Back to School Supplies

Twenty five years ago, I entered St. Louis Country Day School as a bright-eyed, nerdy fifth grader. As much as the new campus, shirt-and-tie dress code, and friends excited me, the biggest source of joy that I found at my new institution of learning was the school’s bookstore. It was here that I was learned to the idea of credit: sign your name, and whatever your heart desired was yours. No cash, just a signature.

What started out as casual spending the first few days on campus quickly transformed into a veritable spree of pointless and expensive pick-ups. There wasn’t a single school day that passed without me carving out a good chunk of my free period or lunch hour to browse the latest and greatest items that the bookstore had to offer. I bought Niji Grip 5000 mechanical pencils and Pilot pens by the gross. I procured binders and reams of paper by the dozen, and accumulated countless accessories like calculators, protractors, compasses. My locker looked like a condensed Staples.

No less than one month into what turned out to be an eight-year run at Country Day, my parents, after they got their first bill, had to sit me down and inform me that I would no longer be able to make any further purchases at the bookstore. I had been cut off. They politely explained the idea of credit, which I processed despite my disbelief.
While I can’t recall the exact damage, I’ve been told that in one month I had racked up about $200 in school supplies, none of which were essential to my coursework. Oops. My exploits at the CDS bookstore became legendary, and to this day are recounted with much nostalgia waxed.

So when long-time marker manufacturer Sharpie announced that it was coming out with a new product that – the liquid pencil – that promised to revolutionize the way people write, the inner nerd in me erupted with avarice. The device allows users up to 36 hours to erase. After that time, the markings become permanent like a pen. A pencil that turns into a pen. Why did the school supply aficionado in me not think of that genius plan back in high school? Maybe it’s because I nearly flunked chemistry.

Busy relocating from Los Angeles to Nashville, I had not yet had the opportunity to pick up the Sharpie. It was not until last weekend that my hands first touched the liquid pencil. Back in St. Louis for a quick Labor Day visit, my good friend Kirby surprised me with the pencil and the new Sharpie pen. My eyes glowed like Ralphie when he opens his Red Rider BB Gun on Christmas Day.

The irony of my penchant for school supply purchases is that my dedication to the tools rarely translated into works of art in the classroom. Sure, I was the most well stocked kid in Midwest, but I certainly wasn’t the smartest. It took me many years before I ever matured as a student.

To this day, I can still usually be spotted with a few pens in my jacket or shirt pocket. And I carry around a small Moleskine to jot down notes when the laptop and iPhone just won’t suffice for my record-keeping needs. When I walk into mega supply stores, I have to remind myself to breathe easy and focus on only the items that I need. Meditation hardly ever works for me in this case, and I usually buckle to my brain’s insatiable desire to hoard office supplies. During a recent trip to Office Depot here in Nashville to scout out some more printer ink, I couldn’t stop myself from walking to the large section in the back where the pens are displayed. Upon a quick scan of the glossy merchandise, I couldn’t help but notice that the Pilot G-2 four pack was priced to sell, and so I threw it in with the other items I purchased and cracked the packaging open as if I were a lion and the pen were fresh meat.

Inasmuch as the emergence of the laptop and smartphone are changing the way we communicate, with ourselves and each other, my intractable need for material things like pen and paper will ensure that places like Office Max will always have customers like me, as bright-eyed and nerdy now as when they were punky fifth graders.

Parting with the PT

Last Friday afternoon, I took in some bad news: I heard on our local NPR station, KPCC in Pasadena, that automaker Chrystler will close production on its iconic PT Cruiser. The report gave some impressive statistics: a decade of production, one million units sold, a lot of people loved it, etc.

The brilliance of the PT, apparently, was in the allegedly sleek design. It became a cult car to many. Rumor from a reliable source has it that Sex and the City writer Candace Bushnell is the proud owner a Cruiser.

The downfall with the Cruiser, the NPR lady later explained, was the lack of brand equity that GM invested in the vehicle. Low profit margins kept GM from making any substantial updates to newer models, so the general public lost interest in purchasing or re-purchasing cars as time went on. So now, sadly, the PT will go the way of the Model T and the Chevette.

Other than impress you with some flashy economic terms and concepts with which I am only vaguely familiar, the point of this post is to get a little personal with our memories of the PT.

