Category Archives: Adventures

A fairly typical shopping trip

Like most mild misanthropes who work for themselves in home offices, I don’t make excuses to go start my truck every day. When I need to be out and about, I try to fit in as many accumulated errands as I can. Today was such a day. After I finished the first editing pass on a ms (that’s literary insider snob-speak for ‘manuscript’), I girded up my loins to face the surface friendliness and automotive overpopulation of the Boise metropolitan area.

Why don’t I just use public transportation? Because the Boise public transportation system amounts to an old guy named Fred with a van, and only goes from this one spot to that one spot, and only makes two trips a day. Every time Fred suggests expanding the route, his employer changes his schedule, cuts his hours, and reminds him that in Idaho, short of tying him up and torturing him in a manner resulting in permanent disfigurement, legally his employer can do to him whatever that employer wants. Jobs more than 25¢ above Idaho’s Federal minimum wage are hard to come by, so Fred doesn’t make waves. His second and third jobs are worse, anyway.

When it gets over 90º F, my truck isn’t that much fun to drive. I’m too cheap to equip it with air conditioning, making it a high priority to avoid long stretches at a complete stop. The drag: the most convenient/typical area for my errands is Eagle Road, a.k.a. Idaho Highway 55. It’s one of those horrible non-highways that still has a highway speed limit, even though development has turned it into a congested arterial street. Everyone expects you to compete for pole position in the Boise 500 by speeding up to at least 50 mph, then braking back for yet another red light. Turning left from Eagle Road into a parking lot, or onto it from one, is for Boise novices. One plans Eagle Road in terms of right turns and side-street escape routes.

The first stop was to get my mail and deposit an insurance refund check. Other than the giant peanut bus in front of the grocery store (what, yours doesn’t have that? Heart. Eat. Out.), I was bored already and would rather just have said a bad word and gone home, but then I got the inspiration to stop into the juice bar next to my mail place. The fancy juice fad began about thirty years ago, far as I’m aware, and I had never tried any before. I’m told they are a major thing–people say things like “I didn’t juice for two days,” as if juicing were a verb, akin to pooping or bathing. There’s a clause in my life contract that says I must turn my nose up at all fads until they become passé, so by my calendar, I was right on schedule.

The juicery offered a dizzying selection of tutti-frutti slushies, plus wheatgrass juice. “Okay. My kidneys aren’t too great, so how about a slug of whatever you think is detoxey, with some wheatgrass juice.” The young lady explained that the normal method was to have the wheatgrass juice on the side as a shot. “Oh, like tequila,” I beamed, happy to leverage my core competencies in a synergistic paradigm. I stepped over to pay ($8.65, most of which was for the fruit slushie…good lord), then sat down to watch what they might do.

The young lady went to the back wall of the juice bar and took down a small lawn. It resembled what I had mowed earlier this morning, only smaller. She extracted a bunch of live grass from the little yard, put it in some sort of machine, and out flowed about a shot’s worth of something you’d expect to see seeping from Spock’s spear wound when the Cowabunga tribe of Beta Testis 2 took exception to Kirk horning up on the hot princess. She brought it to me with an orange slice. “So is this going to be like Fear Factor?” I asked. “Not quite. You’ll only make it worse if you fool around.” (Translation: “Don’t be a wuss.”) Thus admonished by advice of competent counsel, I picked up the shot cup and pounded Spock’s blood. It was not nearly as disgusting as I’d expected; it tasted like a lawn, but with a note of sweetness. She encouraged me to munch the orange slice. “Ma’am, if I do that, I will have a beard full of sticky OJ. This is probably not a problem you’ll ever have to confront.” She agreed that this was so. The fruit slushie was fine, though I wouldn’t say it was $8 fine. Two hours later, nothing bad has happened to me, so I guess we’ll see if it does any good. If I have Saturn V-level colonblow later, I’ll know who to thank.

Off to Dick’s Sporting Goods, where my mission was one of retribution: I sought the nastiest, most ear-piercing whistle I could find. Of late, I have endured daily scam callers claiming to be from ‘Microsoft Support.’ They explain that my computer has a virus, and I should go to a certain webpage so they can fix it for me. After trying answering in Hebrew or Irish, bellowing bad words, claiming not to own a computer, even accusing their ancestors of frankly revolting sex habits, I’ve decided that pure pain is the way to go. I got a cheap orange boat whistle for $3. When I got into the truck, I elected to test the thing in a closed space.

We won’t be doing that again. I’m surprised my windshield didn’t shatter. I will actually need to cover my ears when I cut loose with this bad boy. Go ahead, suckers, give me a call.

