Life in the Fast Lane
Sorrento, Italy, 9/29. Traffic in Italy can only be described as organized chaos. There are no traffic lights, as everyone is expected to alternate at intersections. And since all Italians went to the “Every Man For Himself Driving School” in New York City, there is congestion on every corner. The Piazzas are large squares where several streets come together. If there isn’t a statue or fountain in the middle, there is a pole with lots of arrows around it, all pointing right. These are the intersections where gridlock was invented.
You quickly realize why cars are so small in Europe. By comparison, Smart cars and Mini Coopers are considered luxury sedans here. And of course, there are the motorcycles. They are like a plague of locusts, coming at you from every direction.
Yesterday, we decided to drive to Positano and Amalfi, and by some stroke of luck I got to drive the bus carrying all ten of us. Did I mention that it has a six-speed gearbox with a 1.5 liter engine? So with all the elevation and speed changes, I was constantly shifting gears. We took the main highway, which was no wider than the cart paths as Misty Creek, and was all blind hairpin turns along cliffs that rose thousands of feet above the sea. There was also no center white line, so everyone drove in the middle of the road. Among the other obstacles were parked vehicles that were everywhere, on both sides of the street and facing either direction.
When we encountered oncoming traffic, which was constantly, we squeezed to the right trying not to touch mirrors. This often meant, making contact with road signs, trashcans, parked vehicles and in one case, the wall of a building. When we drove through the tiny villages, the buildings came right to the edge of the road on both sides. There are no sidewalks, so pedestrians, and even dogs were always in our way. When we encountered a car on a blind curve, and some of the curves occurred in tunnels, one of us had to back up to a point wide enough to pass. If it was a tour bus, we had to back up a lot. Once, I accelerated into a curve and was face to face with an armored truck. We both jammed on the brakes and stopped within an inch of each other. This near-death tragedy was avoided with some very careful maneuvering by both vehicles. Then of course there were the above-mentioned motorcycles that were our constant companion. They were always there, passing us, on either the right or left, and sometimes both at the same time, on the straight-aways as well as the curves. It seemed that there was always one passing us as we slowed down to squeeze past an oncoming oversized truck.
The four-hour round trip required three underwear changes, and drained me completely. The constant focus on all the hazards, and the continuous shifting, plus 9 passengers, either praising me for avoiding a near miss, or complaining about my reckless driving, all left me limp.
And just when we thought it was safe to drive back into Sorrento, I missed a left turn to the main road that brought us past the hotel. But no problema, I went down about a half mile to the next intersection and made a hard left into a street that was so narrow, Bruce folded in the passenger side mirror. I inched down this street and as we came around a small bend, we encountered a building blocking our way. We are now screwed, as it would have been impossible to back all the way out. Bill, with years of experience maneuvering his lawn tractor, jumped out and guided me through 12 three-point turns and we got the bus turned around. As we completed this driving demonstration, an older gentleman came out of his apartment, shaking his head, using words like stunato, cafone, and pazzo. But ten minutes later, everyone was back at the hotel, happy to be alive.
Getting There Is Half the Fun
Rome, Italy, 9/27. At 5:30 we boarded our flight to Rome, and settled in for the long ride. After about an hour, Sara had to use the onboard necessary facility. She had a little trouble with the folding door. The strategically placed sign that said “PUSH” was placed exactly five feet high, exactly two inches above her sight line. So, instead of pushing on the right side of the door, she was pulling on the left side. When she ripped the door handle off, she realized that there may be another way to get into the lav.
We arrived in Rome on time, and on time to join 50,000 other visitors trying to get through passport security. It was like Black Friday at Walmarts. From there we headed to the carousel to pick up our luggage, hooking up with the other couples on our adventure, who flew in from Washington and Tucson. As we’re waiting for the bags to come around, a woman standing next to Tom was pulling her 200 lb. suitcase off the carousel. She easily weighed double that, and the horrific odor coming from her ample body caused Tom to have an allergy attack. I didn’t realize that he was allergic to camel sweat.
We then walked halfway to the Vatican getting to the rental office to pick up the two vans. They were actually more like two mini-buses and handled about the same. Mine had such a large turning radius, that driving down the exit ramps of the five-story parking garage required a three-point turn at every floor.
After loading the people and luggage, we were on the road. The Autostrada between Rome and Naples runs through a lush valley that separates two magnificent mountain ranges. The mountaintops, hidden by high clouds, made them seem even higher. The six-lane road took us through Naples, which bore an amazing similarity to Newark. On the other side of Naples, we came to the Mediterranean Sea, which was just magnificent.
