25 years ago, Tony LaRussa was the manager of the Chicago White Sox. He revitalized a dormant fanbase with hope and the promise of rebuilding the franchise. But after a very slow start in 1986, GM Ken Harrelson, in a move to rival the Cubs' decision to trade away Lou Brock, fired LaRussa after his 8 1/2 years with the Sox. Dumped him, despite the Sox winning the '83 AL West in a runaway, a first of any kind for the team since 1959.
In retrospect, Harrelson's decision to fire LaRussa may have been the stupidest move on or off the field, ever, given LaRussa's later track record with Oakland and now St. Louis. Yes, worse than former Cub Bill Buckner's boot for the Red Sox in game six of the '86 series. Worse than the Barkman debacle. Notice how many Cubs are on the stupid move list?
By the end of next season, LaRussa should be the second winningest manager in baseball history, with only 35 games needed to pass John McGraw. Connie Mack is the top guy. And the two behind LaRussa, Bobby Cox and Joe Torre are retired. I think everybody else is dead.
This year, when the Cardinal bullpen supposedly didn't understand which reliever to start warming up in Game 5 of the World Series, that misunderstanding, bad connection, whatever it was, led to a comedy of errors that had a left-handed pitcher facing a right-handed hitter who eats lefties for lunch. Everybody everywhere knew there had been a huge mistake. I couldn't find the play-by-play, but it is worth a listen as the announcers jabber on and on, completely astonished by the egregious managerial fiasco taking place. One that ended as badly as it could have, and cost St. Louis the game.
After the loss, the consensus was that the Rangers had two tries to win one game. St. Louis was dead in the water. But I knew [like thousands of others] that no matter what act of stupidity had occurred in the fifth game, LaRussa could still win it all. I haven't kept my very old issue of Sports Illustrated that profiled his computerized micro-managerial skills in detail for nothing. I'm only sorry I didn't do my predictin' earlier. When I could have seemed like a freaking genius. Now I'm just another fan who needs a blog entry.
In the end, it was all good news for the Cards. For Chicago White Sox fans -- it could have been better. If LaRussa hadn't had such a miraculous comeback at the end of the season just to make the playoffs, then winning the World Series when most people wrote the Cards off after Game 5, there's a real chance he might have been fired. And with Ozzie Guillen gone, Jerry Reinsdorf might have hired him to manage the Sox again. No, really.
In the end I just couldn't bring myself to root for the Rangers. Even in a town where rooting for the Cardinals is considered heresy. Although cheering for LaRussa is probably just fine.
UPDATE: LaRussa has retired. I'm just sick. On another note -- doesn't he look GOOD for 67?
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
That Was The Week That Was
In case you've been dying to know about my exciting life, here's a recap of Halloween week:
Wednesday night, William McNulty, VP of Team Rubicon, called from LA and left a message that Jake Wood, president of TR had just won GQ's "Better Man Better World" search at the Gentlemen's Ball in NYC. I called back and said, "Holy shit!" I couldn't believe he'd won. With Jake's win, TR gets $15,000 from Movado. He also gets some money and a photo spread in GQ [keep your eye out].
Shades of Mrs. Linklater in green hair and makeup [above]
Thursday night, my randy old ladies' barbershop singing group had its annual Halloween party during our Thursday night rehearsal. Everyone showed up in costume, which ranged from Joyce, who dressed up as Anne Boleyn after the beheading, with her neck wrapped in gauze to keep her head from falling off her body -- to Sue, in a costume that made no sense whatsoever, although she won a prize because the combination of Harlequin clown shirt, blue fright wig and Groucho Marx nose, glasses, and eyebrows made everyone laugh -- to a number of witches, five to be exact, only one of whom [me] went the extra mile and covered her face and hands in green make up.
Yo, Harem Boy, you talking to me?
Little Orphan Annie on Social Security
Given our above average age, there were no attempts to dress as a hooker, since that result would look more like a bag lady than anything resembling Lady Gaga or a Lady of the Evening. There was a geriatric version of little Orphan Annie [above], and an older, plumper version of Cinderella, in a bright pink floor length satin dress and extremely long blond wing. One of my personal favorites was a charming interpretation of the world's oldest harem girl, as well as a cat in leopard fur, a zombie in a top hat that looked like Dick Van Dyke as the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins, a pirate in a really nice brocade vest I wouldn't mind wearing in real life, plus a number of other get ups I can't remember, and someone who came straight from work who only had time to don a pair of devil's horns.
This year is also the 20th anniversary of our conductor keeping us on pitch, so I had a cake made with a poem suggested by our current president, "Congratulations on 20 years, Alice! You make our voices ring and our hearts sing!" For those keeping track, I ordered a yellow cake with raspberry filling and chocolate [not fudge] buttercream frosting. I got to take a nice big piece home with me. And you didn't.
We gave our leader an engraved commemorative crystal frame and a lovely necklace with a gemstone surrounded by diamonds. She said they were the first diamonds she'd ever received. [Meanwhile I noticed last summer that her husband enjoys a 60-inch plasma TV in the living room.]
I think we were only charged double for the jewelry. [I kid.] I guess it helps to have a member of the group whose husband has a jewelry store, no doubt steadily supplied by the large number of pawn shops he also owns.
I think we were only charged double for the jewelry. [I kid.] I guess it helps to have a member of the group whose husband has a jewelry store, no doubt steadily supplied by the large number of pawn shops he also owns.
On Wednesday, I finally got my check for $200 deposit and change from The Lock Up -- several weeks and many phone calls after it had been promised. Asswipes. At our every other month lunch at Kiki's French Bistro, two old friends made fun of me for making such a big deal about $200, after I'd spent $24,000 at the place. Hey, it's the principle of the thing. And you two are extremely well compensated, so poo poo on you.
William McNulty and Jake Wood taking a break in Haiti, 2010
Since the group formed last year the day after the Haiti quake, I have done some volunteer PR for them. I wrote the GQ nomination at the request of TR, because I've had good luck getting him some other awards. When Jake made the five finalists, I read the other nominations and thought mine was the best, if I say so myself. So YAY for me. But mostly it just felt great to be a part of helping Team Rubicon and making a truly useful contribution. Supposedly the writer of the nomination that wins gets an iPad. . .not that I needed any incentive to nominate Jake. I'll donate it back to TR, but first I have to get it. [The guys told me to keep it.]
Emma and Rich in Honolulu
On Tuesday, we got closer to finishing our PSAs for an assistance dog nonprofit, headquartered on Maui in Hawaii. Service dogs are such amazing animals. The people that train them are exceptional too. The relationship between people with disabilities and their dogs is remarkable and I think we've captured the depths of that emotional bond in these spots. Emma and Rich are a wonderful example of that special relationship. I'll post a link to them on YouTube once they're approved. Right now we're figuring out a way to animate the logo and do some retooling of the elements.
My birthday is Sunday. No, really, I can't accept your gifts. I got an invitation from friends to join them for dinner, which is always a nice evening at their house. They have a new dog, a Marley type lab, which, if you've read Marley & Me, means he's the hyperactive American breed, not the calm, easy going British version. But I love dogs, so it should be fun. And there's Sunday night football!! Somewhere there's a man longing for a woman who loves to watch football. As long as she's got Pam Anderson's body. I can't catch a break.
Finally, today, I got an email announcing that a couple I know from a swank, upper middle-class suburb outside Chicago, are now certified Angus beef farmers. He's a doc; she's a marketing person. Now they're farmers. That's like a lawyer and a nurse becoming long haul truckers. They took over his family's farm in Wisconsin and started doing the grass fed organic beef thing, topping off the food cycle with some grain just before the animals are slaughtered, so the meat doesn't have that fresh as fescue taste.
I got to try some of their burgers last summer and the taste was terrific. I was a little skeptical about the flavor because I'd tried Tall Grass Company beef, the grass fed beef from Kansas, started by a former news anchor here in Chicago. And that meat tasted like grass smells when you've just mowed it. So I was pleasantly surprised by the real beef flavor from my friends' Wisconsin farm.
Linda Yellin, author of The Last Blind Date, autographed her book for me
And that's pretty much it for my jetsetter life, unless you want to include the book signing I went to last week and the musical retreat I attended on Saturday. I already wrote about the Dixieland Band memorial service last Sunday. What do you people want from me?
Sunday, October 23, 2011
We've Come A Long Way Baby
Today I went to a memorial service for someone I met only once. Herman was the cranky, 96-year-old husband of a high school classmate, who now sings in the same barbershop choir as I do. I couldn't imagine marrying someone almost thirty years older than I. But she always claimed he looked and acted twenty years younger than he was, so I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Although the man I met a couple of years ago was a dead ringer [pun alert] for Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. And just as charming.
The service was held in a suburb of Chicago, best known for its captains of industry and the extent of its restrictive covenants back in the day. Time was, if you weren't lily white and could trace your ancestors back to the Mayflower, the D.A.R., or the Colonial Dames of America, buying a house in this little enclave of Republican snobs was not an option. I remember when my family was house-hunting in the fifties and our real estate agent made the mistake of showing us a home in this area, assuring us that the village was restricted. That was code for, "We don't sell to members of racial minorities, or worse, Jews." My mother said, "But a lot of our friends are Jewish." She didn't bother to mention my father's Jewish mother. And the woman replied, "Oh, they are allowed to visit." Damn nice of them.
I expected that a memorial service at the 150-year-old nondenominational White Anglo Saxon Protestant church in the middle of this town would be a mix of thee and thou readings from the old and new testaments, a bunch of stodgy hymns, and organ music last heard in the 18th century. Not to mention a boring eulogy by a dottering old pastor, recounting each and every one of the deceased's ninety-six years. I was braced for a long afternoon.
Imagine my surprise when the readings included a poem by Robert Frost and a well-acted excerpt from John Mortimer's British TV show, Rumpole of the Bailey. And in place of the usual Amazing Grace or Abide with Me, one of the hymns was an original composition written by the deceased's daughter for the occasion. She also astonished everyone with a beautiful, operatic rendition of Ave Maria, the only piece of classical "church" music during the service. It was her grandmother's favorite song, and the one she was practicing at home when her father passed away.
In a town most notable as a hotbed of conservative activism -- an oxymoron if there ever was one -- I would hardly expect to find the leader of the local church to be a woman. But there she was, in the pulpit, acknowledging that Herman wasn't really a religious man, in the sense that he went to church on Sundays, but he embraced the ten commandments and lived a moral life with integrity. So those of you expecting the usual religious stuff can relax. We're going to take the road less traveled today. The rules will be relaxed to include some secular favorites instead of the usual biblical ones.
