Skyjacked

The sun shined bright that day.

And the air never smelled sweeter.

It was probably the beautiful sweet broom that grew wild on the rolling Italian hills both near and far.

Since my first visit to Italy in 2006, I've spent countless hours trying to devise a plan for how to live in my beloved Italy, but to no avail. Without a large wallet, a winning LOTTO ticket or Italian blood in my mother or father (none of which I have), I'm forced to sit state side and admire my love from afar.

So it's nice when I can spank my credit card in what has become my annual travel ritual back to Italy. Kinda like my own conjugal visit of sorts.

It was 2010 and I was lucky to have my feet on Italian land. This special year, however, there was a terror brewing. And it wanted me. Specifically, my money.

Gimme This... AND That!

Over the course of my two week stay in Italy, I consumed. And consumed I did. Ironically, as The World's Genuine Consumer Victim, the people and places of Italy have treated me well... excluding the two separate times I was short-changed on the Isle of Capri, but I don't like to remember that. Oh, then there's the time I was fined 25 € on the train for not knowing I needed to validate my ticket for the 1 kilometer long ride. Yeah, that robocop saw me coming a mile away.

So this being my fourth trip to Italy in four years, I considered myself pretty well-
seasoned on the joys of traveling. The lines. The Euro con-
version. The language barriers.

But this year, an unsuspecting terror loomed. A terror cleverly disguised as my friendly airline. Delta Airlines, to be precise.

Delta Dealt It

After a 2-week whirlwind dismount from a wonderful stay in Tuscany and Liguria, we were in our departure city of Pisa. And as all good tourists do, we flocked in search of the leaning tower of Pisa. We were lost for almost an hour when we realized there were no signs pointing this way or that.

Because of the time suck of being lost, we found ourselves pinched for time and bolted from a brief view of the tower power straight for the Aeroporto Internazionale Galileo Galilei. Apparently we bolted too fast, as I'm currently in a painstakingly slow process of receiving my first international ticket for a moving violation of an Italian something-or-other. And like a scream within a dream, auto rental giant Hertz was there to push me down ~ that docudrama arriving here soon.

At the airport check-in counter, a suave Italian (let's call him "Giuseppe") was quick to inform me that my luggage bag holding loot bought near and far was too heavy and I would be required to pay a supplemental "heavy bag fee" of 150 € (about $200 USD).

Really? This was the same bag I had stuffed every year on my travels and while I didn't think I had packed it any fuller than years prior, I accepted my Giuseppe smackdown, who was quick to charge my credit card the extra fine. Giuseppe would sleep well that night.

Maybe what tipped me over the weight limit was the 3 bottles of wine I couldn't bring onto the plane... or the 3 pair of CK skivvies. Ahhh, then there's the Italian children's book "La Cacca," a delightfully smelly read. Whatever the item, I was jacked.

Skyjacked™ in Pisa.

Time's A Tickin'

With only 45 minutes until my plane left, I felt helpless at the counter. Without time to sort my bag in hope to get it under the weight limit, I went ahead and paid the hefty fee, as did my partner, totaling $400 in extra fees for the same bags flown from the US.

When I got back on US soil, I did some math and realized that not only was I jacked, I was rolled in flour and olive oil then flash-fried and deep-fried skyjacked.

I later found out that had I just flown an extra bag all together, the Delta fee would have been just 50 €, but because my bag was deemed heavy, I had to pay three times that price for the privilege to fly my crap and keep it, too.

So adieu to you, Giuseppe. And "fork you," friendly Delta!... you do "love to fly, and it shows!"

So the next time I travel, I'll think thrice about flying your pricey skies. And I'll certainly think about it come the fine day I uncork the Italian wine that wound-up costing $400 USD.

Now that's tasty!

Victim's Notable: During this experience, I coined the term "skyjacked," which is now a published word on Urban Dictionary. So while not the luckiest of flyers, my bruises made me socially relevant.

Yeah, I know!

Stairway To Hell

Most entrances to hell lead down. This one leads up.

This entrance was the byproduct of a cheesy 1980s home renno that converted a 1920s Tudor from a one story charmer, into a two story monster.

The beautiful oak stairway invitingly sits a few feet from the front door and graces everyone with its presence...

“Hello,” it says. “Care to take a stroll up to Heaven?”

“Wait!,” I say. "I need you to sign a small release form... if you really want to go up there.”

“Release form? For what?”

“To ensure that you will not repeat a word of this to anyone!”

"What’s wrong?"

“You’ll see.”

Meet And Greet Hell

It was 2005 and I was making the second largest decision of my life. I had yearned to live in the much sought-after part of town flanked by tree covered streets. Old architecture from the 20s and 30s. A time that was lost, but found in Dallas, Texas – the Capital of concrete highways, byways and strip malls galore.

My Realtor said “if you can get past the upstairs, you’ll love the house.” Ready for a challenge, I was eager to meet my potential match. I did. And I fell in crazy, stupid love.