Leaving the highway, we then drove the local roads across the peninsula and into Sorrento. Like many cities in Europe, this one had entered the contest to see how many buildings it could fit in the least amount of space, with no regard for transportation. We figured that the building codes have a setback ordinance of 9” and people encroached on that. The streets, designed for men sitting on their asses are so narrow that two full size pickup trucks could not fit side by side on the widest street in Sorrento.
Our hotel was a former palace, built in 600. It was on a street (which we had a difficult time finding) that was so narrow, Tom could reach out and come within one foot of touching the walls on both sides.
And speaking of Tom, it was his birthday, as was Bill’s a few days earlier, so Chris arranged a lavish meal at a local restaurant, including the most wonderful triple chocolate rum cake anyone ever had. Even though we spent an insane amount of money, it was an extraordinary dining experience.
Get Outta Town
Saturday, 9/25, Tampa, FL. We haven’t left the state yet, but the fun has already begun. Being the savvy travelers that we are, and having taken Peter Schatz’s advice, we checked into the Hyatt Place in Tampa. Our flight is tomorrow at 7:30 AM, and here we’re only five minutes from the airport. And we can park free while we’re in Europe.
We’re traveling with Chris & Bob Stout, and they have never been to the International Mall, so we decided to go there for dinner. Since we’re heading for Italy, I’m looking for a restaurant with “Trattoria” in the name, but the girls settle for The Blue Martini. They claim it’s because everything is half price until 8 PM. And everything was, including the food!
We walked into a pitch-black sports bar with football games on every TV and college-age kids screaming at the sets. There wasn’t one patron that was within 45 years of my age. (Now this is dinner atmosphere.) Looking for someone to seat us, Sara walks up to a very large (football player-size) African American who is dressed like an adult. She taps him on the kneecap and asks if he works at the restaurant. He says, “Actually, I’m with the band.” So I respond, “That’s great! Sara wants to audition.” I’m really thinking, with all this noise, how are we going to deal with band music too?
So we find a hightop in the quietest corner of the place, and a perky waitress come over to take our drink order. All the wait staff were wearing these camisole tops with push-up bras underneath. It was like Hooter’s in underwear. Every time one walked by I remembered the section we parked in (42D).
Everyone orders martinis, except me (I’m driving), and I order a glass of cabernet. “Honeycups” brings the martinis, which include a shaker of the overflow, plus my wine. We then order our entrees and start drinking the beverages. Expecting the martinis to be the usual watered down version, the three of them chug their drinks, while I savor my vintage (screw-cap) wine. You don’t expect gourmet food in an environment like this, but when it comes out, the presentation is a surprise, and each dish is outstanding! We quaff it down, just as the band starts playing. Since the half price deal ends in five minutes, we order another round, or was it two?
Halfway through the second round (I’m counting six full glasses of wine on the table, plus some martinis) Sara leans over and says “Let’s dansh.” The music is really good, so we join the kids on the floor and start to boogie. Sara realizes that she has already had tee many martoonis, and starts to flounder. She’s desperately hanging on my arm as I call over the manager and ask him if he has a pole she can hold onto. Well, you can picture the rest.
I did manage to get her back to the table, where she started a conversation with the couple at the next hightop, telling them that we are going on vacation, and she had a little too mush to drink. I apologized to them for my “daughter” interrupting their date. We paid the check and got the hell out of there, laughing all the way back to the car. Chris comment that Sara is like a cartoon character.
Corner Office Creativity
My boss at Great Big Boring and Bland Advertising Agency called me into his corner office to discuss a new TV spot for a candy client that I handled.
I was a creative supervisor on the account and had a great track record with them. I think the envious Mr. Corner Office didn’t like the idea that the client always seemed to buy whatever I presented.
So while I was on vacation, he worked up a corny commercial that he presented himself and was and shot down by the client. Corner Office wanted his concept sold, and I was given the task of re-presenting it.
“Fine,” I said “Maybe we can just tweak it and have another go at it. But, we should probably have another idea to present at the same time.”
I worked up a new concept and brought it to Corner Office’s office for review. The boss’ reaction was: “Well, I’m not nuts about it, but present it. I really want the other spot sold.”