Going back many years now, I have been able to exploit a close relationship with my “Aunt C” to get the employee discount with a major rental car company (Note: C’s full name and the company in question are withheld to protect my ability to continue this advantageous relationship in the future.)

Instead of cashing in this discount for a better vehicle, I have always milked it for the best deal on the compact or its equivalent. I have learned anyway through experience that it’s always better to book the economy class car and show up at the rental place only to find that I’ve been automatically upgraded to a bigger and better model because the last, say, Kia Spectra just left the lot with the Griswold family in tow.

This is a tactic that has served me well financially, although I can’t say that people have gawked at us for our choice in transportation.

Which brings us back to the subject to the PT.

It seemed that, for years, Beth and I got the Cruiser every time we rented a car for vacation or visiting family. It’s hard to believe that this is an “upgrade” to the Chevy Aveo, as an example, but we always got a good laugh about it. We even had a convertible PT for our trip to Maine in July 2005 to visit my friend Sum at his family house in Small Point and again when he and his wife got married at the same spot 18 months later. We ended up with a Cruiser with the fake wood side paneling for a visit with Beth’s family in southern Georgia. I don’t think the in-laws will ever let that down.

And yet, the Cruiser will always have special meaning for us for an ever bigger reason.

Shortly after we landed LAX on October 19, 2008, the date we officially moved from NYC to LA, the rental car rep handed me the keys to a silver PT. Bleary eyed, travel worn, and focused on the task of finding a place to live, we didn’t object. Leaving the airport that Sunday afternoon with a stack of listings from Westside Rentals, we took our Cruiser all over LA’s westside in search of an apartment. We spent hours just looking in the Westwood area before retreating to our temporary home at he Grafton Hotel.

And that was just the beginning.

We would have that PT for four days, driving it all over town as we scoured LA’s various neighborhoods for dwellings. We “cruised” up and down Santa Monica and Wilshire Blvds in the “silver bullet,” as we affectionately called it, trying to find a two bedroom without shag carpeting and starburst Formica counter tops. I kid you not – that’s the LA rental scene.

Four days later on October 23 – after landing an apartment and closing on new car leases – I returned the PT to its rightful owner on Manchester Ave. I faintly recall patting the PT on the dash and thanking it for getting us through the hardest part of our move and one of the most trying experiences of our married life.

So as I rolled down Robertson Blvd last Friday listening to this NPR story, I can finally laugh at that chaotic time in our lives nearly two years ago.

And I can also take solace in knowing that the next time we leave town, we will likely never have to rent a PT again.

No offense, Candace.

The Lessons of LeBron-demonium

Happy Friday, everyone.

As the sun set over the westernmost part of the continental United States last night, NBA superstar LeBron James was several hours removed from a media-hyped announcement that he officially committed to signing a contract with the Miami Heat. The announcement, cleverly marketed as “The Decision” by sports cable magnate ESPN, was televised to millions of homes and businesses around the country – if not the world. It was covered obsessively by the mainstream news outlets and clogged the social media servers, like Twitter, with endless commentary. Even NBC News, a rival to ESPN’s corporate parent ABC, gave it an invaluable plug in last night’s Nightly News broadcast.

As much as I love sports – my wife can attest to my near obsession with Cardinal baseball – I don’t watch the NBA beyond a few playoff games. I’m also not a resident of any of the cities that were vying for Mr. James’ services. So, in effect, I had the benefit of viewing this development from an objective and impartial distance, without having my New York knickers twist from any single outcome

But what really disturbs me, from a larger perspective, is the media circus that has surrounded James’ revelation. It made me think about how out of whack our priorities have become.

So this Sewanee grad got to thinking, and this is what I came up with:

In the same 60-minute timeslot that ESPN fawned over LeBron and “The Decision,” more than 4,000 people worldwide reportedly died from starvation. Another 150 or so succumbed to complications of malaria, AIDS, tuberculosis, and blood cancers. There are countless other statistics that I could cull and paste from the internet, like how many soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan were wounded or killed, but hopefully the point has already been made.

Going back to NBC’s broadcast for a second – and no, I’m not a GE stockholder as far as I know – there was a report of a young Iranian woman who faces the death sentence on the allegation, without credible evidence, that she committed adultery against her husband. That report came right after Brian Williams told America that the BP oil spill is widening its devastation to the Gulf and its inhabitants. This is real news, but unfortunately those stories got buried by The Decision.