The grocery shopping was dull, except for smiling young lady bagging groceries at Rosauer’s, author of the wrong kind of suspense. For some reason, Rosauer’s has a great grocery store with the worst baggers in grocery history. Blueberries? Broken open and dumped out due to careless tossing in sideways. Big chip bags? Stuffed together so that one couldn’t possibly lift that bag by the handles. Gods only know what happens if you get anything at the deli–they’d probably put the hot stuff right next to your ice cream. Not planning to complain, just bag my own in the future.

The conventional wisdom says that you are supposed to complain to the manager about stuff like that. But really, why? Why get in trouble a poor, rather dense minimum wage serf who really has no reason to give a damn about my groceries or her job, thanks to Idaho’s general working conditions and wage situation, which are in the category of ‘Enslaved Inca Silver Miners’? “Well, so that the manager can fix it!” But why is that my job, why do I think that will happen, and why should I even care? This manager has presumably had months to supervise and observe, and has made not one dent in the situation. Furthermore, I’m the customer. I’m the one who pays. Why am I to provide a volunteer service to a for-profit enterprise? Manage your own people, lady. I’ll just deal with it on my own henceforth. And if it slows down the register, oh, gee, well, sorry about that. Smile, smile, smile.

Boring things done, tried something new only thirty years after it was introduced, set myself up to start punching back at slimy creatures, managed to control frustration and not embarrass minwage serf. Was not rear-ended while braking for yellow light, harassed by bored deputies. Flipped off Hobby Lobby twice.

Around these parts, we count that as a good outing.

Hosing off after automobile shopping

It will take a high-pressure nozzle. After dealing with most of the auto sales outfits in my wife’s area, it may take that to denude us of the ick.

My wife’s work requires her to drive moderate distances on a regular basis, which means that when her vehicle ceases to feel reliable, she isn’t the only one uncomfortable with that. Call me a sexist pig to your heart’s content: I view it as my personal undelegateable husbandly duty to make sure that my wife has a safe, reliable vehicle. I’m still driving my 1990 Toyota pickup, and with luck, I may drive it for another twenty-four years. She goes through cars in six to eight years. When it’s time to go shopping, I do most of the research, because I have more time to do it.

I have a number of friends, however, who know many things I do not. One goes back with me to third grade: my man Russell Deason, a fellow veteran of Heritage Child Abuse Christian School in beautiful Fort Collins, Colorado. Among Russell’s virtues is a mean streak when it comes to those who prey upon others, and with his sales background, that’s terrible news for car dealerships.

Before I get on with the story, with Russell’s kind permission, I quote here most of the advice he gave me. I took as much of it as possible, and kept some of the remainder in the quiver in case I needed it. I would like to share it with the world.

RD: “Look and show interest early in the month but walk on all offers. Return the last week of the month when they are desperate to make sales and fulfill their quotas. Continue to string the salesman along all month with teaser contacts (usually less painful over the phone than in person). Beware of the “tie down” questions. Those are designed to get you to answer yes, nod your head and other affirmative actions which in theory make it psychologically easier for them to ask you for the purchase. Drive the salesman nuts by constantly answering those questions ambiguously or negatively. Create a very long objections list to each vehicle you are considering. Dig through every consumer report on each and compile every petty complaint. Salesmen are taught to “answer objections” in ways that allow them to turn the objection in a “tie down.” If you beat them at this game they will become frustrated, their egos get bruised and they get desperate to land your sale because they cannot stand to be beaten at their own game. Finally, beware the “manager.” This person is their most well trained “closer.” They are the party best at the “tie down” and high pressure tactics. Do everything possible to avoid that person until you are actually ready to make the deal. When you do reach that point, insist on changing the chair position in the office. They will seat you back to the door. Turn the chair sideways so you can see the door. This unnerves them as this is a key point in their tactics. Tell the actual salesman to either not stand behind you or leave the room. Make that statement an order. They use that tactic to create an uncomfortable environment. Insist on time alone in the room to read the contracts in their entirety and hold out the possibility you may ask your lawyer to review them before finalizing the purchase. These are all things I was taught in sales training. Use them to your advantage with my full blessing. Please make the salesmen squirm so I can hear about it afterward.”

And I did. Russell, I know this is the best way to thank you.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t practical for us to time it that well. We needed to get Deb a new car, my window of time to help her was July 4, and that was that. But we were well prepared for their psychological warfare, and when they cut loose with it, we made sure it backfired.

