech from yours truly the president.

I began with a message for the kids. I urged them to practice. “You don’t just wake up one day and suddenly become a great baseball player, or a great painter, or a writer, or a trumpet player”, I told them. “You cannot simply wake up and be a star overnight. But if you work hard, and practice, and practice, and practice some more, one day you’ll wake up and find you’re a better ball player, a better writer, or a better trumpet player.”

That seemed to go over well and I continued. Next, I had a message for the parents. I encouraged them to get involved. I told everyone that a very wise plumber (whose name is not Joe but is really a plumber) had told me that “if people don’t like the way things are, they should get involved.” He was right and it was that advice that ultimately led to my being President. “Of course being involved can means a lot of things” I continued. “Some parents are coaches or managers, some work in the concessions, and still others rake the fields or cut the grass before a game.” I told the crowd that help was invaluable and that we couldn’t run the league without it.

Then I went on to say that I understood not everyone could coach, or work in the concessions, or even be president. “But you can still be involved” I said. “Play catch in the yard, come to the games, cheer on your kids, and eat at the concession stand. The point is to stay involved in whatever way you can.” That part of the speech also went over well. Obviously it can and should be applied to more than Little League. As I said, he is a very wise plumber.

Of course getting involved is not the easy route. The easy path is to complain without offering any solutions or as the old saying goes “if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” While there will always be those that prefer to sit on the sidelines, thanks to my friend the plumber I’m no longer among them.

Next week someone new will be elected President. Not of the Little League but of the United States. And while I hope that people on both sides continue to stay involved in the issues we’ll be facing, my bigger hope is that the new President surrounds himself with the best minds this country has to offer. If he’s smart, that group will include a plumber.