At the client meeting he sent Carl Blowhard, a cigar-chomping lieutenant along to make sure I wasn’t going to try to sell my idea. The first words out of Blowhard’s mouth were: “We’ve got something that’s gonna knock you on your ass!”
I said, as calmly as I could: “Well, actually before we show you anything new, we’d like to re-present an idea that you saw previously. And, like a good soldier, I re-presented Corner Office’s favorite. “Hmm,” said the client. “It’s really not so bad, is it? But Carl said you’re gonna knock me on my ass. What else do you have?” Then I went on to show him my idea. “Wow! That one’s terrific. Let’s do it!”
When we got back, Blowhard tells Corner Office that I sold him down the river.
And so the nightmare begins…
About a week later, Corner Office calls me in to a meeting and says “Take us through the commercial you sold the client,”
After I described it, Blowhard says: “No. No. That’s not how it goes. Where’s the guy with a cow and the candy bars falling on his head?” Corner Office cuts Blowhard off and he says: “No, the guy falls off a ladder into the candy bars.”
“Wait a minute!” I respond. “You just asked me to present the concept that the client agreed to spend half a million dollars to produce. There’s no cow. And certainly no ladder. Look, I’ve offered to sell the client something else. Now we’re ready to shoot it and you want to change it?”
“Do you want to do the commercial or not?” says Corner Office. “Do I want to do what Blowhard just described? No. I don’t like — or even understand — what either of you just told me.” “Fine. Blowhard will do it,” says Corner Office.
I left GBB&B a few weeks later and started a freelance creative service.
Blowhard made the TV spot the way he described it, which was awful. The client paid a small fortune for it, refused to put on TV and then fired the agency.
The client and I had a drink shortly after that and he confessed that he hated Corner Office and Blowhard from the get-go.
I ran into Corner Office about year ago, looking very tired, used up and unhappy. I’d never realized before how short he was.
Hired Gun
Two Birds With One Stone
Bob was a buyer in the graphic arts section of the purchasing department of one of the nation’s largest magazine publishers. This company produced monthly publications for nearly every business category. And the graphic arts section, with 36 employees, was responsible for more individual and complex purchases than any other section.
When the director of the entire purchasing department announced his retirement, Steve, the graphic arts supervisor was named to replace him. That set off a scramble for Steve’s position, and Bob and the other buyers all postured for the promotion to supervisor.
Since Bob was the “go to” guy in the section, with the most knowledge of graphics production, he was considered a shoo-in for the promotion. He was the most efficient order processor in the entire purchasing department, and was respected and well liked by the vendors.
The retiring director however, was not a fan of Bob. Even though he was a lame duck executive, about to depart the company, he expressed his negative concerns to Steve and the other supervisors in a meeting. He explained that Bob was a maverick and didn’t really fit in with the corporate culture of the company. He made decisions without approval from above, and his productivity was so high, that he couldn’t possibly be thorough.
Steve, the incoming director defended Bob by pointing out that Bob’s annual review was always among the highest in the department, his decisions consistently saved the company money, and he rarely made an error.
Within the next two weeks the landscape changed in Purchasing. The director retired. He was replaced by a different supervisor. Steve resigned in protest. And Bob was advised to seek other employment, as he was no longer needed in this department.
Patrick516
Who Moved My Salami?
I read this book a while back that was all the rage. It was called Who Moved My Cheese? It was about this mouse that got his whiskers bunched up because someone moved his cheese to another spot. When the mouse couldn’t find his cheese in the usual place, he became confused, paranoid and angry. He just couldn’t adjust to the fact that he would have to look elsewhere to find his cheese. As I read the book, I concluded that this mouse was dumber than dirt. When I finished the book, I yawned and threw the book in the trash, feeling that I had been taken in by all the hype about this breakthrough approach to dealing with change.
Being a lover of food, the book gave me pause when I thought about what would occur if something like this were to happen to people. Say, for instance you went into a supermarket and the robbies were now in the pet food section. (For those of you unfamiliar with “robbies”, it is broccoli rabe, a somewhat bitter cousin to broccoli.) Although I enjoy broccoli rabe often, I had never heard it called “robbies” before moving to Rhode Island. I guess it’s part of the local vernacular. It’s in the same category as cabinets and stuffies, two other words that I would never have expected to find on a restaurant menu.
How would you react if you ordered a pepperoni pizza from Domino’s and the pepperoni came thin sliced in a little plastic tube, just like Pringle’s potato chips? And speaking of that, did you ever wonder where they find enough potatoes the exact same size to make those chips?