Somehow I was able to look past all the unfortunate neglect that two back-to-back foreclosures can bestow on a soul (read more here and here). I was able to see something beyond the here and now. Worst off, I could see potential.

After a brief bidding war with an investor who had already drawn-up floor plans to scrape off the upstairs hack-job and rebuild a full, "real" second story, the home was surprisingly mine. I beat him by no more than a $7,000 spread. While I was excited, little did I realize at the time, but I had just purchased a three-headed baby devil. "Oh, Shit!" is an understatement.

Angle Angel

The upstairs is wildly wacky. It is the original attic for the home and has what I call a “modified bump-out” home improvement that extended the back of the roof line out, oh, maybe 5 feet. Why bother, right?

The result? Angled ceilings perfect for a child-sized person, but a little uncomfortable for humans over 4 feet tall (picture scraping your head on the sloped ceiling as you run for your life to escape). It’s impossible to hang a picture on the wall, unless you have a lot of nails and Super Glue. I’m not sure what the inventors of the upstairs abode had in mind, but from where I tried to stand, if they were shooting for the gateway to hell, they score perfect marks.

Hello, Hot Box

As days turned weeks turned summer, it came time to power-up the AC. It didn’t take long to realize that when outside temperatures started to rise, so too did the hell-like conditions upstairs. The poor AC system was just too weak to keep the 1,500 square foot pleasure palace cool.

By August when the electric bill hit $500, I knew I had to try and convert Satan’s easy bake oven into livable space. Little did I know how it would involve thousands of dollars, over 5 years of trial and error and consume my soul in the process.

Try Hard. Fall Harder.

Aside from setting the house on fire and starting over, I've tried everything I can afford at the recommendation of "the experts":

~ Install a new outside condensor – No impact.
~ Install a second thermostat and damper system to better regulate the upstairs/downstairs – I lose again.
~ How about new $12,000 double-paned windows – Nuh uh!
~ The obvious new insulation and new air ducts? – Not even that.

I've had countless air companies out to access the situation and actually had three who refused the work... and my money.

One guy believed the air handler was installed into the house and then the wall was conveniently built just 1 foot from the system. He likened trying to service the air handler like to trying to work on your car engine while only being able to raise the hood 3 inches. Not possible.

Totally Baked

So there I was – and still am – sweating. Sweating over what to do. Sweating over where to go next (a hotel?). Sweating as I open each new electric bill and dreadfully find the amount due. And sweating when I force myself to finally write each check to my smiling electric company.

Some days I sit in my hot box and wonder why I’m being punished for loving this house. I question how I was able to look past all the neglect and shoddy home improvements. I wonder why my inspector didn’t catch any of this but then again, he missed the active termite colony in the detached garage, which resulted in a $40,000 tear-down and rebuild.

I watch the thermostat top-out at 99 degrees, like it did today, and wonder what the “true” temperature is since I don’t have a triple-digit thermostat. I wonder what thrives in this kind of heat besides cacti and popcorn.

My greatest fear?

Not being able to sell this soul sucker* before Satan, victor, adds me to his list of greatest accomplishments as I finally combust in the heat of my personal hell on Earth...

...Consumer Victim Style!


* To quote Angela Arden: "I hate this house! I hate these walls... I hate that sofa! The only part of this dump that doesn't make me puke is that door ~ because that's the way I'm gettin' out!"

Overdraft Sack

Turn on the TV these days and it’s likely you’ll hear a story about a poor soul who was forced out of their house by their bank. At first blush, I think “wow – those people really screwed-up!”

But after what Bank of America did to me, I find it totally believable how a bank can turn rogue and actually inflict pain and suffering on the very customers they are there to safeguard. In fact, it’s a ScrewFest™ amounting to 38+ billion dollars, according to a recent CNN Money article.

Flashback 1997

Like most first-time homeowners, I was house poor. While my loan was slam-dunk approved for my 1950s charmer, I found it really easy to hand over my paycheck to my local home improvement center for all the odds and ends needed to spruce-up my home. Bushes. Tools. Paint. You name it, the house ate it up.

One thing I was – and still am – protective of is my credit rating. I don’t know why, but in this rat race world, I want to optimize my loan rates since winning the LOTTO® is unlikely at this point in life. So I set-up overdraft protection at my local Bank of America in the event something ever went wrong.

Any boy, did it!

Christmastime Crunch

Sleigh bells rang. I scurried out the door to head to my birthing grounds for the holidays with the nuclear fam. It would be a week-long trip and I had just scored a $750 expense check reimbursement that I needed to deposit. I was running behind schedule, so I decided I would deposit the check at my destination down south since Bank of America had locations pretty much everywhere.

I landed on Christmas Eve and needed to do some last minute frustration shopping.

Pushy people abound.

Mall zombies. A sea of bouncing bobbleheads. Why, the "holiday spirit" was so thick, Emily Post was undoubtedly rolling in her grave. I made my way through it all and got home in time to place my wrapped treasures under the artificial tree.