Another surprise was the candor of the tributes. One of Herman's sons told some amusing stories about his stubborn, quick-tempered, workaholic dad, who retired after thirty years from his job to immediately launch his own worldwide consulting firm. Apparently Herman finally stopped working at ninety-two only because he'd outlived all his clients.
About fifteen minutes prior to the start of everything, sure enough, the "band" arrived. Five guys walked out and stood just in front of the pews. There wasn't a cello in the bunch. No violins. No violas. Instead -- a cornet player, clarinet player, trombone player, tuba player, and a five-string banjo player took the stage, as it were.
Apparently the deceased was quite an accomplished woodwind player -- clarinet and sax -- performing with bands in the Catskills as a young man. Until the lure of mechanical engineering and a long career in the more lucrative steel industry beckoned.
When he died, he made it clear he wanted a Dixieland band to play at his funeral. And here they were, replacing the expected organ prelude with the classic New Orleans sounds of "Just a Closer Walk With Thee."
For the next hour we were transported back to Louisiana several times. With one side trip for a glorious piano and clarinet rendition of Take Five, Paul Desmond's brilliant 5/4 jazz composition made famous by the Dave Brubeck Quintet.
I had my flip cam with me, but I didn't feel comfortable taking video during the service. Especially since I hadn't asked permission ahead of time. However, that didn't stop me from finally turning it on to capture the vibrant sound of the Dixieland music that filled the church. Unfortunately the video portion is locked onto the membership card in the back of the pew in front of me. But if you make to the end [four minutes or so] I let the camera take a quick peek and you'll see the band. Here's the YouTube LINK.
When the group finished playing their first number, everybody clapped, as we continued to do after all their numbers throughout the service. At that point, the pastor turned to everyone and announced, "I want them to play at MY funeral!"
Me too.
The service was held in a suburb of Chicago, best known for its captains of industry and the extent of its restrictive covenants back in the day. Time was, if you weren't lily white and could trace your ancestors back to the Mayflower, the D.A.R., or the Colonial Dames of America, buying a house in this little enclave of Republican snobs was not an option. I remember when my family was house-hunting in the fifties and our real estate agent made the mistake of showing us a home in this area, assuring us that the village was restricted. That was code for, "We don't sell to members of racial minorities, or worse, Jews." My mother said, "But a lot of our friends are Jewish." She didn't bother to mention my father's Jewish mother. And the woman replied, "Oh, they are allowed to visit." Damn nice of them.
I expected that a memorial service at the 150-year-old nondenominational White Anglo Saxon Protestant church in the middle of this town would be a mix of thee and thou readings from the old and new testaments, a bunch of stodgy hymns, and organ music last heard in the 18th century. Not to mention a boring eulogy by a dottering old pastor, recounting each and every one of the deceased's ninety-six years. I was braced for a long afternoon.
Imagine my surprise when the readings included a poem by Robert Frost and a well-acted excerpt from John Mortimer's British TV show, Rumpole of the Bailey. And in place of the usual Amazing Grace or Abide with Me, one of the hymns was an original composition written by the deceased's daughter for the occasion. She also astonished everyone with a beautiful, operatic rendition of Ave Maria, the only piece of classical "church" music during the service. It was her grandmother's favorite song, and the one she was practicing at home when her father passed away.
In a town most notable as a hotbed of conservative activism -- an oxymoron if there ever was one -- I would hardly expect to find the leader of the local church to be a woman. But there she was, in the pulpit, acknowledging that Herman wasn't really a religious man, in the sense that he went to church on Sundays, but he embraced the ten commandments and lived a moral life with integrity. So those of you expecting the usual religious stuff can relax. We're going to take the road less traveled today. The rules will be relaxed to include some secular favorites instead of the usual biblical ones.
Another surprise was the candor of the tributes. One of Herman's sons told some amusing stories about his stubborn, quick-tempered, workaholic dad, who retired after thirty years from his job to immediately launch his own worldwide consulting firm. Apparently Herman finally stopped working at ninety-two only because he'd outlived all his clients.
Never one to sit around, Herman was always busy doing something, rebuilding the engine of his unsafe-at-any-speed Corvair, re-habbing his antique Criss Craft, doing all the maintenance at the family's resort in Michigan, or tinkering around their ski condo in Colorado. Sometimes he had his family helping with these operations at midnight, in zero degree weather. He was one tough old bird.
His son ended his tribute to his father with a poignant, moving summary of their relationship, "He wasn't the best dad there ever was. But he was my dad. And I loved him."
The biggest surprise of all happened early. It began when I arrived at the church. I got a program and stood with others in the back, waiting, because we were told it was too early to be seated. Not until the band started. The band? In this church? For a memorial service? In a town that embraced Barry Goldwater like a brother in 1964? Maybe they were just kidding, calling the fancy string quartets that usually play at this type of venue "the band." A little Protestant humor. About fifteen minutes prior to the start of everything, sure enough, the "band" arrived. Five guys walked out and stood just in front of the pews. There wasn't a cello in the bunch. No violins. No violas. Instead -- a cornet player, clarinet player, trombone player, tuba player, and a five-string banjo player took the stage, as it were.
Apparently the deceased was quite an accomplished woodwind player -- clarinet and sax -- performing with bands in the Catskills as a young man. Until the lure of mechanical engineering and a long career in the more lucrative steel industry beckoned.
When he died, he made it clear he wanted a Dixieland band to play at his funeral. And here they were, replacing the expected organ prelude with the classic New Orleans sounds of "Just a Closer Walk With Thee."
For the next hour we were transported back to Louisiana several times. With one side trip for a glorious piano and clarinet rendition of Take Five, Paul Desmond's brilliant 5/4 jazz composition made famous by the Dave Brubeck Quintet.
I had my flip cam with me, but I didn't feel comfortable taking video during the service. Especially since I hadn't asked permission ahead of time. However, that didn't stop me from finally turning it on to capture the vibrant sound of the Dixieland music that filled the church. Unfortunately the video portion is locked onto the membership card in the back of the pew in front of me. But if you make to the end [four minutes or so] I let the camera take a quick peek and you'll see the band. Here's the YouTube LINK.
When the group finished playing their first number, everybody clapped, as we continued to do after all their numbers throughout the service. At that point, the pastor turned to everyone and announced, "I want them to play at MY funeral!"
Me too.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Let's Put The Lock Up Out Of Business
Sometimes I wake up wondering how I'll spend the day. Other times, I want to focus my efforts on putting a self storage company out of business. Interesting how organizations behaving badly can help a person find a mission in life.
After more than ten years of renting two self storage lockers from The Lock Up, which does business in eight states and has about fourteen facilities in the Chicago area alone, I decided to stop throwing money down that bottomless pit any longer. Articles like THIS ONE pointed out that I could have purchased what I was storing several times with the amount I was paying in fees. Ten years times $200 per month -- you do the math. That was $24,000 I'd never see again. Did I mention I bought into the heated and air conditioned upgrade too?
The monthly rent isn't all you can expect. Be ready for the usurious late fees The Lock Up charges. You can expect loan shark quality "vig" if your payment is one minute past the grace period.
The late charges begin at 20% of the monthly fee and continue to grow to as much as 50% if you don't pay by 30 days. So if your locker costs $100, you're looking at $150+ by the end of the month. Who is regulating the business practices of these storage companies?
Fortunately, with one exception, the considerate people who used to work at my location always gave me a heads up phone call -- against the rules -- to help me avoid the kinds of penalties banks can only dream of.
And then there are the attractive low-low rental fees. For several years I paid a fairly stable amount for the two lockers I rented, which, like most people who get sucked into self storage, began as a "special." Surprisingly, the monthly increase went up only $10 per locker, or 10%, in all that time. To economize this last year, I downgraded to two unheated lockers so I could save $80 a month. That decision alone cut my fees almost by half.
However, there was a change in management I was told. Sure, the new people who worked at my location were still helpful, friendly, and considerate, but a mere six months later, my new, much lower locker fees suddenly jumped by 28%. With no warning. I was told this was standard practice. For who? The Russian Mafia? The rates that suck you in only last for six months. Didn't the credit card companies get into trouble for similar behavior?
Apparently there's nothing to stop them from raising the prices as high as they want. Just try to find an alternative. Check for yourself. Self storage prices tend to be the same across the board. Is that the fires of hell or do I smell collusion?
I get the impression that building a storage facility is a license to print money to begin with, so why this need to gouge the renters? Wait, I bet I know. Because they can. Scratch the surface of this industry and I'm sure there's an "association" of self storage companies that meets in warm spots during winter for annual meetings. They probably don't bother the latest improvements in aluminum garage doors and cinder block construction, when price fixing is so much more fun.
The introductory price scam is when I knew I had to move everything out.
On September fifth, with my lockers now empty, I signed all the exit papers and I was told I would receive my initial $200 deposit in two weeks. I had actually forgotten about the deposit, so, in a way, it felt like found money.
On the other hand, it was money that had been sitting for over ten years in somebody else's bank account, adding interest. Not much, but money I'd never see.
As it turns out, they were going to make me work for my refund.
Two weeks passed after moving out and no check. Was this going to be their final stick it to me?
Four weeks passed and still no check, so I called and asked someone at the location to find out when the check was sent out. Based on their original promise, I should have had the check by September 19th, I pointed out.
It was sent out September 21st they told me. So what you really meant to say was I won't be getting the check in two weeks, because you don't send it out until after two weeks have passed.
The problem, I pointed out, is that it was now October 5th, almost two weeks after the check supposedly went out on September 21st.
So where is the check?
They actually told me it was in the mail. And it was the post office's fault that I didn't have it. Maybe my address was incorrect they added. Or the check was delivered to the wrong address. Then I'd have to wait until the post office sent it back to them. And they didn't know when that would be.
If I were using their late fee penalty structure, they'd owe me $300 by now. And another $60 as of last Friday.
I called back. I've been getting mail from you for a decade. I don't think it was sent to the wrong address. The post office isn't the bad guy here. Stop payment on the check and cut a new one I told them. Once again they did nothing and blamed the post office.
Keep in mind that during all this, I'm not talking to anyone at the corporate office where people actually write the check. I can only talk to the call center or the location where I rented. These are the people stuck in the middle between a disgruntled customer and the corporate toadies. They have to relay my messages back and forth, to and from corporate, because I'm not allowed to to talk directly to the people who are responsible for this mess. In case you're wondering, the location and phone number of the corporate office are not provided anywhere on the website. I wonder why?
