I Got a Wave Today

Earlier, I posted about the Wheeled Waving Man of Welch Road. He was out there this morning, sending me off on a long holiday weekend.

The Wheeled Waving Man of Welch Road

Most mornings this man can be seen on my commute. He sits on this little scooter thing in his driveway and waves to cars. Not all cars. I haven't figured out how he selects which cars are granted his wave, and I have sometimes not received one. This morning I didn't. He appears to be sleeping today.

Why does he do it? I've no idea. Maybe he sees it as some sort of community outreach, a ministry of sorts. Maybe he is just spreading cheer and goodwill to the people about to cut each other off as the two lanes merge to one and the morning cursing of our fellow man begins. Short of interviewing him, I will never know his motive. At any rate, I usually wave to him. 

CYA

Just in case you were considering taking a refreshing dip in this gator-infested, weed-choked swamp of a canal, the HOA would like you to know that this is not a permitted activity.

They warned you. And now they're covered against all lawsuits.

Stupid, paranoid, litigious America.

Addendum: THIS is How You Do Social Media

In my last post, I lambasted local car dealer David Maus for his Star Trek outfit. I alerted my Twitter followers to that post. Someone at David Maus caught wind of that and responded.

Now, they could've gone the corporate route of, "@Jetpacks, sorry you didn't like our commercials. Please DM me and let's see if we can resolve this situation."

Instead they went with humor. Detractor de-fanged and diffused, slightly amused. Observe:

Now, if I'd been an actual customer with a legitimate complaint like, "David Maus screwed me on my trade-in," or "David Maus sold me a lemon," then I've no doubt that the social media team would've dealt with me differently, but  THAT, businesses, is how to handle the random rabble on Twitter and Facebook and in the commentariat of YouTube. There's no need to "engage" us. You don't need to provide a solution to the assholes like me who are only out to mock you. Joke with us (while getting a plug in for your product) and we're far more likely to forgive your goofy attempts at marketing and, who knows, maybe consider you the next time we need a new or used car.

The Tarts of New York

It is a common cry among New Yorkers, even those who haven't been there very long, "Our city has become an amusement park, a cultural wasteland, a squeaky clean tourist trap thanks to Giuliani, who got rid of our beloved hookers and gangs and addicts and cleaned our once unique streets that flowed deep with human urine. What does a guy have to do to get mugged in this town anymore? Where is the grit, the grime, the EDGE, the LIFE? The people dressed in plastic bags, directing traffic?"

Even if a guy like me is to avoid gaudy Times Square and opt for a pilgrimage to St. Mark's Place, I later read that even that is a "benign tourist stop." Guilty. I guess it's not the "real" New York, whatever that is anymore. Where is that fabled place where an Anthony Bourdain could get fake punk cred because he did cocaine with one of the Ramones?

To put the knife in the belly of the once glorious whore and finish her off, along comes Kellogg's, who will open Pop-Tarts World today in Times Square. Granted, Pop-Tarts are cool, but I don't think this is the kind of cool old-school New Yorkers long for.

I know, they gave up on Times Square years ago. It is the very symbol of what they lament. Glitz, kitsch and schmaltz with a bunch of putzes wandering about, looking at the sky and getting in the way of people who know how to walk in the city. New Yorkers long ago ceded Times Square to the merchants of overwrought specialty stores and the idiots from other places. "Disneyfication," they call it.  (People around here lay claim to that term and they're no different from longing-for-the-old-days New Yorkers. If you can find a "native" of Central Florida, they'll tell you how great this place was "Before the Mouse." They'll go on about the lost citrus groves and the blue skies free of planeloads of Midwestern tourists being ferried to The Kingdom. But I suspect they wouldn't want to turn the clock back too far, to the time before AC, when living in Florida was a severe adventure for only the rugged and daring, an uncomfortable place except a few months in winter. They dream of that short, Mad Men-era window between 1960 and 1970, post-AC and pre-Disney.) 

But beyond all that - let's look at this move on the part of Kellogg's. A store devoted entirely to Pop-Tarts? That is crazy. Crazy smart. I don't care who you are or where you come from, there is likely a 95% chance that you have a favorite type of Pop-Tart. I'm partial to strawberry. And I even prefer the ones without frosting. Heated in the toaster. With a monster glass of milk. But I've been known on a late night sleepwalk to tear into even the weirder ones like chocolate chip cookie dough or s'mores, the pantry be damned for not locking itself.

Pop-Tarts are so universally loved that this isn't even a gamble on the part of Kellogg's; it's a shrine to an icon, and the people will make pilgrimage. I'd be willing to bet you'll even find a few old-school New Yorkers wandering in the place, nostalgic for their childhood pastry as much as they are for the city they remember.