Two days later and after visions of sugarplums had vaporized, I realized during the holiday hustle I hadn’t deposited my expense check, so I two-wheeled it to the bank drive-thru.

Five days later I returned home to Dallas. As I pulled into my driveway, I was blanketed with a really errie feeling I’ll never forget… sticking out the top of my mailbox like a middle finger were little white envelopes. I could see they were all alike. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7 of them, in total. And what were the letters saying to me? "Yoo-Hoo!... Hey, loser! Get ready to be screwed!"

As fast as I dropped my suitcase on the floor, I was tearing open the envelopes. The letters were overdraft notices from Bank of America. Too much holiday gift-giving, apparently. My eyes scanned the letters and there played out for me were recognizable dollar amounts from my holiday shopping hustle. Some as small as $3 for a cup of coffee from "Fourbucks" (yeah, coffee was about 3 bucks back then.) And each and every transaction had an additional $30 charge conveniently and instantly applied.

“This must be a mistake,” I said out loud, as I shook my head back and forth in disbelief. I had a headache brewing. And the pain was just beginning.

Earth, Wind & Fire

The next day, I bolted to the bank and asked for the banking center manager. I presented the facts and said that while I understood I had accidentally dipped past my account balance, it was only by a bit – roughly $200 – but the bank had charged my account real-time, so the fire had spread to over $1,100! I said I would totally pay for my overdraft charges, but was there anything they could do to work with me? Payment plan? One free NSF rebate with the purchase of a loan? Anything?

And what did I hear? “This happens to all of us.”

"Really?," I said? $1,100?

A grown man can indeed be broken and I tried to hold back the tears of fright as I wondered how I would make my next mortgage payment. $1,100 to me was (and still is) a lot of money and not only was my paycheck swiped up by BoA to promptly pay themselves [ evil laugh ], my savings – and my overdraft protection – evaporated, too.

I told the manager I couldn’t understand why BoA was “putting fire out with gas.” I couldn't understand how my account wasn’t flagged or turned off if I was out of money, but therein lies the nasty nugget – Bank of America wasn’t stupid... or helpful. Most predators aren’t.

Bank of America took me for every hard-earned penny I had. And then some. And they weren’t even remorseful about it. No phone call to see how I was – or even if the charges were legit. No “Hey, dumb ass – did you learn something at your expense?” So that very day I swore “Skank of America” was dead to me. I would never bank with the evil doers ever again.

And I haven’t.

Even though this experience was one of the scariest life events I encountered, some good came out of it. My dear cousin swooped in on angel wings and saved the show – she mailed me a check without hesitation to get me back on my feet.

And I did.

Thank God I still owned my feet! I used them to run from Skank of America faster than Julia did in Sleeping with the Enemy.

That Was Then. This Is Now.

13 years later, and I’m never going back.

"F" you, Bank of America. Pa Ingalls would be ashamed of how your employees so soundly sleep at night based on what you do during the day (screwing well-intending worker bees).

And "F" you, heartless Hillside branch banking center manager. Your mom should stuff your mouth with the bags of pennies you yearn for then beat you with a 5 gauge wire hanger for being a cold, soul-less zombie.

“It happens to all of us.”

Flash Forward 2010:

In a recent New York Times article, Skank of America is finally caving in on their ludicrous NSF shenanigans. The change will go into effect for new customers in June and later in August for existing customers... serving as a great example of another dumb company who values new customer relationships more than existing ones.

It’s all in how they roll their dough, folks!

Rolled Like Dough Twice?

Absolutely! I am the World's *Genuine* Consumer Victim, after all. Read about my former Credit Union who promptly tried to ruin my twice-in-a-lifetime trip to glorious Italy!

The Cuisinart Shitstick

Innovation Station

There's a revolution going on in kitchens around the world.

Gone are the days of Nanna's potato masher (a fork) and hello are the days of pricey doodads to help the new culinary whizkid - the at-home chef - transform mere foodlike articles into delectable masterpieces almost too pretty to eat.

These kitchen innovation "essentials" take many forms:

• Pot filler faucets
• The combination steam oven
• The vertical rotisserie
• Stainless steel professional-sized ranges
• Outside pizza ovens from Italy (complete with outdoor living area and kitchen prep sink)
• Complete kitchen renovations more expensive than my first house
• And ah, yes, the Immersion Blender, like the Cuisinart® "Smart Stick®," shown above.

Suck It, Buck Rogers

I thought the immersion blender made a lot of sense, so I purchased one as a gift for my household eatery.

I had visions of leap frogging from 2008 into the future. Like the year 2500 future. In only a few adventures with my new hand device, I'd be whipping out Frozen Coffee Frappes, Blueberry Banana Antioxidant Smoothies, Sweet Red Pepper Coulis - even Parsnip & Sweet Potato Puree.

I might even be able to open my side kitchen window and start selling my new stick creations to the plethora of hungry people who would surely swarm my new kitchen holyland.