I’m not so much disturbed by the fact that LeBron wanted to test his skills and experience on the open market. Mr. James’ move, after all, is just another example of capitalism at work – and James didn’t necessarily owe anything or anyone to stay in his hometown.

My point in this ramble is that there are so many other pressing issues going on in the world, and I lament that so many of us – myself included in a way for having spent an entire evening working on a blog about it –have fixated on the career and financial aspirations of an ego-maniacal sports personality. All of those who watched at home or huddled in sports bars to hear the verdict fed this frenzy. As a good friend pointed out, this event was “more about what people in this country deem important” than it is about Mr. James’ basketball resume. That’s why James rakes in more than $30 million dollars in endorsements alone from companies like McDonald’s and State Farm Insurance.

The effect of this news will linger indefinitely. Pundits, especially those on the sports networks, will dedicate endless hours of programming space to analyze this decision to death. Residual stories, like LeBron’s first visit to Cleveland as a member of the Miami Heat, will flare up and again consume the sports world. I’m going to do my best to focus on the bigger issues of the day. We should keep in mind that LeBron’s decision is about wealth and winning. It will not end world hunger, cure malaria, or help bring our troops home any quicker.

LeBron – who by the way has the (self-proclaimed?) moniker of “King James”, an allusion to a popular version of the Holy Bible – said in his interview last night that he has been sleepless for the past few nights leading up to his a decision. Maybe I’m just starting to tire of living in a city marred by self-importance, but I can’t help wondering if Ms. Ashtiani, the Iranian woman who faces the death penalty for a crime (adultery) that in this country is punishable only by excessive legal fees, will be able to sleep knowing that her life hangs in the balance.

As the Gulf bleeds…

Today’s topic: The Spill as Metaphor

Right now, as I write these words, tens of thousands of gallons of unrefined oil continue to spew, largely unabated, from a collapsed pipeline several thousand feet below the surface of the Gulf of Mexico. The impact of the BP oil spill has been catastrophic to the region’s marine ecosystem, threatening the safety and well being of countless species of fish, crustaceans, mollusks, etc.  The economic devastation is equally damaging, if not more so:  an entire network of coastal communities which, for generations, has made a living off the Gulf’s rich natural resources hangs in the balance. Thousands of families are being pushed further to the brink of economic collapse and poverty, as their livelihoods as fishermen, boat operators, and engineers are being literally and figuratively stained with black crude. It is day 72, and there seems to be no end in sight.  While BP and the government talk about their latest and greatest plans to stop the leak, the Gulf continues to bleed black.

But even long after the rig is plugged, the aftermath of the spill will be felt for decades.  There is a long road ahead to get the region to pre-spill conditions, ecologically and economically speaking. Low-wage workers and national guard reserves will be scrubbing the shoreline for years. Scientists and environmental groups will be washing down petrol-soaked birds and other wildlife long after the news cycle of this disaster dissipates. Generations will be needed for the Gulf’s marine flora and fauna to be restored to healthy levels.

While it is unfortunate that the spill has taken place in the backyard of a city that is still reeling from a disaster of a different making, there is an opportunity to learn from this crisis.  It’s my hope that the proximity of the spill to the world’s largest oil consumer will give we Americans  some pause.  The spill as metaphor can provide some valuable insight as to our nation’s consumptive patterns.  And from an ecopolitical perspective, I hope that this disaster will  bring greater awareness to the fact that we, as a country, will continue to suffer the consequences from the lack of a coherent and comprehensive energy policy that incorporates renewable sources at every turn and limits our dependence on fossil fuels, such as oil.   Esteemed journalist Lisa Ling said it best over Twitter on May 20: “I can’t help but think that we all bear some responsibility for this oil spill. It (oil) sustains our livelihoods.”  Anyone who has spent time on the 405 in rush hour knows exactly what Ms. Ling is talking about here.