Another week goes by.
I call again. Hello, I didn't get the check. In fact, I have no proof you people even sent me a check. I only have your word. Here's what you're going to tell corporate to do, I said, repeating myself, because clearly no one was listening -- stop payment on the first check, tell them to cut me a new one, and send it to me today.
That was last week. This week -- still no check.
Yesterday morning I called to say that I had spent over $20,000 with the company and if I didn't get a check FedExed to me for today [Wednesday], I would write about their slimy operation in my blog. Based on the number of friends I have who worry constantly about showing up in an entry, I thought that should put some real 'I'll show you a thing or two" fear into them. For at least a minute or two.
Yesterday afternoon, I got a message saying that the people in The Lock Up accounting department claimed that the check had been returned by the post office. And they were going to cut me another check! But, now they wanted to know whether I wanted it sent to the rental location or my home? What is it about sending ME a check that they don't understand?
This was followed by another message saying oops there was a misunderstanding. The check didn't actually get sent back to The Lock Up, but they definitely were going to stop payment on the first one and send me a new one. Like this was suddenly their idea. And [once again] did I want it sent to my house or the rental location?
Before I could call back, I got yet another message this morning reiterating that The Lock Up would stop payment and cut a new check [rinse and repeat], but they wouldn't be sending it to me via FedEx. [Big mistake.] And now I had no choice -- they were sending the check to the rental location instead of my house. Stupid just keeps getting stupider.
So I called the location where I had rented and I asked when was the check going out? He didn't know. I said it better go out today [Wednesday]. And I better get it by Friday.
Then I asked him what state the corporate offices were located in. He told me he'd have to call his boss to get permission to give me that information.
Really? You have to have permission to tell me that? I just want to know which state. Illinois it turns out. But call your boss anyway and ask him if you can give me the address and phone number of your corporate offices.
He'll get back to me.
I will post it here.
Meanwhile, what are the odds I will get a check by Friday? Zero, it turns out.
Nothing arrived Friday, October 21st.
Nothing arrived Saturday, October 22nd.
Nothing arrived on Monday, October 24th. When I called the location, I was told that the check would arrive on Tuesday or Wednesday, "by the latest."
Nothing arrived on Tuesday, October 25th, but when I called my former location, a substitute answered the phone. So, figuring she didn't know about the embargo, I asked, "Can you give me the phone number and address of the corporate offices?" "Sure. 847.441.7477." The address that goes with that phone number is 800 Frontage Road, Northfield, IL 60093 in case you want to join me on a picket line.
Today, October 26th, five weeks after it was promised and seven weeks after I moved everything out, a check arrived at the location where I used to rent my lockers.
The amount of the check was strange: $204.14. It's possible that the original rental was $102 per locker. I know it reached $110 after several years. But I have no idea where the $.14 cents came from. So, I'll write and ask.
FIRST UPDATE: Wednesday, October 19th: I've done a little sleuthing and found the name of the owner of the company, Bob Soudan. I have also found out that the company that owns The Lock Up Development Group seems go be a holding company for a number of real estate ventures -- BRB Development, LLC. And the address listed for their corporate offices is in the next town. A mere four miles away. I have the feeling that they aren't going to mail the second check. Somebody will probably drive it over to my rental location instead. So they can save a stamp. That's how cheap they are.
I read where The Lock Up is considered the leader in the self storage industry's association. I knew they had to have one. So that would make them in charge of the price fixing for the entire industry I suppose. Ooops, did I say that out loud?
The article mentions the owner's son, Bob, Jr. and son-in-law, Rick Hielscher, as taking over the business. What's interesting is that the son-in-law has the same name as a guy who grew up in my hometown, was a 6'8" center on my high school's basketball team, and an All Ivy player at Princeton. And used to work at Leo Burnett ad agency. He would also be the son of a guy I used to work with at my ad agency. Turns out he is listed on LinkedIn so I checked his profile. Bingo. One and the same guy. Got an address and and a phone number for the bidness. So I can just ease on down the road tomorrow. . .
I'll keep you posted.
After more than ten years of renting two self storage lockers from The Lock Up, which does business in eight states and has about fourteen facilities in the Chicago area alone, I decided to stop throwing money down that bottomless pit any longer. Articles like THIS ONE pointed out that I could have purchased what I was storing several times with the amount I was paying in fees. Ten years times $200 per month -- you do the math. That was $24,000 I'd never see again. Did I mention I bought into the heated and air conditioned upgrade too?
The monthly rent isn't all you can expect. Be ready for the usurious late fees The Lock Up charges. You can expect loan shark quality "vig" if your payment is one minute past the grace period.
The late charges begin at 20% of the monthly fee and continue to grow to as much as 50% if you don't pay by 30 days. So if your locker costs $100, you're looking at $150+ by the end of the month. Who is regulating the business practices of these storage companies?
Fortunately, with one exception, the considerate people who used to work at my location always gave me a heads up phone call -- against the rules -- to help me avoid the kinds of penalties banks can only dream of.
And then there are the attractive low-low rental fees. For several years I paid a fairly stable amount for the two lockers I rented, which, like most people who get sucked into self storage, began as a "special." Surprisingly, the monthly increase went up only $10 per locker, or 10%, in all that time. To economize this last year, I downgraded to two unheated lockers so I could save $80 a month. That decision alone cut my fees almost by half.
However, there was a change in management I was told. Sure, the new people who worked at my location were still helpful, friendly, and considerate, but a mere six months later, my new, much lower locker fees suddenly jumped by 28%. With no warning. I was told this was standard practice. For who? The Russian Mafia? The rates that suck you in only last for six months. Didn't the credit card companies get into trouble for similar behavior?
Apparently there's nothing to stop them from raising the prices as high as they want. Just try to find an alternative. Check for yourself. Self storage prices tend to be the same across the board. Is that the fires of hell or do I smell collusion?
I get the impression that building a storage facility is a license to print money to begin with, so why this need to gouge the renters? Wait, I bet I know. Because they can. Scratch the surface of this industry and I'm sure there's an "association" of self storage companies that meets in warm spots during winter for annual meetings. They probably don't bother the latest improvements in aluminum garage doors and cinder block construction, when price fixing is so much more fun.
The introductory price scam is when I knew I had to move everything out.
On September fifth, with my lockers now empty, I signed all the exit papers and I was told I would receive my initial $200 deposit in two weeks. I had actually forgotten about the deposit, so, in a way, it felt like found money.
On the other hand, it was money that had been sitting for over ten years in somebody else's bank account, adding interest. Not much, but money I'd never see.
As it turns out, they were going to make me work for my refund.
Two weeks passed after moving out and no check. Was this going to be their final stick it to me?
Four weeks passed and still no check, so I called and asked someone at the location to find out when the check was sent out. Based on their original promise, I should have had the check by September 19th, I pointed out.
It was sent out September 21st they told me. So what you really meant to say was I won't be getting the check in two weeks, because you don't send it out until after two weeks have passed.
The problem, I pointed out, is that it was now October 5th, almost two weeks after the check supposedly went out on September 21st.
So where is the check?
They actually told me it was in the mail. And it was the post office's fault that I didn't have it. Maybe my address was incorrect they added. Or the check was delivered to the wrong address. Then I'd have to wait until the post office sent it back to them. And they didn't know when that would be.
If I were using their late fee penalty structure, they'd owe me $300 by now. And another $60 as of last Friday.
I called back. I've been getting mail from you for a decade. I don't think it was sent to the wrong address. The post office isn't the bad guy here. Stop payment on the check and cut a new one I told them. Once again they did nothing and blamed the post office.
Keep in mind that during all this, I'm not talking to anyone at the corporate office where people actually write the check. I can only talk to the call center or the location where I rented. These are the people stuck in the middle between a disgruntled customer and the corporate toadies. They have to relay my messages back and forth, to and from corporate, because I'm not allowed to to talk directly to the people who are responsible for this mess. In case you're wondering, the location and phone number of the corporate office are not provided anywhere on the website. I wonder why?
Another week goes by.
I call again. Hello, I didn't get the check. In fact, I have no proof you people even sent me a check. I only have your word. Here's what you're going to tell corporate to do, I said, repeating myself, because clearly no one was listening -- stop payment on the first check, tell them to cut me a new one, and send it to me today.
That was last week. This week -- still no check.
Yesterday morning I called to say that I had spent over $20,000 with the company and if I didn't get a check FedExed to me for today [Wednesday], I would write about their slimy operation in my blog. Based on the number of friends I have who worry constantly about showing up in an entry, I thought that should put some real 'I'll show you a thing or two" fear into them. For at least a minute or two.
Yesterday afternoon, I got a message saying that the people in The Lock Up accounting department claimed that the check had been returned by the post office. And they were going to cut me another check! But, now they wanted to know whether I wanted it sent to the rental location or my home? What is it about sending ME a check that they don't understand?
This was followed by another message saying oops there was a misunderstanding. The check didn't actually get sent back to The Lock Up, but they definitely were going to stop payment on the first one and send me a new one. Like this was suddenly their idea. And [once again] did I want it sent to my house or the rental location?
Before I could call back, I got yet another message this morning reiterating that The Lock Up would stop payment and cut a new check [rinse and repeat], but they wouldn't be sending it to me via FedEx. [Big mistake.] And now I had no choice -- they were sending the check to the rental location instead of my house. Stupid just keeps getting stupider.
So I called the location where I had rented and I asked when was the check going out? He didn't know. I said it better go out today [Wednesday]. And I better get it by Friday.
Then I asked him what state the corporate offices were located in. He told me he'd have to call his boss to get permission to give me that information.
Really? You have to have permission to tell me that? I just want to know which state. Illinois it turns out. But call your boss anyway and ask him if you can give me the address and phone number of your corporate offices.
He'll get back to me.
I will post it here.
Meanwhile, what are the odds I will get a check by Friday? Zero, it turns out.
Nothing arrived Friday, October 21st.
Nothing arrived Saturday, October 22nd.
Nothing arrived on Monday, October 24th. When I called the location, I was told that the check would arrive on Tuesday or Wednesday, "by the latest."
Nothing arrived on Tuesday, October 25th, but when I called my former location, a substitute answered the phone. So, figuring she didn't know about the embargo, I asked, "Can you give me the phone number and address of the corporate offices?" "Sure. 847.441.7477." The address that goes with that phone number is 800 Frontage Road, Northfield, IL 60093 in case you want to join me on a picket line.
Today, October 26th, five weeks after it was promised and seven weeks after I moved everything out, a check arrived at the location where I used to rent my lockers.