Easy Living

While Cuisinart touts the Smart Stick as a device that would "make life in the kitchen easier than ever," I could barely remember the the lengthy names of some of the recipes (above) included with my stick. Yeah, try saying "Blueberry Banana Antioxidant Smoothies" thrice while clicking your heels and you might awake in a culinary nirvana, complete with hundreds of Cuisinart kitchen essentials.

But Cuisinart convinced me that with my Smart Stick, I would be unstoppable. Invincible. A Gastronomical Genius. An Accomplished Appliancist.

Make way, Julia. Paula. Martha (yeah, I said "Martha").

Savor The Good Life®

The Smart Stick surely sounded good on the outside.

Why in just a few days I had pureed green beans and carrots for some dog treats, made some gravy and even a shake. (of course these would now be represented with their Cuisinart-a-fied new names of "Homemade Rustic Rosemary Canine Veggie Treats With A Smattering Of Italian EVOO," "7 Spice Southern Style Roasted Garlic And Peppercorn Sausage Gravy," and the delightful, delectable and decadent "Triple Chocolate Power Blast Protein Shake."

Where Smart Stick Meets Shitstick

You see. After just a few weeks of use (about four total uses in all), the Smart Stick turned Shitstick.

It broke.

No workey.

So there I was back transported back to the present in my common kitchen.

Goodbye, Shitstick. Hello Nanna's fork.

Goodbye, Accomplished Appliancist. Hello, Consumer Victim.

Again.


Victim's Note Of Interest: Cuisinart refers to the Smart Stick as a "hand blender" undoubtedly for legal reasons. I'm assuming things could get costly if a consumer immersed something like the Shitstick and sued the culinary giant. But then again, does being a "hand blender" imply the device blends hands?

More Kitchen Calamities? You betcha. Consumer Victim Style! Check out range rage here. More details coming soon!

Potbelly Screwfest

I really try hard to make something of my life. I put a lot of thought and energy into *most* of my life projects. So when I come across a successful idea despite itself... well, it really hacks me off.

I've been to Potbelly at least a handful of times. At first the charm of this place "being different" is what drew me back. Then, once I got to know Potbelly better, it donned my list of Places Never To Eat At.

Why, you ask? Well, the food is mediocre. My friend Kristen says "the bread hurts my mouth." Cody calls Potbelly "Pothelly." Then there's the ambiance. The cackling sound of loud employees shouting orders while you're eating? Deffening. It's anyplace but the place to go to digest your food peacefully. And the "line design?" Read on!

Soup's On... Not

My first poor experience with Potbelly happened a month ago. My coworker David and I decided we wanted soup and he said Potbelly had a good potato soup, so we bolted to forage for food. I realize the place can get busy at lunch, but I've never understood why workers YELL across the line of customers at the counter to take orders from the folks further down the line. Some might call that endearing. I call it irritatingly unnecessary. DO YOU REALLY LIKE PEOPLE YELLING AT YOU BEFORE THEY TAKE YOUR MONEY? I know! Me either.

After wading through the line and finally making it to the register, the register lady asked "What did you have." I said "A bowl of soup to go." She said "You don't have to wait in line to order soup." I said "Oh, I didn't know. There's no sign here to indicate that." The lady went to retrieve the soup and as luck would have it, they were out.

No Soup For You

She offered to give me some frozen soup, but yeah, not so much. My favorite part was when she asked "Can I get you anything?" I said "Yeah, how about some hot soup?" The blood rushed to my face as I realized this lady was just a pre-programmed myna bird. She looked to be about 35 and I was frustrated how at that point in life, someone has mailed it in and chosen to not use their brain.

Thar She Blows

I decided that I'd have to give register lady a life lesson from the line so she might be of some use for future customers (my guess is that Potbelly didn't have an effective training program). I said - "You know what would be really awesome? If the people behind the counter actually talked to each other. Not yell, but talk. You're out of soup but the guy YELLING orders at the front of the line has no idea. It would be really awesome if you could let him know so other customers don't have to wait in line for soup they can't have."

The lady said she would tell the line, but as I waited for my friend David to collect his sandwich and not his soup, I noticed she just went along her merry pre-programmed way.

Frustrated, I sent in a complaint to the Potbelly website when I got back to the office. Surprisingly I received a reply the next day from a regional manager who offered her apologies.

I decided to sweep this experience under the Potbelly rug as just an untimely event... until...

Screwfest, Part II

I decided I could be bigger than that bowl of soup I couldn't have, so a few days later I went in to get a shake. Danielle said I'd love the shake. This time, instead of standing in line, I stood under the "To Go" sign and asked the counter lady for a shake to go. She said "You need to stand in that line over there (pointing to the other register). I said "OK," and got into formation.

I stood at the register and watched register guy ring up three customers who were coming downstream toward me. It was true. I didn't exist. Since I wasn't coming at him "from his left," apparently I wasn't going to get service.