This post is not meant to be a preachy rant.  I’m just as guilty as the next guy – even the one sitting next to me at Starbucks reading the New York Times and eating a bagel with latex gloves – for my part in consuming oil.  After all, I live in the car capital of the world – Los Angeles – and consume my fair share of goods that are manufactured courtesy of fossil fuels.  The oil spill, however, should not come and go without any lessons learned.  The more that we, as citizens and advocates, can be engaged in the myriad complex issues surrounding energy policy, transportation, governmental oversight, disaster response, etc., the stronger our country will be in the end.

I could go on and on, but instead I’ll conclude with a few random figures which represent the approximate equivalent of the $20 billion that BP has committed to cleanup and compensation in the Gulf of Mexico.  These are of my own thinking, so I take full responsibility for any errors or misrepresentations.  Feel free to add to the list.

$20 billion in perspective…

*The GDP of Estonia

*A check of $60.61 payable to every US resident

*Ownership of 107,000 f430 Ferrari coupes, but not including insurance coverage

*At $5.00, a fast food combo meal for two-thirds of the world’s population

*The operating budget of the State of New York

*A one-year private school education, valued at $20,000, for every public school student in Los Angeles, with money left over for books, school supplies, and field trips

*LeBron James’ next contract

*6.5 billion gallons of refined gasoline at current market prices, enough fuel to drive a car at 25MPG to Pluto and back to Earth about 20,000 times

*Enough cash to put an iPad (16GB, Wi-Fi only) in the hands of  every man, woman, and child in California – according to 2009 estimates

*One-year salary, at $50,000, for 400,000 unemployed Americans

Step into my Starbucks

Thanks to encouragement from my friend Steve and a few other folks who are helping me in my quest for personal business development – aka job search – I’m gaining reentry into the blogosphere.  It is my hope to post something on a near daily basis, and I welcome your comments and feedback as I re-acquaint myself with writing and general intellectual thought.

Today’s topic: Starbucks as office.

I’m not an avid customer of the Seattle-based coffee chain, but I may well become one.  Starting today, Starbucks is offering free Wi-Fi to its customers, courtesy of AT&T.  For Starbucks, the added incentive of wireless internet  is designed to bolster sales of its coffee and food products.  And it’s a win for AT&T to direct data-hogging customers  away from its already clogged 3G network.

From personal experience, it seems to be working out for everyone.  I’ve set up shop at our neighborhood chain for almost three hours today, scouring the job boards, answering emails, setting up networking meetings, and, occasionally, checking the social media sites and afternoon baseball scores – while also finding the time to post a 400+ word blogpost.  The damage so far: a $1.50 “tall” coffee and a $2 bottle of water.

So for essentially a dollar an hour, I’ve benefit from free internet, a decent cup of coffee, and clean and safe drinking water.  And that’s only the tangibles.  I’ve been remarkably more productive sitting here, in the presence of total strangers, than if I were at home being subjected to the normal distractions of the TV, dog, etc.  Starbucks will get to count $3.50 in additional sales from my patronage.   And while I’m not sure what exactly AT&T will get out of my time here today, they already have me as a cell phone subscriber.

And I’m not the only one.  In the last few hours,  I’ve seen several folks like me setting up shop with their laptops and cell phones out to, presumably, conduct business, look for work, or connect with friends in cyberspace.   Sure, there are several quick drop-ins for coffee, lunch, and a quick glance at the paper, but it’s hard not to notice the holdovers who have made hanging out in coffeeshops a veritible artform.

These folks will soon become the norm, if they haven’t already.  As the work landscape continues to evolve in the new technology age, Starbucks appears willing to play the role of the “office away from the office.”  The meeting to review stills of models – just seen – or the  job interview over a grande non-fat frappuccino  may become more commonplace here.

That is  the whole idea, according to Starbucks’ senior management team who saw the growth potential in offering free Wi-Fi to anyone who walks through the door with a smartphone or computer.   Free Wi-Fi is the modern day’s version of “If you build it they will come” marketing.  Providing an allure is an old-time trick, as evidenced by the construction of playgrounds at fast food chains several decades ago.  And today, I knowingly walked right into the trap.

I probably won’t come to Starbucks everyday to fill my day, but there is a good chance that your next email, phone call, or blogpost from me will originate here, from my newly-established barstool  facing LaCienaga Blvd.  And if you’re in the area, feel free to step into my Starbucks to say hello.

No appointment is necessary.