RD: “I very much like David’s [another helpful commenter, David Lee] idea of a list the salesman is not allowed to see. They will find that most unnerving. I agree it’s also a very good idea to withhold job, family, downpayment amount or any other personal info back until you are ready to negotiation in earnest. Simply tell them that information isn’t relevant until “you are ready to be closed.” They hate customers who know what the close is and know how to avoid it. Also tell them upfront that you “will tell them when you’re ready to be closed. Please don’t try before that time as I find it offensive and more likely to go to your competitor if you do.” The more you take control of the entire situation the better. Their entire sales system is predicated on isolating the customer, controlling the conversation and narrative, creating a conversation full of the “tie down” (yes it does work on most people), and in hyping the emotional interest you show. Be dryly analytical about your interest in the vehicles. They play on emotion. They prefer the customer who is impressed by horsepower, options, fancy colors and street presence. If you display nothing but a dry analysis which allows no room for emotional manipulation you’ll be better off.”

I steeled myself. I think the points on my ears actually become more pronounced.

RD: “One more thing … the salesman is trained to exhibit positive body language especially when using “tie down” statements. They will nod their heads affirmatively vigorously, touch the vehicle fondly, pat you on the back or any other thing they can think of to reaffirm their desire for you to respond positively. They are also taught to watch for your compliance. So be VERY conscious of this and any time they are nodding yes, nod no. Respond to every question designed to get an affirmative answer (even if you answer affirmatively) with a negative head shake or other action like turning your back on the vehicle or salesman, scrunched face or a fart for that matter. This also confuses the salesman because they aren’t getting their desired reaction.”

We did not really get into this part as much, since we made looking at vehicles the last step, and did so only at the dealership where we had already negotiated what I think was a reasonable price. However, it does apply to most people.

RD: “If you are mindful in person, and force yourself to be cold it’s a great advantage. Go in person only when you are already in a bad mood and have negativity on your mind. Do anything that will put you in that frame of mind before meeting them. It helps.”

That was easy. After a month of emailing with dealer sales representatives, being put on spam lists, having my questions ignored and getting answers to many questions I never asked, the hard part was not being cold. The hard part was not betraying any emotion at all, especially the dominant ones of a) quivering with revulsion, or b) visceral loathing that burned with a sickly greenish-yellow flame.

RD: “Another good help with the in-person contact is to be in a hurry. Tell the salesman you have fifteen minutes and nothing more. Carry a stopwatch or set your phone for one if necessary. Control the situation by announcing the time left every 5 minutes and every minute after the halfway point. This was a tactic actually taught to me in a seminar by a 5 star salesman who used it to put off car salesman when he made his own purchases. He announced upfront, “I’ve done all the research. I know what I want. I’m in a hurry I only have 15 minutes. After that I’ll go somewhere else if you don’t give me a satisfactory deal.” Salesman use fatigue as a tactic. They drag out the sale and the close to wear people down. Thus the “let me go ask my manager” gag done several times before the manager finally comes in to do the close. By then you’re worn down and already beaten down by tie-downs. Don’t give them any time. Always be in a hurry.”

We did this right, though it only factored in on our trade-in evaluation visits. And oh, how they hated it.

RD: “I keep thinking of things. A technique is taught to turn objections into tie downs. The classic example is a price objection. Salesmen are taught to say “so what you’re telling me is that if I could get you this car for x$ you would buy this car today?” They attempt to put the affirmation in your head. The correct response is ALWAYS to say no and to reiterate your objection saying “I was only seeking an answer to the specific question. It does not infer anything further than a desire for information.” This also flummoxes the salesman because they know then you are onto the technique being used.”

We didn’t even let them get that far. They tried.

RD: “They use the same for options or features … “so what you’re telling me is if I had this car in hot pink with power windows and a V6, you’d buy it today?” The kicker is always “buy it today.” It’s a form of psychological warfare. The best defense for this is the hurry. I’ve only got 15 minutes and I have a LONG list of objections and questions. I’m NOT prepared to buy today, I’m only info gathering. If the salesman decides to blow you off because you’re holding your ground then you have the impetus to later to call the sales manager and complain. In turn the sales manager will force the salesman to call you repeatedly to try to make amends. It can be quite an amusing scenario. Always try to appear nonplussed and even a little pissed off with their performance or offerings when leaving. Also, always ask to use the restroom and complain about it’s cleanliness. This usually results in the salesman cleaning the restroom or being forced to do so when he’s being interrogated by the SM about why his contact with you didn’t result in a sale that day. Using the restroom is a good diversionary tactic if you are feeling overwhelmed by tiedowns and other high pressure gimmicks and it gives you an open opportunity to criticize. Also complain any car you sit in or test drive isn’t very clean and doesn’t have that “new car smell” you love so much. Ask if it’s been on the lot a long time, or has been used as a loaner by the service department and if it has been smoked in. This makes them manic.”

We used the hurry very effectively. And when some of their managers follow up, they will not like what they will hear.