The best part is when I turned to my left to ask counter lady what I should do, a customer had just walked-up to the counter and asked for a shake and counter lady started making it!

WTF, I thought. Why is she making the other customer a shake, but I had to wait in line... only to be ignored by register guy? I was losing it. I wanted that damn shake and I was going to get it!

A lady coming downstream looked at me with a puzzled look on her face. I said "I'm sorry, I've been standing here for three customers and I need to place my order." Register guy looked up and at me like "What are YOU doing here?" I said "Excuse me. I was told to stand here to order a shake and you've been ignoring me for three customers now. Can you please get me a shake?"

The guy looked completely dumbfounded. I guess "Irritated Shake Customer" didn't make the cut for the employee training manual. Worst off, he made my shake. I'm assuming he spat in it, but you know what? That was the best tasting shake of my whole life. Why? Because I earned it. The hard way.

Shake It Off

At my age, I have to try and keep my blood pressure down, so I decided to just let it go. "Serenity now, Patrick" I said. And I did let it go (well, sorta). Truth was I was too old for Potbelly. I realized I needed to restrict my dining adventures to places where people have brains and think on the job.

I learned firsthand that the Potbelly experience simply sucks. Whoever designed the Potbelly line needs to be forced to order from it. Then be fired. It's truly a usability issue you'd think a restaurant that is franchising itself across the country would pick-up and fix.

For me? The next time I want a sandwich or a shake, Potbelly won't make the cut.

DO YOU HEAR ME?

DO YOU?


Oh. My List Of Places Never To Eat At, You Ask?

1. Any restaurant with a buffet. Buffets are just gross.
2. Any restaurant where you order through a line (sorry Luby's).
3. Mi Cocina in the Dallas Galleria - they stole my glasses.
4. ... and Potbelly, without a doubt!

Bibbenfuckers

If you’re looking for a locally grown dry cleaner, this one’s here.

If you’re looking for a locally grown dry cleaner who takes your money while ruining your clothes, keep on reading.

Dirty Origin

Back in the day before I knew better, I found a new dry cleaner that I visited for few months. “Bibbentuckers” had drive-up service and since I’m a busy ad guy with little time to iron, I rationalized paying them a premium for cleaning my clothes.

My bi-weekly bills, however, started to top 3-digits left of the decimal and I started becoming aware that while the clothes were nicely packaged ($6 at the time for a linen shirt), I could throw away my clothes and buy new ones for not much more money.

The true test was the day when I pulled a blue shirt from the closet while getting ready for work. It had a weird banded stain on the collar where it looked like the pressing machine was left on while someone daydreamed over a tuna sandwich while watching “Days Of Our Lives."

Rumpled, I put it back in the closet and reached for another. Same result.

There were three shirts in all that had the freaky collar stain and I was cleaned out of blue shirts to wear.

Collar Hollar

I took the shirts to Bibbentuckers and explained the situation to the employee. They said they’d run the shirts through again and for me to come back in 2-3 days, which I did. I assumed they would have addressed the matter and put a note on the clothes if in fact they couldn’t solve the problem. What’s worse is they charged me to process the shirts again and as you guessed, the pressed stains were all still there.

Bibbenfuckers Was Born

I took the shirts back again and explained the situation. I said that while I had gone ahead and paid them the first time to fix the error of their ways, the stains were still there. I didn’t understand why it was “hand over fist” to take my money while paying no attention to fixing the stain. Not even a “Hey buddy – we can’t fix it.”

So after the second chance to fix things, my shirts were ruined.

Pissed, I was left baffled how Bibbenfuckers could ignore the situation. They have a customer id card tied to an account with all my information. And to this day no calls. No inquiries as to where my money has gone.

Which reminds me…

Ode To My Three Shirts

My blue shirts of three

Oh how I miss thee

Hate me not

I have not forgot

They took my money.

They ruined you shirts

The dirty cleaners Bibbentuckers

Run amuck by motherfuckers

Cleaned Out Again? You betcha! Consumer Victim Style. Read all about it here.

American Home Shaft

I'm not sure where the saying "peace of mind" came from, but when I think of American Home Shield, I think "piece of crap."

American Home Shaft (as I call them) has been taking my money each month for over 10 years. I pay them because I'm supposed to have someone to call on that makes my life simpler; a company to call on when the going gets tough. Well, that’s what they want you to believe.

Recently, I've had the chance to see how AHS really responds in periods of crisis... and it's pretty damn ugly.

In The Heat Of It

Imagine living in Texas in summer. It's hot and the sun is beating down on your head like a heavyweight boxer beating the face of his wet noodle opponent. Imagine it being 100+ degrees. You retreat indoors only to find that your air conditioning isn't working.

It's actually hotter than Brad Pitt wearing Wonder Sauna Hot Pants in a sauna in Hades during a hot summer day heatwave! (Yeah, I know - that's hot!)

Hotter inside than out. Your heartbeat quickens and you pace around like Ed Grimley only to realize there's nowhere to go. You pick up the phone and talk to some jerkwad from American Home Shaft who tells you it'll be 4 days until they have the time to send someone out.