The amount of the check was strange: $204.14. It's possible that the original rental was $102 per locker. I know it reached $110 after several years. But I have no idea where the $.14 cents came from. So, I'll write and ask.
FIRST UPDATE: Wednesday, October 19th: I've done a little sleuthing and found the name of the owner of the company, Bob Soudan. I have also found out that the company that owns The Lock Up Development Group seems go be a holding company for a number of real estate ventures -- BRB Development, LLC. And the address listed for their corporate offices is in the next town. A mere four miles away. I have the feeling that they aren't going to mail the second check. Somebody will probably drive it over to my rental location instead. So they can save a stamp. That's how cheap they are.
I read where The Lock Up is considered the leader in the self storage industry's association. I knew they had to have one. So that would make them in charge of the price fixing for the entire industry I suppose. Ooops, did I say that out loud?
The article mentions the owner's son, Bob, Jr. and son-in-law, Rick Hielscher, as taking over the business. What's interesting is that the son-in-law has the same name as a guy who grew up in my hometown, was a 6'8" center on my high school's basketball team, and an All Ivy player at Princeton. And used to work at Leo Burnett ad agency. He would also be the son of a guy I used to work with at my ad agency. Turns out he is listed on LinkedIn so I checked his profile. Bingo. One and the same guy. Got an address and and a phone number for the bidness. So I can just ease on down the road tomorrow. . .
I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
High School Reunion Photo from Hell
This photo was sent to me with the caption, "EVIDENCE." I think you can figure out which one of these brave souls was moi, performing at great personal risk during our 50th high school reunion gala. I hope my attempts at cheerleading didn't detract from the exertions of my friend in the gold sequined jacket, who was president of student council in our former life. The other guy was president of the class. Which one of them do you think is a retired rear admiral? And which one was a neurosurgeon? I'm sure both of them are sorry I have a blog. The demure lady in the background begged me ahead of time not to mention her. Ooops.
Monday, October 17, 2011
To Eat or Not to Eat is Never a Question
Most of the world has post mortems. This is a post prandial. While my other classmates may have come to our 50th high school reunion last weekend to engage in lively conversation and revel in the camaraderie, I mainly showed up for the food. Food is associated with all events in my life -- especially when the food or the event is particularly good or particularly bad. There's almost no recall when my food/event experience has been in between.
The gastronomic highlight of the long, difficult twenty-four hours I spent birthing my first child without anesthesia was the tray of four-star hospital food in the recovery room -- artificially flavored strawberry jello, canned vanilla pudding, watery cottage cheese with canned pineapple on top, a carton of milk, and a plastic cup of reconstituted orange juice -- all of which I inhaled like a starving dog. My second child only took five hours and I have no recollection of food at all.
Two beautiful wedding receptions are forever etched in my memory because one had the best cake I ever tasted, most notable for its light, butterscotch filling. The other left a permanent mark because the cake must have been baked during the Roosevelt administration. Clearly the fancy New York hotel where the reception was held didn't know you can't freeze pastry indefinitely. Slapping buttercream on the top and sides won't mask that distinctive, moldy flavor.
The craft service table [a production term which means snacks to civilians] can make or break the success of a movie/ad shoot. One of the first things anybody talks about on the set isn't the actors, the director, or the script, it's the quality of the craft table food. They can have donut holes, chips and dip, everything from fancy pretzels to Twinkles, sushi to soup, but no gold stars unless they've got Peanut M&Ms. The same goes for focus groups. I've spent hours and hours in dark rooms behind two-way glass watching fat people drink diet Coke and claim they only eat egg whites and never put sugar on their cereal. So there better be some good snacks in that room to keep my strength up. The finest testimonial for a focus group facility will always be, "They have great snacks." The best place is in Atlanta, by the way.
The tastiest meal I ever had, while shooting a commercial, was in Los Angeles after a very long, tedious day. Most of us were expecting the La La Land treatment, which usually means going out to a fancy restaurant, or having a caterer bring in stuff you don't recognize, or just ordering Japanese/Thai/Mexican food. Imagine our surprise when the producer had a Thanksgiving dinner brought in -- the works -- turkey, dressing, green beans, yams, mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, and cranberry sauce with pecan and pumpkin pies for dessert. I think it was April. We were in heaven. In the land of sushi and green tea, that midwestern comfort food really hit the spot.
So, for me, while my 50th high school reunion had much to recommend it, the food will be what I remember most. In fact, this entry is taking shape about 24 hours after eating the final food offering, a truly uninspiring breakfast buffet at the headquarters hotel that I may just forget about.
Originally touted as a Sunday Brunch, the 9:30 AM start suggested otherwise. So no chance of pasta or any kind of salad, quiche, or frittatas. This was going to be eggs and bacon stuff, maybe with pancakes/french toast/waffles. A girl can hope.
I'll mention that this repast was the third leg of an overpriced weekend that I bitched about HERE]. Considering that I didn't need a hotel room, because I live in the area, plus I don't drink alcohol, $165 for some hors d'hoeuvres one night and two other meals was excessive. In fact, if you only went to one event you still had to pay $165. Yes, I got a ball cap with our school colors and class year on it. Yes, I got a book called "Reflections" with my classmates' memories about high school and details of how they've spent their last fifty years. [No, I didn't contribute to it, but now they're doing an addendum, so I'm getting some pressure to write something.]
Back at the buffet, I chose the scrambled eggs because no pancakes or french toast was offered. No bacon or sausage either. Or cereal. Or yogurt. There was fruit -- but when I was in line, there was no sliced cantaloupe, watermelon, blueberries, or strawberries as one might expect -- just bowls filled with apples and oranges. You were left to slice and dice them yourself. Fortunately, there were some bananas so I took one. However, instead of making my own toast -- there was actually a toaster for the do-it-yourself-ers -- I took a blueberry muffin and some honey, picked up a bottle of 10% cranberry juice/90% water, and stuck a can of V8 in my purse for later.
I went back to make myself some tea, but decided to have some coffee instead. Like many people who don't embrace those roasted beans as their primary caffeine delivery system, I concocted a brew with half half & half and half de-caf Gevalia plus four or five, maybe even six raw sugars. I tend to eschew coffee in general, thus the addition of a large amount of cream and plenty of sugar, so it tasted like melted ice cream. However, the taste of the Gevalia, even though it had to wend its way through all that sweetness and moo-juice was surprisingly smooth and delicious. That coffee is now imprinted on the hotel reunion breakfast forever. The rest of it, not so much.
Our buffet dinner at the venerable lakefront club the night before was so-so. There were two food lines: one for pasta, the other for carved meat. The problem was that if you were in one line, no one told you that the other line had a completely different selection of food. For quality comparison, I was at a football banquet catered by Outback steakhouse that served a better buffet in the cafeteria of a high school. Plenty of their excellent steak or chicken for everybody. Rolls. Baked potatoes. Butter. Sour cream. And Caesar salad. And dessert. For a lot less than the fancy club that would never want me as a member and excluded a good portion of my classmates because they weren't the right religion or color back in those halcyon days of yesteryear.
Meanwhile, back at the party with three hundred senior citizens, I was hungry. I had already spent twenty minutes in a two-block long line, just to valet park my car, and suffered through a well-meant, but poorly executed tribute to our 107 dead classmates [one of them murdered by her husband], followed by a presentation honoring our Reunion Chairman For Life who is fighting cancer. So I was in a "Somebody feed me!" mood. I picked one of the lines and had a chef assemble me a plate with cooked chicken and mushrooms tossed with Alfredo sauce and poured over bow tie pasta. When I found out there was roast beef at the other table, I was sorely tempted, but I decided not to load up my purse for later.
There were other reunions with food during the 50th reunion weekend festivities. On Saturday afternoon, three or four of the different junior high schools we attended had separate gatherings. Since my group met from 2 to 4, I wondered if there would be any snacks or would they try to get out of serving anything because it was the middle of the afternoon. These are white people. We do stuff like that. What was I thinking? Of course our hostess served food. She served tasty cheeses, gourmet crackers, several kinds of spectacular dips and chips, plus homemade bundt cake and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with all kinds of refreshments. I arrived a couple of minutes early and stayed late.
The best food I had all weekend. And it didn't cost me a thing.
The gastronomic highlight of the long, difficult twenty-four hours I spent birthing my first child without anesthesia was the tray of four-star hospital food in the recovery room -- artificially flavored strawberry jello, canned vanilla pudding, watery cottage cheese with canned pineapple on top, a carton of milk, and a plastic cup of reconstituted orange juice -- all of which I inhaled like a starving dog. My second child only took five hours and I have no recollection of food at all.
Two beautiful wedding receptions are forever etched in my memory because one had the best cake I ever tasted, most notable for its light, butterscotch filling. The other left a permanent mark because the cake must have been baked during the Roosevelt administration. Clearly the fancy New York hotel where the reception was held didn't know you can't freeze pastry indefinitely. Slapping buttercream on the top and sides won't mask that distinctive, moldy flavor.
The craft service table [a production term which means snacks to civilians] can make or break the success of a movie/ad shoot. One of the first things anybody talks about on the set isn't the actors, the director, or the script, it's the quality of the craft table food. They can have donut holes, chips and dip, everything from fancy pretzels to Twinkles, sushi to soup, but no gold stars unless they've got Peanut M&Ms. The same goes for focus groups. I've spent hours and hours in dark rooms behind two-way glass watching fat people drink diet Coke and claim they only eat egg whites and never put sugar on their cereal. So there better be some good snacks in that room to keep my strength up. The finest testimonial for a focus group facility will always be, "They have great snacks." The best place is in Atlanta, by the way.
The tastiest meal I ever had, while shooting a commercial, was in Los Angeles after a very long, tedious day. Most of us were expecting the La La Land treatment, which usually means going out to a fancy restaurant, or having a caterer bring in stuff you don't recognize, or just ordering Japanese/Thai/Mexican food. Imagine our surprise when the producer had a Thanksgiving dinner brought in -- the works -- turkey, dressing, green beans, yams, mashed potatoes, homemade gravy, and cranberry sauce with pecan and pumpkin pies for dessert. I think it was April. We were in heaven. In the land of sushi and green tea, that midwestern comfort food really hit the spot.
So, for me, while my 50th high school reunion had much to recommend it, the food will be what I remember most. In fact, this entry is taking shape about 24 hours after eating the final food offering, a truly uninspiring breakfast buffet at the headquarters hotel that I may just forget about.