Necessity is the Mother of Repair

Or "Google is Your Friend"

One of the household Dell monitors crapped out. Four months ago, when I was employed, this would've been solved by buying another monitor while cursing the shoddy workmanship of the Chinese who toil night and day at pathetic jobs that pay shit to give us the cheap, disposable stuff we demand. But as a man slowly learning the value of thrift, a Google search revealed that you could find bad, bulging capacitors on the power supply board. So I tore it apart and sho nuff, there the little bad bulging bastards were.

Regardless of what you're trying to do in your life, be it diagnose your own ailment, hang a ceiling fan or fix a power supply board on a cheap monitor, the forums are trolled by people slowly finding themselves out of work. They resent that you are trying to do their jobs and they hate thinking of themselves going the way of travel agents, encyclopedia salesmen, graphic artists and copywriters. The doctors get on the medical forums and say, "See a doctor! You probably have a horrible disease!" The electricians get on the "how to" forums and say, "Hire a licensed electrician or you will probably burn your house down!" and the computer techs get on the computer forums and say, "Stand in a puddle of water, plug the thing in and then stab it with something metallic and non-insulated! DIE, you stupid know-nothing fucks! And I hope all your porn gets deleted in the process!"

Despite the dire warnings from the computer techs, I set about saving some money.

So I tried to remember how to de-solder something and got those ugly-ass capacitors out and took them to Radio Shack, where the worthless clerk said, "Nope. I suppose I should have those since everyone seems to want them." I guess crapping-out Dell flatscreen monitors are all the rage. So I went to a crazy place in Winter Park, where a flying saucer and a pair of rockets have been landmarks for years. They have everything a mad scientist or a terrorist could want, including a wall of capacitors, none of which were of the rating I needed. So back to Google, who said, "There's an area of Orange Blossom Trail where it starts to go from ugly-industrial to totally sketch. In that creepy region is a place that goes by the name of Acme." Acme is staffed by a grey, long-haired guy who looks like he might be in a cover band at a beach bar on the weekends and a super-tall lanky dude who looks like he might be a refugee from the German techno scene. These gentlemen had the capacitors, for like 28 cents a piece. I only needed two, but I splurged and got four.

Then I tired to remember how to solder something and got those cheap bastards secure in their holes. Then I buttoned the thing back up and was quite pleased to only have two leftover screws when I was done. (Someone needs to tell those Chinese women and children making our monitors that they can save a couple steps.)

Then the test; that all-too-scary moment when you will be revealed for a fool or a hero. I was a hero. Actually, all credit goes to Google and the people who, for whatever reason, offer help at no charge, dispensing their little piece of knowledge on obscure sites so that someone else can save a few bucks. And apologies to the computer techs who didn't get my repair business. And to Best Buy or Target who didn't get to sell me a new monitor. We're all doing what we can in this economy. See you on the soup line.

Will Repair Small but Critical Shuttle Component for Food

Locally, thousands more will be unemployed very shortly. (I hear Disney's hiring part-time "cast members.") The US Labor Secretary will be down this morning to announce some federal money to help those about to be out of work.

Elaborated on more at Radio Free Babylon.

Locals Only: Thou Shalt Not Steal

Here's a fine local CPA, with testimonials from satisfied clients attesting to his skill with numbers and things like that. Larry and his wife seem like nice folks, and to show you how nice, they will include a little bible quote at the bottom of their full-page ad along with a cross image. But this is not any cross image, it's the very recognizable "cross and flame" logo of the United Methodist Church, and the denomination has some very strict guidelines regarding the appropriation of their logo, none of which it appears Larry has followed.

But Larry is seeking that coveted demo: people who will only drink milk from a Christian cow, and he means no harm, I'm sure. He's just not good at legal stuff.

He's waiting for the cease and desist, I suppose. Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. 
 

Northeastern Scum Bringing Wicked Ways to Florida

Bike Week, one of several motorcycle-themed events held in crime-ridden Daytona Beach throughout the year, attracts a large crowd of hard-drinking, fun-loving, tattooed-in-places-you-shouldn't-be ordinary Americans who just want to have a wild, week-long party that might involve a little innocent meth, some harmless prostitution and the occasional trafficking in sex slaves. But now some New Yorker has come down and spoiled the fun for everyone.

Story found here.

Let's Go Caving!

From the people who brought you Boxing Glove Is a Brain comes this work of epic retardation, featuring a pioneering team of doctors all geared up to explore the uncharted territory that is your vajayjay. Pretty sure I don't want to know about the debris at their feet.

Florida Hospital, Where Vaginal Spelunking is not Just Our Mission, It's Our Passion.



(The body copy was removed from this ad to highlight the cluelessness from which Florida Hospital's creative team operates. And it was really tiny and pretty standard.)

If I Only Had a Brain

Around Central Florida, ads for Florida Hospital have been appearing with this image of a boxing glove that looks like a brain. Or perhaps it's a brain that is simply a boxing glove. I don't know. And aren't brains grey? (That's "gray" for my American countrymen.) What I do know is that this is one of those ads that makes you go, "Gross." And perhaps I'm a little short on grey matter, but this is a confusing message to me. So if a stroke is "a knockout punch to the brain," then is this glove a brain that is going to knock someone out? Or does the glove just represent a stroke? Or does this glove represent that the hospital is fighting back? With a punch from a brain? An outdoor board execution with this same image says "We're champs at fighting back." OK, whatever.