4 Days? Really?

How would you like to come sit in this hot box for 4 days while I sit and watch your automatic deposit go into my account?

Turns out - loosely translated, “American Home Shield” means “no sense of urgency” and they’ve mastered the art of that to the “t”.

The best part is that when something isn’t fixed right and you call back in, they send out the same company that can’t get their shit straight or else you have to pay a new fee. Three cheers for apathy!

I start to wonder if the companies that align with Home Shaft aren’t just bottom feeders that can’t make it in the real world; companies that suck and they accept it. So they flock to the mother fu$king shiphole who brings them customers. Customer service doesn’t matter because “they aren’t our customers,” right?

Shaft Attack

After investing June and July 2009 into hoping and praying that someone in the AHS network will know how to get an air system working, we gave up. Well, I said it first so that means we broke it off, right? Well, not really. Home Shaft stopped returning our phone calls so we’re on the search for our own AC company.

American
Home
Shaft - what customers do you serve?

Are you looking in the mirror?

Get Along Little Doggies

One of my many skills is as a locator of "the poo." And while I've become great at finding poo-like situations, I've also become an afficianado at side-stepping them. Well, most of the time.

My next journey seemed harmless on the surface. But with a little help from a not-so-neighborly neighbor, one might think I'm a horrible person for sticking a small sign in my front yard touting my doggie store.

A Sign By Design

It was harmless sign, on the surface. A flying doggie and two bulleted lines of copy separated by little doggie bones. Cute, huh? We had folks smiling and double-taking as they went down the street. You see, in a sea of yard signs, ours stuck out because it was advertising a "home-based" business, which later I was told via a red ticket was a violation of shitty code.

So, as an advertising professional, this led me to ponder. Really? A violation? How did they know I officed out of my home? Who cares!?! What's the difference between my sign and any of the plethora of advertising messages I found in my neighborhood during one 30-minute doggie walk (pics shown in this post were taken with my iPhone and trust me, I have more):

• A new garage for $16,995!
  
• Multiple religious signs proclaining "He is risen" (sorry, God, just questioning. I have a friend who doesn't believe in you, so these signs may offend him.)
• My child's a Stonewall Star.
• We had a baby!
• A for sale sign with an Agent glamor shot so big I thought at first the person was for sale, not the house.
• Painters for hire.
• New fences for sale.
• Political signs pushing us to vote "YES" or "NO" (remember in Dallas "YES" means "NO" and "NO" means "YES." Clear?)
• Even an alarm sign (below) posted on the parkway, which is against city code, too. But we won't tell - that's our good neighbor policy, since it's not hurting anyone.
  

The list goes on and on. And God forbid if any of these people office out of their home. For shame!

This experience made me realize...

... a sign by its very DNA is like a commercial on sticks. Signs advertise. And at the very nucleus of each and every sign is an ad pushing for whatever message it sports. God. Political views. Things for sale. Whatever.

So while I'm not advocating a 30 foot tall neon blinky Sally's Massage & Nail Salon sign be erected in neighborhoods, what's the beef with a emerging legitimate small business based out of a garage apartment trying to make its way in a crummy economy via an 18" x 24" sign?

To some (or at least two shallow thinkers), the beef was... we existed.

Un Segno

The Italians call it un segno (literally "a sign"). For me, the sign rang clear that this wasn't just a routine "found violation," it was deliberate. As it turns out the city code employee "Oscar" confirmed we were outed by our neighbor (Oscar, props to you for being so cool about the situation).

So it turns out this was just another violation we amassed for being horrible neighbors. Other violations?:

• Outed for not having a fence permit. Guilty!
• Outed for having 6 inches of a low voltage lighting cord exposed from underneath our mulch behind our front yard bushes. Guilty!
• Outed for our dog barking in the back yard. Guilty! (Hey Harley, please don't ever stop being a dog!) Turns out Harley wasn't the nuisance - our neighbors are.
  

It's starting to get comical at this point.

I think this year we ought to play it safe and read-up on the city codes governing halloween decorations. We're big believers in that. And then there's Christmas.

In the meantime, our wonderful little sign is doing just fine. It's available for parties and guest appearances, as long as you're not advertising your home-based business!


Side Note to Shitty Officials:

This code mumbo leads me to wonder...

...would it be OK if one of our good neighbors posted my doggie sign in their yard? They don't have a home-based business — I do.

Didn't think so.

Man's Best Fiend

"It was a dark and stormy night."

Wait - scratch that - that's the opening for an upcoming post.

"It was the best of times, it the worst of times."

For us, this moment was a great one to remember: Sending our first child together off to school for the very first time.

Of course things were a little "different" than one might have expected. The couple sending off was not man and woman, but man and man. And the kid? An adorable chocolate Lab puppy named "Boomer."