Originally touted as a Sunday Brunch, the 9:30 AM start suggested otherwise. So no chance of pasta or any kind of salad, quiche, or frittatas. This was going to be eggs and bacon stuff, maybe with pancakes/french toast/waffles. A girl can hope.
I'll mention that this repast was the third leg of an overpriced weekend that I bitched about HERE]. Considering that I didn't need a hotel room, because I live in the area, plus I don't drink alcohol, $165 for some hors d'hoeuvres one night and two other meals was excessive. In fact, if you only went to one event you still had to pay $165. Yes, I got a ball cap with our school colors and class year on it. Yes, I got a book called "Reflections" with my classmates' memories about high school and details of how they've spent their last fifty years. [No, I didn't contribute to it, but now they're doing an addendum, so I'm getting some pressure to write something.]
Back at the buffet, I chose the scrambled eggs because no pancakes or french toast was offered. No bacon or sausage either. Or cereal. Or yogurt. There was fruit -- but when I was in line, there was no sliced cantaloupe, watermelon, blueberries, or strawberries as one might expect -- just bowls filled with apples and oranges. You were left to slice and dice them yourself. Fortunately, there were some bananas so I took one. However, instead of making my own toast -- there was actually a toaster for the do-it-yourself-ers -- I took a blueberry muffin and some honey, picked up a bottle of 10% cranberry juice/90% water, and stuck a can of V8 in my purse for later.
I went back to make myself some tea, but decided to have some coffee instead. Like many people who don't embrace those roasted beans as their primary caffeine delivery system, I concocted a brew with half half & half and half de-caf Gevalia plus four or five, maybe even six raw sugars. I tend to eschew coffee in general, thus the addition of a large amount of cream and plenty of sugar, so it tasted like melted ice cream. However, the taste of the Gevalia, even though it had to wend its way through all that sweetness and moo-juice was surprisingly smooth and delicious. That coffee is now imprinted on the hotel reunion breakfast forever. The rest of it, not so much.
Our buffet dinner at the venerable lakefront club the night before was so-so. There were two food lines: one for pasta, the other for carved meat. The problem was that if you were in one line, no one told you that the other line had a completely different selection of food. For quality comparison, I was at a football banquet catered by Outback steakhouse that served a better buffet in the cafeteria of a high school. Plenty of their excellent steak or chicken for everybody. Rolls. Baked potatoes. Butter. Sour cream. And Caesar salad. And dessert. For a lot less than the fancy club that would never want me as a member and excluded a good portion of my classmates because they weren't the right religion or color back in those halcyon days of yesteryear.
Meanwhile, back at the party with three hundred senior citizens, I was hungry. I had already spent twenty minutes in a two-block long line, just to valet park my car, and suffered through a well-meant, but poorly executed tribute to our 107 dead classmates [one of them murdered by her husband], followed by a presentation honoring our Reunion Chairman For Life who is fighting cancer. So I was in a "Somebody feed me!" mood. I picked one of the lines and had a chef assemble me a plate with cooked chicken and mushrooms tossed with Alfredo sauce and poured over bow tie pasta. When I found out there was roast beef at the other table, I was sorely tempted, but I decided not to load up my purse for later.
There were other reunions with food during the 50th reunion weekend festivities. On Saturday afternoon, three or four of the different junior high schools we attended had separate gatherings. Since my group met from 2 to 4, I wondered if there would be any snacks or would they try to get out of serving anything because it was the middle of the afternoon. These are white people. We do stuff like that. What was I thinking? Of course our hostess served food. She served tasty cheeses, gourmet crackers, several kinds of spectacular dips and chips, plus homemade bundt cake and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with all kinds of refreshments. I arrived a couple of minutes early and stayed late.
The best food I had all weekend. And it didn't cost me a thing.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
In the Belly of the Bitch
$165 for three events at my 50th high school reunion. Too much to pay for too little in return. The festivities have started with a Friday night meet and greet reception at the hotel. Next is a dinner at an exclusive club tonight. And finally, a brunch back at the hotel tomorrow morning. I'll whine again -- $165 is wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay too much to charge, if what I experienced last night is any indication.
First of all, there was a CASH bar. Really? So even a glass of wine or a bottle of beer wasn't included. Nevermind that I don't drink, it's the principle. Second my hors d'hoeuvres haul was a total of four little meatballs on toothpicks, and a quarter sized crab thing dipped in a sauce. I also had a tiny plate of antipasto from the hors d'hoeuvres table. Not that I wouldn't have gnoshed on more, but more wasn't offered by the waiters walking around in their black jackets.
Assume $80 per person for the dinner we're having this evening and slightly over $40 for the food at each of the other events. So last night, just one of the four meatballs I had cost me $8 if you factor in the crab thing. And the antipasto was maybe worth about $.50. Little pieces of vegetables, sliced black olives, canned artichokes, one-inch wedges of lunch meat and oil. Make that $.25.
You can get a decent -- make that splendid -- meal at a nice restaurant for $80 a person. At that price, tonight's upcoming dinner should also include libations, even if I won't be having any. Which is another thing. People who don't drink always get soaked. Regardless, the way things are going, I'm sure the main course will be some kind of dressed up chicken. And the most anybody can expect to accompany this feast will be a glass of two-buck Chuck, if they're lucky.
I've allotted $40 for tomorrow's brunch. Seriously, $40 for brunch? At a suburban hotel? You gotta be kidding. But I probably got a reunion goody bag, right? Sure. A Whole Foods plastic grocery bag with my nametag in it.
I mention all this high finance because my girlfriend is in town for her reunion and they're having similar events -- a Friday night meet and greet, Saturday dinner, and Sunday brunch. So we've been comparing costs. She went to a fancy private academy. I went to a public school. And she's only being charged $60.
Last night I found out that the reunion committee treasurer is taking a two week trip to Europe at the end of the month. Coincidence? I think not.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
And the horse you rode in on. . .
I've been dodging the cops lately. Nothing a new sticker that I haven't had time to purchase wouldn't prevent. But the fact is I've been turning into alleys and taking detours at the sight of a police car for fear that one of them will accidentally notice that February 2006 seems a bit last year. And since my need to keep tabs on law enforcement is generally limited to appreciating a man in uniform, except when it comes to wellness checks, I have been surprised to discover that the new cop cars can operate in stealth mode. Their silhouettes no longer display the telltale horned roof of a law enforcement vehicle.
Whereas old school cop cars had those honking huge garbage pail lights on top of their squad cars, the new ones are so low profile you might think the car behind you is sporting a luggage rack, until it starts flashing red and blue lights. On a couple of occasions, while trying to determine whether a car was a cop or not, I've stared into the rear view mirror so long and hard I nearly caused an accident. An ironic twist I'm sure you can appreciate.
Unfortunately, I briefly let down my guard on a side trip to Lincoln Park Zoo after work on one of the gorgeous October days we've been having lately. Instead of parking so there were cars in front and behind me, I carelessly pulled up behind a car without making sure there was something the size of an SUV covering my rear. After a walk around the zoo, I still had time to kill before dinner with my daughter, so I sat in the car checking my email before driving over to her neighborhood. Meanwhile, I kept my eyes on the rear view and side mirrors just in case a cruiser decided to slow down to check parked cars for transgressions.
The problem was that I was checking for a police VEHICLE.
Not a police HORSE. All of a sudden I looked up and the large red rump of a police HORSE was standing by the driver's side window of my car. The officer on board was straight out of Central Casting. In a heartbeat, I was looking for someplace to dump the thirty years I'd lived before he was born.
He was waiting to talk to me. So I rolled down the window and exclaimed how nice it was to see a policeman on a horse so up close and personal. I'm nothing if not capable of stating the obvious.
Smiling at me, he couldn't have been nicer or more polite, when he informed me that he noticed my sticker was expired. Traveling at the speed of a walking horse he was able to see a lot of things a cruiser going by at 30 MPH might miss. Busted. But I didn't see a ticket book out. So I kept up the snappy patter, thanking him for telling me, as he eyeballed my other stickers to see if they were current, which they were. I quickly apologized and said I had two cars, as if having two cars was a valid excuse, and finished with the most unbelievable crap I've ever thrown, "This didn't happen until I started to dye my hair blond." He smiled that smile cops smile when they know that the b.s. you're shoveling is starting to get deep. And went on his way.
I had dodged a bullet I didn't see coming. Nothing left to do but finish checking email, put my computer away, start the car, and head toward my daughter's apartment. The horse with its armed rider was only about 1/2 a mile down the road and I easily caught up with them. As I slowed down to pass, the officer turned to look at me, smiled, and waved. I smiled, too. And waved back.
Whereas old school cop cars had those honking huge garbage pail lights on top of their squad cars, the new ones are so low profile you might think the car behind you is sporting a luggage rack, until it starts flashing red and blue lights. On a couple of occasions, while trying to determine whether a car was a cop or not, I've stared into the rear view mirror so long and hard I nearly caused an accident. An ironic twist I'm sure you can appreciate.
Unfortunately, I briefly let down my guard on a side trip to Lincoln Park Zoo after work on one of the gorgeous October days we've been having lately. Instead of parking so there were cars in front and behind me, I carelessly pulled up behind a car without making sure there was something the size of an SUV covering my rear. After a walk around the zoo, I still had time to kill before dinner with my daughter, so I sat in the car checking my email before driving over to her neighborhood. Meanwhile, I kept my eyes on the rear view and side mirrors just in case a cruiser decided to slow down to check parked cars for transgressions.
The problem was that I was checking for a police VEHICLE.
Not a police HORSE. All of a sudden I looked up and the large red rump of a police HORSE was standing by the driver's side window of my car. The officer on board was straight out of Central Casting. In a heartbeat, I was looking for someplace to dump the thirty years I'd lived before he was born.
He was waiting to talk to me. So I rolled down the window and exclaimed how nice it was to see a policeman on a horse so up close and personal. I'm nothing if not capable of stating the obvious.
Smiling at me, he couldn't have been nicer or more polite, when he informed me that he noticed my sticker was expired. Traveling at the speed of a walking horse he was able to see a lot of things a cruiser going by at 30 MPH might miss. Busted. But I didn't see a ticket book out. So I kept up the snappy patter, thanking him for telling me, as he eyeballed my other stickers to see if they were current, which they were. I quickly apologized and said I had two cars, as if having two cars was a valid excuse, and finished with the most unbelievable crap I've ever thrown, "This didn't happen until I started to dye my hair blond." He smiled that smile cops smile when they know that the b.s. you're shoveling is starting to get deep. And went on his way.