Toyota’s Recall and my Total Recall

Toyota’s announcement last week that the leading global automaker was recalling more than two million of its cars due to accelerator issues suddenly transported me back in time to September 1990. I had just turned 16 and inherited my mother’s American Motor Company Jeep Wagoneer, which I nicknamed Nazer after the vehicle’s license plate: NZR 156. Yes, I still remember the number, if only because I saved the red Missouri tag for many years.

JV Water Polo practice had been cancelled that Friday afternoon – a rare event that was especially welcome because our football-playing counterparts had an early afternoon contest against Ladue High. After Coach Shaw’s unexpected announcement, we scrambled to make it to the game, just a few hundred yards away fom the pool.

Leaving the locker room, my friend Sum asked if I could give him and V a lift to his house – literally on the other side of Warson Road and on the way to the game – so that he could pick up his gray Camry. It seemed like a reasonable request, so I dropped Sum off with V. My best friend and team co-captain Noey rode with me.

I implored the Sum – who had been driving for about a week – to drive safely. The irony of that statement when weighed against what transpired next is as thick as the LA smog that I now breathe every day.

Pulling out of Sum’s driveway, I looked at Noey and said something along the lines of “let’s see what this baby can do.” It was obviously a joke. The Nazer had no real acceleration capabilities and the car shook when it exceeded 70mph. Nazer was the prototypical 90s SUV – cumbersome, sluggish, and devoid of power.

So in jest, I floored the pedal for a few seconds. It was supposed to be an eyeblink quip.

The accelerator had other ideas. Inspired by the force of my size 9, the pedal got stuck under the mat and Nazer showed its first-ever display of gas-guzzling prowess.

Panic set in. Nazer’s engine whined from the added torque and speed and a 90 degree turn was dead ahead. Even Maverick would have had trouble negotiating this turn.

I stomped repeatedly on the pedal in a last-ditch effort to free it from the grip of the mat.

Nothing.

I desperately attempted to make the turn – at about 40mph and on bald tires.

No dice.

I blacked out.

When I came to, we were sideways in a patch of trees and bush. “What the (expletive) just happened” I remember shouting out loud in disbelief and shock. Noey, in the passenger seat, was adjacent to the ground. We exited from my window. Thankfully we were not hurt.

My first visual recollection, after we climbed out of the car, was of Sum and V barreling down Fielding. Both were tall and lanky, demonstrating excellent running form. They offered that the crash was very loud. I think I had a brief moment of pride, like Clark Griswold in Vacation when Rusty tells Clark that he hurled the family truckster 50 yards after failing to yield to a Road Closed sign.

We dusted ourselves off and I noticed I had pissed myself slightly, the ring of urine in my pants equaled the size of a quarter.

The paramedics arrived shortly thereafter. “How are you still alive?” the first responder asked. We agreed.

After spending a brief stint in the ambulance to have our vitals checked, both Noey and I refused further medical attention. Then our parents arrived. The tow truck came and pulled Nazer’s twisted metal frame from the brush. It was DOA, totaled.

Noey went on with Sum and V to watch the football game. I went home with my mom and later cried in my sister’s bedroom after realizing that I could have easily killed myself and a friend.

So when Toyota said it was recalling several million vehicles because the accelerators could stick under the mat, I couldn’t help but think of that September more than half of our lives ago. I replay the scenarios: what if practice had not been cancelled, what if I told Sum to (expletive) off and walk home to get his car, what if we drove straight to the game or better yet just walked the few hundred yards, or what if I had decided not to be a jag off and guided Nazer down Fielding Road like any normal driver?

All of that speculation is academic. Almost 20 years have passed and that sequence of events, while still clear, does not hold the same chilling totality as it did in the months and years that immediately followed. Plus, the Nazer incident seemed like the first of many stupid things that I and others did as punk highschoolers: diving off my parents’ poolhouse head first, riding on the roof of a friend’s Trooper at high speeds, etc.

The Nazer incident only makes for a fond and funny memory because nobody got hurt – or ended up dead. In that respect, the Toyota recall is no laughing matter as a handful of deaths have been reported from accidents caused by faulty accelerators.

As millions of Toyota owners head to dealerships to get their vehicles repaired, I’ll continue to count my blessings from that September.

By the way, I’m pretty sure Ladue won the game.

February 1, 2010