Wide-eyed and a little on the crazy side, Boomer was like most Lab puppies - a little A.D.D. mixed-in with a lot of energy and wrapped with cuteness, which meant he was forgiven for most of the damage he bestowed on our home (sorry, I still say your baby tooth didn't "get caught" on the sofa, like Joe insists... it's OK - the duct tape covering the 2" tear is an accepted member of this household).

We decided that as prudent parents, we'd enlist Boomer into canine bootcamp. We did some searching. Joe had heard good things about "Man's Best Friend," so we bundled up the little booger and headed to Carrollton for a site visit.

The Grass Is Greener

We were introduced to a salesguy who pimped the greatness of Man's Best Friend (MBF). We were shuffled to training rooms where we were counseled on the flawless recipe of MBF perfection. Hanging on the walls were letters from other people, like us, who wanted the best for their babies. So we were in!

We had two training options: 1) Leave Boomer there for training by their staff or 2) Schedule 1-on-1 sessions with us present. We didn't feel right about someone else bonding with our little guy, so we opted for the 1-on-1 sessions. There were 10 in the package we puchased, which worked out to $500 (or $50 each for one hour sessions).

Things appeared to be headed in the right direction. We were learning how to throw-down commands like "Sit!" "Stay!" "Down!". Our first 3 lessons were with a guy named "Jimmy" and he was pretty funny. His East Texas twang was fun to listen to and we were excited when Boomer did something correct and Jimmy would bust out "Good Boooooooy-yaaahh!"

One day we learned Jimmy was no longer with MBF and we were given another trainer. Then soon another. There were five trainers in all and we soon learned why MBF was the epi-center of dysfuntion junction.

Nobody Knew What Boomer Was Learning, But Joe and Me!

Maybe my expectations were too high, but I thought that when we had scheduled time the traininers would show up on time. One day they even forgot an appointment all-together, which didn't bring out the best in me. But when we realized the notes they were taking in Boomer's file were probably sketches or games with self for tic-tac-toe, I drew the line.

It seems at the beginning of every lesson we (the humans) were being drilled what what Boomer had learned previously. This was because nobody was reading the file and nobody knew what Boomer knew, but us.

Final Canine Exam

The day came for Boomer's final exam and we were a little nervous. Not because of Boomer, but because of what curve ball Man's Best Fiend (as they now were dubbed) might throw Boomer's way.

• Would Jimmy show back up?
• Would another trainer [ insert new name here ] show-up with a lot of questions?
• Or would a trainer fail to show-up at all?
  

During the test, things were promising. Until they asked us to execute a command we had never heard of. "A reverse sit?," I said? "Yes, a reverse sit."

...b-bbbbut we don't know of that?

At first I thought myself totally disconnected from the rest of the family. Had I not been paying attention in class? How could I have forgotten this drill? I felt like the runt of the pack until Joe confirmed it: "Nobody showed us that!"

"That's right," I said!

Turns out Man's Best Fiend in all their glorious note-taking had forgotten to show us the reverse sit. And while we believed Boomer was the best-looking and smartest kid in town, no canine knows the "reverse sit" without being shown first.

So there we were. The awkward moment when everyone is looking at everyone. Boomer's "choo-choo train" panting was the only thing cutting the cold, flat nothingness filling the air.

Clearly the right thing to do was give us Boomer's blue ribbon, pat us on the back for all the driving to Carrollton from downtown Dallas for months and usher us out the door and check the box.

But what we heard next ensued rage - "I can't pass Boomer because he doesn't know the reverse sit."

"That's it? Those are the options?" Molten lava, here I come!

"Get 'em!, Boomer! GET HIM!"

After I laid into "Buddy" the mean trainer for a couple of minutes he finally understood why we were upset. Oh yeah, we paid $500 for training and now we were being told our unfit dog failed. I don't think so, Buddy.

We were given the option of coming back for another 2-3 sessions "at no cost to us" and Joe and I looked at each other and with the precision of a figure skater who nailed the triple axle with eyes closed and arms tied, we both said "Nuh-uhh!"

"It's not like Boomer needs this piece of paper to drive a car," I said. "And we're not being subjected to any more clueless trainers or racking-up miles on the car. This is the end of the canine line."

The Pearls Of Wisdom From This Dysfunction Are Clear

Make sure you fully understand the exact training your dog will receive. Get it in writing along with a definition of "success." For us, all we got was a receipt they took our money.

Know who - and the caliber of - your instructor(s). It's not that the fiends rotated out instructors on us that was bad (in fact that could have been good). But it was the fact that our training turned into a game of "drop the hot potato"... at our expense.

Referrals rule. The letters on the wall at MBF were great merits of honor. But I realized that for every 5 good letters, there were probably some wayward souls, like us, who had been ushered into the wrong alley.

The next alley that MBF ushers our family into - they better watch out. I have two Labs now. And Harley McFartley hasn't been trained "by professionals" at all. And he and Boomer can lick someone to death.

OSC = Oh Shit Commerce

Visions of Dog Bones.
Lots And Lots Of Dog Bones!