Where would you be if they moved all the Dunkin’ Donuts shops? You drive to your favorite shop and find it’s been moved to the top floor of a six-story walk-up. And what’s with all the donut shops in Rhode Island anyway? With Dunkin’ Donuts, Honey Dew, Bess Eaton, Allie’s and now Krispy Kremes, we have more donut shops per capita than any other state in the country. I heard the new governor is going to add that fact to the sign down on I 95 when you cross the border from Connecticut. It will read something like this, “Rhode Island, where you’re never more than 100 feet from a donut shop.” And it’s being sponsored by Ocean State Cardiology Associates.
To me the most traumatic move would be if they took all the garlic out of the food stores and sold it only in Benny’s Appliances. Fortunately, this would never happen, because it would be a logistical nightmare to move that much stuff. Ever since I moved to Rhode Island, I was convinced that the largest company in the state was the garlic distributor in Providence.
Next time you go to Federal Hill and pick up a dry salami off the counter in Venda Ravioli, think about how easy it was, and how you didn’t have to get all stressed out finding a dry cleaner that sold it.
There, now you don’t have to read the book.
Buns, Boobs & Botox
Many years ago, someone much smarter than me said, “You love a person for their flaws, not their attributes.” Given that, I figure that I have a lot to offer someone who wants to love me. And for that reason I really don’t get this modern-day obsession with having a perfect body. Everybody is “having some work done” and TV shows like Extreme Makeover are creating a frenzy that is driving women by the thousands to the local body shops.
As a kid, I just didn’t get this fake stuff. I remember being shocked reading an ad in a magazine for women’s panties and men’s briefs that were padded in the seat to enhance how you looked from behind. I couldn’t believe anyone would spend money to make their butt look bigger. My mom and all my aunts were always complaining that theirs were too big. Back then all the girls in school wore padded bras. I didn’t get that either. Whenever I copped a feel, I knew right away that it was false advertising. And when the word would get around school, the girls would be mortified.
My first exposure to breast augmentation was about 20 years ago, when my niece, who worked for me as an art director, decided she needed larger breasts. For my money, she had all the equipment necessary to attract any male with better than 20/200 vision. She was very pretty, tall, and had a nice shape. But she wanted to graduate from grapes to grapefruit, lest Mr. Right pass right by. So she had a consultation and made her appointment with destiny. Of course, she first had to have an appointment with the loan officer at the bank, because this procedure would set her back several months pay. The plastic surgery center offered all kinds of incentives, like a gift certificate for a C-cup bra, but they didn’t offer an easy pay plan. When she came to work the next day, showing off her “new boobs” I had to ask her if the bank had a lien on her breasts, and how would they collect, if she defaulted.
I guess the investment paid off. Shortly after she had the procedure, she moved to California, where she could stack up to the competition, where everybody out in Hollywood has implants of some kind. And there she found her dream hunk. I never asked him, but I’ll bet he would have fallen in love and married her anyway. But she told me that the extra equipment gave her the self-confidence she needed to snag this great catch.
The other thing that troubles me is all this face work that women are getting done. A friend of ours went on vacation, and when she came back she asked me, “Do I look any different?” That’s always a dangerous question for me to answer, and I cringed, hoping I would guess right. So I tentatively commented, “Yes. I like your new hair style.” To which, she responded, “I just went through five friggin’ thousand dollars on my face, and you like my hair!” You need to understand that the whole time she’s shouting these expletives, her facial expression did not change. That’s when it hit me that there were no longer any wrinkles, creases, dimples or dents in her face, and her skin was so taut, it didn’t move when she spoke. To make matters worse, I couldn’t tell if she was smiling or snarling. It was truly unnerving.
And this plastic body syndrome is no better with guys. They’re taking steroids, getting hair plugs, having silicone implants inserted in their biceps, and elsewhere, and having unwanted fat vacuumed out of their beer bellies. And the women that they are trying to impress are sitting around making fun of them. So what’s the point?
With all the migration back to natural foods and natural fabrics, when are we going back to natural bodies? I expect this will happen as soon as I invest in a case lot of Grecian Formula to start coloring what little hair I have left.
Alligator Allie
Our friends from around the country are all contacting us, concerned for our welfare here in Florida. Watching the national news has everyone convinced that we’re in a life-and-death struggle with an exploding alligator population. Well, I’m glad to say we’re just fine. Actually, it’s the alligators that are in danger. No, the Red Tide isn’t getting them and neither is the pesticides leaching into the water from our lawns. It’s another outbreak of Severe Media Frenzy.