It'll probably win an award.

The Arrogance of His Heirness

Michael Jordan's son, Marcus, plays basketball for local school the University of Central Florida. That alone tells you Marcus did not inherit his father's skills, as UCF is a perennial "hopeful" in most sports. Nonetheless, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, and Marcus, demonstrating that he did inherit his dad's ego, decided he would not wear Adidas shoes, even though UCF was in the last year of a contract with Adidas. The young Jordan said he will wear only his father's Nike Air Jordan shoes because "they hold special meaning to my family." The university relented, still giddy to have the drawing power of a Jordan on the team.

Adidas was fine with Jordan's and the school's decision on a regional level, but corporate nixed the deal, canceling the UCF contract, costing the school $3 million. Good on you, Adidas.

"We are disappointed to learn that Adidas has chosen to discontinue its relationship with UCF Athletics," the school said in a statement released by spokesman Joe Hornstein. Yeah, Joel, I'll bet you are.

Now, here's an opportunity for Nike to jump in and take that contract, or here's a chance for Marcus to dip into his huge trust fund and pay the school back.

Great Explorers and Their Cunning Branding

It's going to be 85 today.

It is said that Erik the Red misleadingly named Greenland in order to lure settlers. True, portions of Greenland are green, but for the most part, Erik was a con man real estate speculator. I've also heard that they named Iceland in order to ward off settlers, as in, "We're keeping this paradise a secret." (I'm boring the American readers right now, who regard Greenland and Iceland as part of Canada or Denmark or someplace where they wear wooden shoes.)

Years ago, when Central Florida was being discovered by wealthy Northeasterners, they were in the same situation as Erik. They needed more people down here to make their little dream of paradise a reality, so they branded everything with the name "Winter." Winter Garden, Winter Haven, Winter Park, Winter Springs. And the people came, and they were all, "Damn! Someone needs to invent air conditioning! Why didn't you name it 'Sweltering Hell Hole'? or 'Place of Many Bugs'? We're going home. Send us more oranges."

And then the great explorer and con man real estate speculator Walt Disney bought up a bunch of land really cheap and the people came back to see what Walt had built. And they were all, "Damn! It's 85 degrees in December. Let's move here." And now everything is named after an imaginary village in Tuscany.

The Horrors of War

The Florida fireant is our enemy. He serves no purpose in the yards of suburbia. His constant encroachment threatens our survival. The terror of the fireant will no longer be tolerated.

Witness this preemptive strike on a colony of fireants, as they had set up a secret underground terror cell in my backyard. They were subjected to repeated shelling by lava rock from the air.

They will be back. The fireant is a resilient foe. He fights to the death. We will not give in. And the fireant had best know this: we do not negotiate with terrorists.

The graphic nature of the following film may be unsuitable for children. Viewer discretion is advised.

You're Gonna Wanna Be Paht of This Amazing Journey

Looks like a bunch of highly skilled people in Central Florida will be out of work soon when the Space Shuttle program reaches its end in 2010.

So, with that sad news, let's watch a Wicked Re-TAH-ded* PSA for NASA (obviously produced in-house) featuring Steven Tyler and Joe Perry of Aerosmith, urging duh yutes to stay in school and not try to become rock stars. The production on this proves that sometimes even the brightest minds have no business messing with the creative side.



*See comments on previous post.

Previously in NASA
Good for Something After All
NASA Needs a Slogan
Lisa Nowak - The Reason I'm Late from Lunch
In Space, No One Can Hear You Pee
The Games Astronauts Play
Buy an Astronaut a Drink
Rocket to the Moon and Race Right Back
Astronaughties

Previously in PSAs
SoCal Burning
Weekend Water Safety Warning
Fried For a Frisbee
Your Girlfriend Has an STD
When Snowmen Go Bad

Previously in Aerosmith
NASCAR Set to Rock

It Takes a Village to Untangle a Pileup

Authorities in Central Florida today are urging do-gooders to stay away from the pile-up on Interstate 4, saying, “There is nothing you can do.”

Man, all those Hummer owners looking to feel good about their purchases must feel so helpless right now.

Most of the Hummer drivers I see here are soccer moms. They are always on their phones, and they are almost always alone. The men I see driving Hummers usually fall into the hair gel, cologne and gold bracelet demographic. I'm no Green Team member, but I can easily despise a Hummer owner. Their own self-hatred is what drove them to organize that stupid "Hummers for Hope" group. I don't even think it's the gas-guzzling that gets me as much as it is the fact that they are driving what amounts to a Chevy Tahoe, but they think it's some sort of urban assault vehicle. As for design, it's just butt-ugly.