After 15 months of contemplating opening a specialty doggie store, I helped pen a 50-page business plan that articulates every nook and cranny of what would set our concept apart from the pack. If you've never penned a business plan, a good one can take weeks to compile. This one would prove no different.

My one-minute "elevator speech" of what "Flying Doggies!" would become may need some polishing because after hearing it some remark - "Oh, a dog store!" I am quick to correct... "Not a dog store - a dog specialty store." It's then I find it a little hard to describe with precision why our store would be different from the others.

One skill I do have with precision is the ability to assume the role of "Crafty Patty," as some call me. Give me some tape and ribbon and I will build your dream. I was able to cleverly bind the business plan ensuring us of not just an approved loan but a teaser rate to boot - and off we went to CHASE to get our SBA loan. "Did you see that clever binder?," they'd say.

The process is quite tedious. There's the pitch. The jazz hands. The forms. The follow-up phone calls. The waiting. The unreturned phone calls yielding deafening silence accompanied by more waiting.

One day Joe received a call and the bank revealed we were "pre-approved for the loan." "Great news!," we thought until literally the same week we learned of something called a credit crunch and the loan - much faster that it took to be approved - was pulled away from us. "You're still approved... just check back with us in November or December."

What would we do? How would the store take shape with no funding?

In Walked "osCommerce"

After discussing the situation with friends - most of which who were small business owners or former owners, I learned I needed to think beyond a brick and mortar store. "The web!," they said. The web would be my silver bullet!

Despite being in the web-building business for eight years, I am not a programmer. I work with programmers, but I don't know how to do their job - I just manage them.

I heard of osCommerce before and quickly became more aware of what it had to offer:

Free? That's awesome! I have no money. Tell me more!

Fully Tested? Wow - built by programmers? I'm sure they thought of lots of things I could only dream of. And it's free?!

Easy? Sounds a little too easy, but I'm a blogger now so I can publish a site *and* highlight text. I think I'm qualified. Sign me up!

So there I was - at the fork in the road were credit crunch veered left and money rainbows veered right. I was the newest user of osCommerce and my doggie dreams were just a few clicks and an F5 page refresh away. Or so I thought.

Oh, Shit!

Soon after setting up the main modules of the store, I learned that osCommerce wasn't the next coming. "It's free," my friend Nann said. "You need to be patient. Don't expect too much!"

"In most cases, sex is also free," I thought. I expect lots of things with that, too. Plus, osCommerce had to transform me from middle-aged workaholic into middle-aged millionaire. While I didn't have a career goal - or even a retirement plan - I did have the goal to see money finally flow into my account. I'd soon have my own informercial selling rights to my concept all while me and my dogs took exotic trips, drank fancy wine ("Doghouse" is our favorite) and checked the monthly statement confirming our large automatic transfers from our business checking into our play account.

"osCommerce" is short for "Open Source Commerce," Nann said. "It means that it's free and you can't expect too much."

"I get it," I said. But I need to be able to feature specific products on my home page - not just the last one entered. I need to be able to show multiple products shots - not just one that's sized like all the rest. I need to be able to know what people ordered if they shut down the window on PayPal before returning to my site. I'm aware of the user forum where I can troll for fixes but it's written by developers for developers, which I am not. So while there may be a fix for certain things, the mother code isn't fully functional the way I expect it to be.

Is all that too much to ask for?

The answer hurts. "For free, it is."

In Search Of Good, Free .php Developer

I often look in the mirror and think back... surely me - the guy who builds websites for a living would have a connection or two. A developer who could help take my site to the next level. Make it an overnight eCommerce miracle.

Alas I am not that person.

I do have awesomely great connections yet they are cul-de-sacs when it comes time to whip out some tedious .php code.

So at the top of my list for Santa to bring me in 2009 is a bright, talented and free PhD of the .php. A person who has already accumulated the spiritual or financial wealth s|he needs to live a healthy, happy life.

And me? I'll be the next charity case expecting digital hand-outs. Fast. Free. And flawlessly functional.

I don't sound too demanding, do I?

DO I?!?!

How You Can Help: If you're not a lightening-fast .php Developer, than your choices are clear: Get our your credit cards, visit Flying Doggies! online and buy like the wind! If you don't have a dog, that's OK. Surely you know someone who has a dog... and that someone has a birthday coming up... or there's Christmas 2009 right around the corner! Plus you can tell everyone you know of the store and how hard I've been working to make it an online delight.

Thanks for your support! When I reach my first million, you'll undoubtedly be included in my acceptance speech I make at CHASE.

osCommerce: Please get better for those who need you so badly, like me and all the "Flying Doggies" to be. A little care and feeding will go a long, long way.

Aqua Globes = Aqua Scam!

This company will take your money by tricking you. I know this because they took mine!

Watch out for... the "Aqua Globes!"

They overcharged me for a single set... then doubled my over charged order over $100 for what was a $15 purchase!

It's an Aqua Scam, folks!