I had dodged a bullet I didn't see coming. Nothing left to do but finish checking email, put my computer away, start the car, and head toward my daughter's apartment. The horse with its armed rider was only about 1/2 a mile down the road and I easily caught up with them. As I slowed down to pass, the officer turned to look at me, smiled, and waved. I smiled, too. And waved back.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Three Days to Go
Somebody's bringing their guitar to the 50th reunion. I think they're coming from California, so this is a real commitment, which means we're one step closer to actually doing this singing thing Saturday Night. Sheesh. Two doctors, a professor/poet, a former National Geo photographer, an opera singer, a retired United Captain/Rear Admiral and me, the ad writer. What should we name our group -- The Grateful We're Not Dead?
Why can't we be like other old people and just give it a rest? Sit around and get a gander at the sunset with a cuppa tea? Or watch the sun come up on the beach over Lake Michigan? I may just do the sunrise thing by myself. I'm in one of those moods. Not quite melancholy. Not quite at peace with myself.
Sometime on the weekend, I'll go to the beach where I met and fell in love with my first boyfriend. I was only fourteen, but I was in love with him for years before he even asked me for a date. Life intervened, and when I went looking for him again decades later, I discovered he had died at forty-two from a malaria seziure, contracted during a mysterious mission in Africa. Years before, he had told me that the CIA had recruited him when he was at Dartmouth. I wasn't ever supposed to tell anyone. Ooops. He probably got recruited because he was bi-lingual, having lived in Peru as a boy, when his father was an engineer for a mining company. Blew the tips of his fingers off in a mining accident, too -- I was always a sucker for guys like that. The ones with scars and other evidence of put up or shut up. But in a good way.
I'll load up my iPod with sappy old songs from back in the day, plus some Bonnie Raitt, go for a walk along the shore, then come back and sit on a bench under a tree. I can watch the waves, kick the sand, and see the sun come up. And get philosophical. Reunions do that to me. Which is why I'm only lukewarm about going. I don't feel like considering what I've done with my life. Or how I'm going to spend the rest of it. Reflections have a way of putting the mirror to some decisions I wish I could take back.
The good news is that my bff of 35 years is also here from California for HER 50th high school reunion. She went to some private academy on the north side of Chicago. They had just under 100 people in their class. I was in the suburbs and we had almost 1000 people in my class. Over 50 per cent of her alums are coming to celebrate. Only 30 per cent of mine will be there. Of course, in her case that's about 50 people. In my class, that's about 300. They've lost about seven or eight classmates. Our list of dead is past 100 I think.
Her former psychedelic-rocker-turned-webmaster-to-the-movie-industry husband tracked down a bunch of the number one tunes from when we were in high school. He burned three CDs that include a lot of Beach Boys, Everly and Righteous Brothers, Duane Eddy -- over eighty songs in all. Can't wait to blast a few tunes in the lobby of the hotel where everybody is staying. Good times.
Yeah. Maybe it will be.
Why can't we be like other old people and just give it a rest? Sit around and get a gander at the sunset with a cuppa tea? Or watch the sun come up on the beach over Lake Michigan? I may just do the sunrise thing by myself. I'm in one of those moods. Not quite melancholy. Not quite at peace with myself.
Sometime on the weekend, I'll go to the beach where I met and fell in love with my first boyfriend. I was only fourteen, but I was in love with him for years before he even asked me for a date. Life intervened, and when I went looking for him again decades later, I discovered he had died at forty-two from a malaria seziure, contracted during a mysterious mission in Africa. Years before, he had told me that the CIA had recruited him when he was at Dartmouth. I wasn't ever supposed to tell anyone. Ooops. He probably got recruited because he was bi-lingual, having lived in Peru as a boy, when his father was an engineer for a mining company. Blew the tips of his fingers off in a mining accident, too -- I was always a sucker for guys like that. The ones with scars and other evidence of put up or shut up. But in a good way.
I'll load up my iPod with sappy old songs from back in the day, plus some Bonnie Raitt, go for a walk along the shore, then come back and sit on a bench under a tree. I can watch the waves, kick the sand, and see the sun come up. And get philosophical. Reunions do that to me. Which is why I'm only lukewarm about going. I don't feel like considering what I've done with my life. Or how I'm going to spend the rest of it. Reflections have a way of putting the mirror to some decisions I wish I could take back.
The good news is that my bff of 35 years is also here from California for HER 50th high school reunion. She went to some private academy on the north side of Chicago. They had just under 100 people in their class. I was in the suburbs and we had almost 1000 people in my class. Over 50 per cent of her alums are coming to celebrate. Only 30 per cent of mine will be there. Of course, in her case that's about 50 people. In my class, that's about 300. They've lost about seven or eight classmates. Our list of dead is past 100 I think.
Her former psychedelic-rocker-turned-webmaster-to-the-movie-industry husband tracked down a bunch of the number one tunes from when we were in high school. He burned three CDs that include a lot of Beach Boys, Everly and Righteous Brothers, Duane Eddy -- over eighty songs in all. Can't wait to blast a few tunes in the lobby of the hotel where everybody is staying. Good times.
Yeah. Maybe it will be.
Monday, October 10, 2011
D-Day Minus Four. Or Is It Plus Four?
Thirty years ago I went to my 20th high school reunion and hooked up with an old friend. To make a long story short, after three years of intermittent cross country "dating" we had a scandalous falling out. So scandalous, the last time we spoke was seventeen years ago, when he contacted me, apologized, and we went our separate ways.
Not that we were the only ones in my class to be caught behaving badly. Five years later, at the 25th, another couple of classmates, two people you wouldn't expect to hook up in a million years, managed to find common ground in a common bed, resulting in a child. But even though they never married, they stayed together for over twenty-three years. And only recently broke up.
I know because I follow those two on facebook. Separately. But only one of them is coming to the reunion. Rats. Several years ago, Judy Markey, a Sun-Times newspaper columnist, wrote about our class's propensity for outre behavior. Especially among the previously straight arrow types. She pretty much hung out our stained laundry to dry in public. In a class of 939 people, that may be our only claim to fame.
Recently, after not hearing from my former friend for all those years, he called to say that he and his partner of ten years would be coming to the reunion. He looked me up on our reunion website, discovered I had a blog, read a few entries, and thought he should let me know he was coming. He'd read an entry where I had taken another classmate to task for looking me up on the website, taking me to lunch, and failing to tell me he was maritally impaired. So I think it was smart to contact me. Like when a defense lawyer brings up his client's bad behavior, so the prosecution can't use it against him. Something like that.
Meanwhile, I was curious about his girlfriend. Finding someone simpatico at sixty, when your sexy is probably not coming back anytime soon, is like finding a hundred dollar bill on the ground. Doesn't happen. After reaching the age when gray hair and hip replacements start breathing down your neck, I think it's best to track down the old flames, people you knew when you were young and fresh baked. They're usually wearing the rose colored glasses of early memories of you. They can get past the changes that have taken place since your stomach was flat, your hair had color, and your private parts, male or female, pointed to the sky.
With that in mind, it makes perfect sense that his late-in-life true love is someone he knew in high school -- his first wife, in fact. He's had three. They ran into each other at social gatherings a couple of times following 9-11, and their high school and college spark was rekindled. It also helps that neither one of them looks any the worse for wear.
So why did he contact ME now? I sure hope not to give me the good news about his happy life. Although he did. Nope, he was wondering if I would be interested in getting a little group together to spoof our high school classmates with a skit or some songs at the reunion. Of course, I said no, I wasn't interested. I'm sure I said no. At least I think I said no. I must have said no, since I wasn't even planning to attend the festivities.
And yet, here I am putting the final touches on some parody lyrics for our school fight song -- with lots of references to oldness and grayness. And I'm planning to revert to my high school self, behavior-wise, for fifteen minutes of fame on Saturday night. Joined by five or six other people I haven't seen in 50 years, who performed with me in our school's shows, and said they were game.
There isn't enough alcohol to make this a good idea. Oh, crap, I don't drink.
Not that we were the only ones in my class to be caught behaving badly. Five years later, at the 25th, another couple of classmates, two people you wouldn't expect to hook up in a million years, managed to find common ground in a common bed, resulting in a child. But even though they never married, they stayed together for over twenty-three years. And only recently broke up.
I know because I follow those two on facebook. Separately. But only one of them is coming to the reunion. Rats. Several years ago, Judy Markey, a Sun-Times newspaper columnist, wrote about our class's propensity for outre behavior. Especially among the previously straight arrow types. She pretty much hung out our stained laundry to dry in public. In a class of 939 people, that may be our only claim to fame.
Recently, after not hearing from my former friend for all those years, he called to say that he and his partner of ten years would be coming to the reunion. He looked me up on our reunion website, discovered I had a blog, read a few entries, and thought he should let me know he was coming. He'd read an entry where I had taken another classmate to task for looking me up on the website, taking me to lunch, and failing to tell me he was maritally impaired. So I think it was smart to contact me. Like when a defense lawyer brings up his client's bad behavior, so the prosecution can't use it against him. Something like that.
Meanwhile, I was curious about his girlfriend. Finding someone simpatico at sixty, when your sexy is probably not coming back anytime soon, is like finding a hundred dollar bill on the ground. Doesn't happen. After reaching the age when gray hair and hip replacements start breathing down your neck, I think it's best to track down the old flames, people you knew when you were young and fresh baked. They're usually wearing the rose colored glasses of early memories of you. They can get past the changes that have taken place since your stomach was flat, your hair had color, and your private parts, male or female, pointed to the sky.
With that in mind, it makes perfect sense that his late-in-life true love is someone he knew in high school -- his first wife, in fact. He's had three. They ran into each other at social gatherings a couple of times following 9-11, and their high school and college spark was rekindled. It also helps that neither one of them looks any the worse for wear.
So why did he contact ME now? I sure hope not to give me the good news about his happy life. Although he did. Nope, he was wondering if I would be interested in getting a little group together to spoof our high school classmates with a skit or some songs at the reunion. Of course, I said no, I wasn't interested. I'm sure I said no. At least I think I said no. I must have said no, since I wasn't even planning to attend the festivities.
And yet, here I am putting the final touches on some parody lyrics for our school fight song -- with lots of references to oldness and grayness. And I'm planning to revert to my high school self, behavior-wise, for fifteen minutes of fame on Saturday night. Joined by five or six other people I haven't seen in 50 years, who performed with me in our school's shows, and said they were game.