It all started with some of the local newspaper editors skipping their medication. And then at the National Convention of Headline Writers, a group of college kids slipped some concentrated Hysteria into the water supply. Right after the writers got back to work, (on a slow news day) three women in separate incidents were attacked by alligators, making the perfect storm of journalism.
First, let me tell you about the attacks. One woman went snorkeling at dusk, which is feeding time for gators, presenting herself as dinner. The second woman sat on a low trestle bridge dangling her feet inches above the waterline. We all know alligators love toes, so she was a goner, feet first, so to speak. The third woman was luckier. She was watering her flowers when a gator mistook her hose for a snake and went after it. She whacked him in the snout with the nozzle and he took off. The other non-story contributing to the hype is about all the pets that are disappearing. Again, this is being blamed on your friendly neighborhood alligator. The press, of course, ignores the fact that pets will travel thousands of miles to return to their original home. And they have also been ignoring all the dogs and cats that are walking along I-75 on their way back to Ohio.
And now, every time some loveable gator pops his head out of the water and gives someone a toothy smile, they panic and call the Alligator Police. My buddy Al, who is a licensed trapper, has been pulling about 20 gators a day out of the lakes. The TV crews are eating it up, filming Al at every chance. You’ve probably seen him on TV or on the Internet. One IQ-challenged anchor breathlessly told the TV audience that Al was so busy during this alligator insurgency that he had a backlog of 39 sightings to respond to. I quickly did the math and that came out to two days work. Wow!
At this rate, unless some real news distracts the press, the Florida alligators will soon make the Endangered Species list. With mosquitoes now almost non-existent in Florida, the only pests left will be the over-the-top news reporters.
Navel Maneuvers
Throughout the history of man, parents have always been troubled by the fashion trends of their teenage children. Adam, for instance, complained to Eve about Cain’s militant-looking loincloths. I know my parents hated my turned up collars, pegged pants and DA haircut. The current craze however, is disliked by a far broader segment of the population than merely the parents of these misguided kids.
Today’s popular fashion trend began with the exposure of the abdomen, but it expanded rapidly as tops became skimpier and bottoms dropped lower. Unfortunately this style combined with a second trend, obesity, which resulted in something that was really hard to look at. Very quickly, butt cleavage exceeded bust cleavage, love handles replaced waistlines and saddlebags were shown in all their bulging glory. As if this wasn’t enough, body art accessorized the look. In order to call further attention to the flaws in their anatomy, these fashion aficionados added rings to their navels and breasts, and strategically placed tattoos. This rapidly snowballed into a stampede where kids were getting tattoos all over their bodies, and facial piercings on their ears, nose, eyelids and tongue. Some of them had so much hardware drilled into their skin, that they couldn’t get through airport security. And of course, what’s the point of having a tattoo on some obscure body part, if no one can see it. So even more bulging flesh began to be revealed.
And then the fashion trend took a really ugly turn. The parents of these kids decided that they needed to appear younger and trendier than their teenagers, so they began to copy these styles with disastrous results. I’m not sure exactly when cellulite, stretch marks and sagging skin came into fashion, but they’re out there in a big way right now.
Fortunately, hope is on the horizon. A couple of new fashion looks are on the way. One is called “Lollipop Head.” This is where women wear a big hairdo and oversized sunglasses while sporting a pencil-thin body. It’s doubtful that this look will survive, as it will take years for the obesity thing to reverse itself. “BoHo Chic” however, is beginning to catch on. This style copies earlier bohemian and gypsy attire, combines it with more glitter, and hopefully an occasional bath.
The other style that’s emerging is “Emo,” where guys are wearing tight pants and ladies blouses just to make an outrageous fashion statement. One of these enthusiastic trendsetters actually burned his forehead trying to iron his hair flat. This look is vaguely similar to the “Metrosexual” style that fizzed when the men realized that in order to qualify they had to eat quiche. The other nail in that coffin came when men found out just how uncomfortable it is wearing ladies’ thongs, bras and control-top pantyhose.
I’m told that fashion exists so that we, as individuals can express ourselves creatively and look different from each other. Yet, as soon as a new fashion trend begins, we all immediately rush out to copy each other so that we end up looking the same as everyone else. And we spend a fortune doing it. Am I missing something here?