There isn't enough alcohol to make this a good idea. Oh, crap, I don't drink.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
A Note To Creepy Guys On The Internet
I noticed that more than half the hits to my blog were because people were searching for variations on Playgirl Centerfold, which was in the headline of an entry I wrote about Scott Brown's acceptance speech, right after his election as senator.
The countries represented in my traffic stats, besides the US, were just not very representative of Mrs. Linklater's normal demographic, which is to say women, especially those of a certain age, and a couple of guys with bad attitudes and a warped sense of humor. I was getting a boatload of hits from boy-controlled countries like Saudi Arabia -- as if they would ever embrace Mrs. L's charming repartee. Plus lots of Asian countries -- the kind that don't have to speak English because searching for porn needs no translation.
I only have myself to blame. Last year I wrote about the recently-elected senator from Massachusetts who, as a young man, posed buck naked in a magazine, when he was trying to make extra money to pay for school. [Isn't that what strippers usually say?]
After his election, he said some inappropriate things about his daughters, which made me wonder how much of a train wreck he would be when he got to Washington. That plus his nude pictures in a magazine caused a red flag to start flying. But I didn't know what for. Turns out he was molested as child. Funny how many people who are willing to pose naked have often had some kind of inappropriate sexual history.
Anyway, I don't feel like linking you to the article about the senator and the picture of him posing in his birthday suit. I'm sure you'll understand. Mainly because I'm sick of getting artificially inflated hits on my blog because of it. I will also change the headline so that men who are searching for the satisfaction that dares not speak its name, while surfing the internet, won't be directed to my blog archives any more.
I hope.
The countries represented in my traffic stats, besides the US, were just not very representative of Mrs. Linklater's normal demographic, which is to say women, especially those of a certain age, and a couple of guys with bad attitudes and a warped sense of humor. I was getting a boatload of hits from boy-controlled countries like Saudi Arabia -- as if they would ever embrace Mrs. L's charming repartee. Plus lots of Asian countries -- the kind that don't have to speak English because searching for porn needs no translation.
I only have myself to blame. Last year I wrote about the recently-elected senator from Massachusetts who, as a young man, posed buck naked in a magazine, when he was trying to make extra money to pay for school. [Isn't that what strippers usually say?]
After his election, he said some inappropriate things about his daughters, which made me wonder how much of a train wreck he would be when he got to Washington. That plus his nude pictures in a magazine caused a red flag to start flying. But I didn't know what for. Turns out he was molested as child. Funny how many people who are willing to pose naked have often had some kind of inappropriate sexual history.
Anyway, I don't feel like linking you to the article about the senator and the picture of him posing in his birthday suit. I'm sure you'll understand. Mainly because I'm sick of getting artificially inflated hits on my blog because of it. I will also change the headline so that men who are searching for the satisfaction that dares not speak its name, while surfing the internet, won't be directed to my blog archives any more.
I hope.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Lonely? Here's Some Numbers to Call.
While you're waiting for my next scintillating entry, you might want to jot down and/or re-post this list of useful phone numbers I got from Blurbomat, if you're in the U.S. that is. My South Korean, Russian, Chinese, Australian, UK, Saudi, German, Canadian, Dutch, and Israeli readers may not find them quite so useful. Especially since I tricked them into coming here with that deceitful headline. Sooooo sorry.
Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696
Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433
LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255
Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743
Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438
Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673
Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272
Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000
Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253
Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696
Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433
LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255
Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743
Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438
Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673
Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272
Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000
Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253
Sunday, October 2, 2011
You think Tiger Woods has problems?
I'm not usually the go-to person for young people who need advice. I'm here for laughs and chocolate chip cookies. On the rare occasions when I've been consulted, my suggestions have been universally ignored, so I no longer feel constrained to impart a thoughtful, considerate response to inquiries from the youngsters.
All of which brings me to today's topic -- a truly smart, athletic young man I've known, since he was just out of diapers, got fired from his brutal Wall Street job two weeks ago.
Brutal, because his life was circumscribed by endless work, which, in my opinion, could never, ever be offset by the size of his yearly bonus. Brutal, because he worked seven days a week, year round. Brutal, because his bosses handed out assignments at 10:30 PM on Friday nights, due the next morning. Brutal because the only gold at the end of this sordid rainbow was greenbacks, not job satisfaction.
In case you missed the cinema versions of Wall Street, making a difference in the world, saving lives, and giving back -- the kind of meaningful altruism that gives your life purpose and makes it worthwhile -- is not anywhere on the job description for a Master of the Universe. Greed is good, but money is everything.
He's only thirty years old. But for the last two years, in pursuit of becoming rich enough to retire at forty and play golf, he's missed a huge chunk of his real life. Instead of going to a film festival or having dinner at some tres chic bistro with one of New York's good looking women, or just hanging out with the guys, he has been coming home from work at 2:00 or 3:00 AM on Saturday nights, only to be expected back in four hours.
His one relief from the relentless demands of this f**ked up career path was running five miles through the streets of New York in the middle of the night to burn up some of the frustration. The good news is that he lost his football weight and looks like a runner now.
He didn't ask, but I told him being rich wasn't an admirable life goal. I also told him he was going to turn forty, not be rich, and hate what he was doing. So forget the money. Figure out a way to follow your passion. And take time to play golf now, not later.
I didn't hear he'd lost his job until a couple of days ago. I'm out of that loop now. I did text him two weeks ago to get the zip code for his address, so I could entertain his overworked butt with a funny letter. He texted back with an oblique comment that he might not be living there at the end of the month, but I just assumed he'd found another place to live. He didn't lose his job because he wasn't competent. One of the bank's clients, who relied on him very much, offered him a position with their company. But there were payment deferments and he had to move to another country. Actually, how bad could that be? In the end, it was about money again. Not enough up front. So no go. Money seems to decide everything.
Determined to find a reason for what really happened, or just why, he came back to work the day after they fired him so his boss could sling some b.s. about the decision. There wasn't a truly meaningful answer. He was told it wasn't about his work, blah blah blah. I'm sure the conversation went something like a bad breakup, when one of you insists, "It's not about you; it's me."
Some day he'll realize that the real reason might have been as stupid as he's single and didn't have a family to support. Intelligent, aggressive young men are a dime a dozen on Wall Street. In the end, it really isn't about any of them, personally; it's about the money.
For what it's worth, an insider told him he wasn't even on the list of people to be fired. That group apparently got pink slipped in the morning. He was saved for late in the afternoon. Purges on Wall Street are happening regularly. He was a casualty of the continuing banking fallout from 2008. His bank is still in deep do-do. He was expendable. That, and he has never listened to me. Have I mentioned I told him to play golf?
For a long time we had been like family. I was his crazy adopted aunt; he was the son I never had. He grew up playing sports, guided by a superstar dad and mom. Football was our common ground. I played a lot of sports myself, but I follow football like a construction worker with season tickets and a 60" plasma in his man cave. So even though I'm old enough to be his grandmother, we had plenty to talk about.
A multi-sport athlete and a natural born leader, he quarterbacked his high school team to their first state championship game in 20 years. Do something sports related with your life became my mantra. He lettered in baseball and could compete with his state champ cousins mano a mano in tennis. I suggested that he could be a tennis pro at a club. You can't make Wall Street money doing that. Okay, then how about golf. You love golf. So be a club pro. The money thing. It helps that he's smart, a Phi Beta Kappa from a top school [in only three years. majoring in micro-economics]. He earned similar accolades in MBA school. Hey, he could run his own sporting goods business. Or sell golf equipment.
He loved it. Why hadn't I suggested that before? Haaa. Kidding.
Hey, you're still young, I would say, when he was still young, you could quit whatever you're doing and try to make the golf tour.
All of which brings me to today's topic -- a truly smart, athletic young man I've known, since he was just out of diapers, got fired from his brutal Wall Street job two weeks ago.
Brutal, because his life was circumscribed by endless work, which, in my opinion, could never, ever be offset by the size of his yearly bonus. Brutal, because he worked seven days a week, year round. Brutal, because his bosses handed out assignments at 10:30 PM on Friday nights, due the next morning. Brutal because the only gold at the end of this sordid rainbow was greenbacks, not job satisfaction.
In case you missed the cinema versions of Wall Street, making a difference in the world, saving lives, and giving back -- the kind of meaningful altruism that gives your life purpose and makes it worthwhile -- is not anywhere on the job description for a Master of the Universe. Greed is good, but money is everything.
He's only thirty years old. But for the last two years, in pursuit of becoming rich enough to retire at forty and play golf, he's missed a huge chunk of his real life. Instead of going to a film festival or having dinner at some tres chic bistro with one of New York's good looking women, or just hanging out with the guys, he has been coming home from work at 2:00 or 3:00 AM on Saturday nights, only to be expected back in four hours.
His one relief from the relentless demands of this f**ked up career path was running five miles through the streets of New York in the middle of the night to burn up some of the frustration. The good news is that he lost his football weight and looks like a runner now.
He didn't ask, but I told him being rich wasn't an admirable life goal. I also told him he was going to turn forty, not be rich, and hate what he was doing. So forget the money. Figure out a way to follow your passion. And take time to play golf now, not later.
I didn't hear he'd lost his job until a couple of days ago. I'm out of that loop now. I did text him two weeks ago to get the zip code for his address, so I could entertain his overworked butt with a funny letter. He texted back with an oblique comment that he might not be living there at the end of the month, but I just assumed he'd found another place to live. He didn't lose his job because he wasn't competent. One of the bank's clients, who relied on him very much, offered him a position with their company. But there were payment deferments and he had to move to another country. Actually, how bad could that be? In the end, it was about money again. Not enough up front. So no go. Money seems to decide everything.
Determined to find a reason for what really happened, or just why, he came back to work the day after they fired him so his boss could sling some b.s. about the decision. There wasn't a truly meaningful answer. He was told it wasn't about his work, blah blah blah. I'm sure the conversation went something like a bad breakup, when one of you insists, "It's not about you; it's me."
Some day he'll realize that the real reason might have been as stupid as he's single and didn't have a family to support. Intelligent, aggressive young men are a dime a dozen on Wall Street. In the end, it really isn't about any of them, personally; it's about the money.
For what it's worth, an insider told him he wasn't even on the list of people to be fired. That group apparently got pink slipped in the morning. He was saved for late in the afternoon. Purges on Wall Street are happening regularly. He was a casualty of the continuing banking fallout from 2008. His bank is still in deep do-do. He was expendable. That, and he has never listened to me. Have I mentioned I told him to play golf?
For a long time we had been like family. I was his crazy adopted aunt; he was the son I never had. He grew up playing sports, guided by a superstar dad and mom. Football was our common ground. I played a lot of sports myself, but I follow football like a construction worker with season tickets and a 60" plasma in his man cave. So even though I'm old enough to be his grandmother, we had plenty to talk about.
A multi-sport athlete and a natural born leader, he quarterbacked his high school team to their first state championship game in 20 years. Do something sports related with your life became my mantra. He lettered in baseball and could compete with his state champ cousins mano a mano in tennis. I suggested that he could be a tennis pro at a club. You can't make Wall Street money doing that. Okay, then how about golf. You love golf. So be a club pro. The money thing. It helps that he's smart, a Phi Beta Kappa from a top school [in only three years. majoring in micro-economics]. He earned similar accolades in MBA school. Hey, he could run his own sporting goods business. Or sell golf equipment.
He loved it. Why hadn't I suggested that before? Haaa. Kidding.
Hey, you're still young, I would say, when he was still young, you could quit whatever you're doing and try to make the golf tour.
I even got Troy Aikman to help me out a few years ago. I needed some background on Troy's career for a client video, so I bought a coffee table book he wrote about himself. On the set, I asked the ex-quarterback, a scratch golfer, to dedicate the book to my young friend, whom I'll call "Tex." He wrote, "Tex. Play golf. Troy Aikman."
The only feedback I ever got about my relentless attempts to get "Tex" to do something he loved instead of something for money was that he told me he often thought about what I'd said about golf.
Meanwhile, let's review this past decade of his life. He went to a brainiac university so he could be the team's quarterback, but it turned out the coach didn't want him to play quarterback. He majored in a subject that would be useful in his career goal of being rich, despite the fact that he never really liked his major. So he quit football and graduated in only three years, just to get out of school sooner.
At that point, he could have taken a year off to start playing golf seriously. I even gave him some contacts in Florida. But he got his first job with a big consulting firm in finance. I didn't think he was having much fun in the consulting biz, so I thought there was a chance he might consider golf. But he went to MBA school instead, so he could get that job on Wall Street. The good news was that his second college experience was more fun. He attended a football power and even had a lovely girlfriend who was in law school there. But they hit a snag over religion. She was religious. Him, not so much. They broke up after he graduated.
What a great time to start playing golf I thought. I also mentioned it to him several times. I'm nothing if not persistent.
But he was determined to be Wall Street's bitch. He let her harness him up and she rode him hard. Now, after three years, the economy has spit him out. Sure he got some good bonuses out of it. His debt is gone. He showed he can play with the big boys, but now he's sitting on the side of the road.
At that point, he could have taken a year off to start playing golf seriously. I even gave him some contacts in Florida. But he got his first job with a big consulting firm in finance. I didn't think he was having much fun in the consulting biz, so I thought there was a chance he might consider golf. But he went to MBA school instead, so he could get that job on Wall Street. The good news was that his second college experience was more fun. He attended a football power and even had a lovely girlfriend who was in law school there. But they hit a snag over religion. She was religious. Him, not so much. They broke up after he graduated.
What a great time to start playing golf I thought. I also mentioned it to him several times. I'm nothing if not persistent.
But he was determined to be Wall Street's bitch. He let her harness him up and she rode him hard. Now, after three years, the economy has spit him out. Sure he got some good bonuses out of it. His debt is gone. He showed he can play with the big boys, but now he's sitting on the side of the road.
What if he'd just played golf instead?
Stop the World and Let Him Get Off
Got one of those phone calls from a sibling today -- the oldest of my three brothers. The alcoholic one. Also the pot smoking one. He hardly drinks anymore because he lacks the money. On the other hand, I'm not sure what he's smoking. Regardless, he might be dry, but he's still an alcoholic. And a dope head. With a Stanford law degree.
Would I please call back because this former golden child was making arrangements for the end of his life as we know it and wanted to be sure there was a place for his ashes in the family plot. I called back and asked if my dying relative would be exiting the world soon, thinking perhaps we were dealing with an aggressive form of cancer. I even had a moment, however brief, of sympathy.
"No, I'm not dying; I'm being murdered," I was informed.
"When is this happening?" I asked, curious but no longer concerned.
"It's happening now."
"Even as we speak? How?"
"Microwaves."
"Microwaves?"
"From directed-energy weapons." I should mention he wasn't drunk or stoned when he told me this.
You can read about the latest iteration of aluminum foil hats HERE.
But knowing the person at the source of this little drama, I realized that the years of Kahlua and coffee with a side of hash were the real murderers, rendering what was left of his brain and personality unto mush, one doobie and liter of hootch at a time. He continued to give me the details of his impending demise, describing a prowler who showed up at night outside the place where he lives [which is one step up above a cardboard box], but disappears when he goes outside. Apparently his activism [not sure about what] has upset some woman who sent the prowler to beam microwaves through the walls at his head and body.
"I am having a lot of symptoms now. My stomach hurts and I have headaches."
"How much time do you have left?" I asked, pretending I cared.
"About thirty days."
"Thirty days, huh. And what happens if you live beyond thirty days?" I couldn't let that one go. But I didn't finish the thought, which would have been expressed as, "Will you consider that you've got full blown paranoia at that point? And have yourself confined for your own safety and the safety of everyone in a five state region?"
Such a shame we have no choice in the relatives we get stuck with. And another shame the death penalty won't ever be applied to my brother's pedophile cub scout leader.
While we're at it, a hearty headbutt to all you people who think marijuana should be legalized.
Would I please call back because this former golden child was making arrangements for the end of his life as we know it and wanted to be sure there was a place for his ashes in the family plot. I called back and asked if my dying relative would be exiting the world soon, thinking perhaps we were dealing with an aggressive form of cancer. I even had a moment, however brief, of sympathy.
"No, I'm not dying; I'm being murdered," I was informed.
"When is this happening?" I asked, curious but no longer concerned.
"It's happening now."
"Even as we speak? How?"
"Microwaves."
"Microwaves?"
"From directed-energy weapons." I should mention he wasn't drunk or stoned when he told me this.
You can read about the latest iteration of aluminum foil hats HERE.
But knowing the person at the source of this little drama, I realized that the years of Kahlua and coffee with a side of hash were the real murderers, rendering what was left of his brain and personality unto mush, one doobie and liter of hootch at a time. He continued to give me the details of his impending demise, describing a prowler who showed up at night outside the place where he lives [which is one step up above a cardboard box], but disappears when he goes outside. Apparently his activism [not sure about what] has upset some woman who sent the prowler to beam microwaves through the walls at his head and body.
"I am having a lot of symptoms now. My stomach hurts and I have headaches."
"How much time do you have left?" I asked, pretending I cared.
"About thirty days."
"Thirty days, huh. And what happens if you live beyond thirty days?" I couldn't let that one go. But I didn't finish the thought, which would have been expressed as, "Will you consider that you've got full blown paranoia at that point? And have yourself confined for your own safety and the safety of everyone in a five state region?"
Such a shame we have no choice in the relatives we get stuck with. And another shame the death penalty won't ever be applied to my brother's pedophile cub scout leader.
While we're at it, a hearty headbutt to all you people who think marijuana should be legalized.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Saturday Six Episode 390
The Saturday Six was launched around 390 weeks ago over at Patrick's Place, which began as an AOL "journal," a relic of that Jurassic Era email service, dating back to 2003 or 2004. We had a tight little group of fair to middling writers until a brouhaha over AOL posting ads on our entries, for which we were not compensated. Most of us left in a huff and came over here to Blogger in protest. [Patrick took a classier route and his blog is full of bells and whistles Blogger doesn't offer.] We like to think our exit expedited the demise of AOL's foray into blogs, since they're all gone now. The internets ate 'em. Meanwhile, The Saturday Six continues to this day, a tribute to Patrick's endless supply of topics that need answers. Anyone can play. Check out the regs and rules HERE. I haven't played in a long time, but I thought I would today.
1. Describe your favorite old portrait of yourself: how old were you when the portrait was made and what were you doing?
I was 25 and working as a copywriter for an ad agency. The art director on the account used me as a placeholder to show the client the concept. I was supposed to represent a 25-year-old wife and mother in a head shot, wearing clothes [like a 25-year-old wife and mother] with my hair pulled back. When they were choosing a model for the real shot, the client asked the agency to just use me. So I got two free trips to New York with fancy rooms at the Plaza, along with some great shots by Carl Fischer, the photographer for the Virginia Slims' campaign. The first shoot, where this photo was taken, I look inappropriately naked. I had on a tube top, but who can tell? The 25-year-old wife and mother I was supposed to portray looked more like a 25-year-old single girl who'd been dancing the night away. An accusation I can neither confirm nor deny. But some day, I knew I'd be almost 68-years-old and glad I had the picture taken. Who knew it would be used for an answer to The Saturday Six in a blog on the internet?
2. Of the photos of people you have on display in your home, what percentage of them would you estimate have you in the photo?
Easy. None. I don't have any pictures out and about. Except for a couple of portraits of my daughters that I took. The rest of the pix are all in albums or stored. But if you look in those albums, I'm everywhere.
3. Which do you prefer in a portrait in terms of background: a solid color, a textured color, or a very scenic background?
Depends on the location. If the background looks good, I'll use it. I have a headshot of my older daughter that I love, with the wild print of a Hawaiian sarong hanging on her bedroom wall behind her, creating a mosaic of color. Colors and textures are both good. Closed blinds are neutral and easy. Naturally, a good lens helps. My favorite was my Nikon 85 mm. It couldn't take a bad picture. And I got all the credit. Then somebody stole it. And I'm getting by with a zoom.
4. Which do you prefer in a portrait: the subject smiling, looking serious or looking like they’re in thought?
My goal is to make anybody look their most natural, whatever that may be. Smiling usually looks best, but smiling like you don't have a broom up your butt can be hard to capture. Children come up with some of the most awkward, forced, and stupid smiles I've seen. So I get little kids to make faces at me. They usually start to laugh at themselves and I can get a good natural smile without too much effort.
5. Which do you prefer in a portrait: the subject making eye contact with the lens or not making eye contact with the lens?
Looking at the lens is nice, but I got a great picture of some friends at their wedding. And they're gazing at each other.
6. You see a portrait of someone — male or female — who is in exceptionally good physical shape: how likely is that photo to make you take action to get in better shape yourself?
Zero. My first thought when I see young cheese or beefcake is what'll they look like when they're not 30 anymore? Of course, if it's a hot guy I'd think about jumping him. Only in my mind of course. Anything thing else at my age and I'd have to worry about getting slammed with an order of protection.
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