RD: “…their system was researched and designed by psychologists. One must be very diligent and aware. Even those like myself who are aware of all these techniques can fall prey to a skilled operator. The best advice is to be obstreperous, hurried and constantly shake one’s head no. The very act of shaking your head no helps to allay the psychological pressures being brought against you.”

And it’s true. If you don’t realize that the whole tactical goal of what they do is to cause you to purchase something whether you want it or not, you can get maneuvered. You can’t play any game well unless you know its rules.

So. With that, our story.

A month beforehand, I wrote to about eight Toyota dealerships in the Portland, Oregon area requesting quotations on specific new vehicles, plus trade-in estimates. In my mail program, I coded their names with an abbreviation for the dealership and a number representing the order in which they responded, so that I could hold tardiness against the tardy. Thus, there was James RMT0, Julian RTT6, and so on. The result informed me that I wasn’t going to like the process.

Some took days to get back to me, and a couple never did at all. Some had communal e-mails, so you never really knew who you were dealing with. Some sent quotes from addresses one could not reply to. Many were semi-literate. Two put me on spam lists, and one actually failed to take me off their list upon the first request. No matter; I got a price spread, a rough idea of trade-in values, and a feel for which dealerships were pushiest, which were stupidest, and so on. All, of course, wanted me to phone them. Not a chance. The vast majority of the responses I got were garbage, irrelevant to what I’d asked.

The trip to Portland approached, and with the necessary funds on accessible deposit, it was time for us all to get serious. I explained our timeframe and the models that interested us, requesting quotes on three models, a quote on an option, a rough trade-in estimate subject to examination, and their work schedule for the upcoming weekend. Four responses came in, of which three were close to fully responsive: let’s call them Theater, Royal Baby, Mr. Wilson, and Witch Trial. (Samira, the rep at Theater, was perfectly responsive–strong props for a businesslike reply. Mr. Wilson’s rep refused to give even a range for the trade-in based on our very liberal parameters, immediately marking that dealership as a trouble spot. Royal Baby’s rep only remembered late in the game, just as I was leaving for the airport, that he wouldn’t be there on July 4, and sent me a colleague’s name. I didn’t bother to record it or ask for him. Let’s call him Walmart.)

Since we were doing the initial visits on July 4, Witch Trial wasn’t open that day, and it was out of the running unless all the rest failed, in which case we’d have to resort to Plan B–going in without some numbers beforehand. Had we found that necessary, we’d have had occasion to use far more of Russell’s good advice. Even so, it was of great value. In retrospect, where we didn’t do it his way, it was because the method we had chosen insulated us from the need to worry about that.

Before I left, I printed out all the quotation e-mails, and organized all the prices into a spreadsheet. The biggest remaining variable was trade-in value. Normally we’d sell the car ourselves, but I didn’t want my wife having to mess with that. Also, frankly, there were a few things about it that could stand to be serviced, and I felt more comfortable putting it into the used auto sausage machine than dealing with an individual coming back to complain that the gas mileage was lower than usual (normal on older vehicles of this model), or that a couple of the indicator lights wouldn’t shut off.

Thus, my logic: go to the three available dealerships and simply obtain a firm trade-in value. Nothing else. And see how they reacted to ‘nothing else’ as a concept.

First, off to Theater, where we met with Samira. She did precisely as we asked: obtained a firm trade-in value, and otherwise did not hassle us. Bear in mind that we already had her pricing, and in order to know what her cars would cost us, we needed only a firm trade-in. We advised her that we were in a hurry, and within twenty minutes we had what we’d come for. Overall, her pricing was second best not considering the trade-in.

We haled south to Mr. Wilson, which was an astonishing experience. Since the individual we’d spoken with was not present, we figured we were starting fresh (albeit with some reality check quotes to consider). Mr. Wilson was a shark tank, with plastic smiles converging on us before we got inside the front door. We asked to obtain a firm trade-in value for our vehicle, and were routed to the ‘sales manager.’ He began to deliver an oration on the dealership’s virtues and methods. I interrupted him, explaining that we didn’t need to hear any of that right now. Amazingly, he attempted to insist: “No, you do need to hear this.” I stood my ground. “No. We are not here for that. We are not going to buy on this visit. If you would like to be considered, we have fifteen minutes for you to evaluate our trade-in.” A frustrated, resentful employee finally undertook this task. While he did that, in a move that creeped us both out, the dealership looked us up in some database, presumably from our previous purchase, asking about us living at an address that was now obsolete.

While we sat in the lounge chairs, we watched another customer being strung along by another salesman as he waited, and he was blissfully vocal: “Goddamnit, I’ve been here three hours. If you guys don’t get it together, I’m leaving!” We enjoyed commiserating with him about the general suckage of car dealerships. I’d just about decided that Mr. Wilson would be at the bottom of our totem pole anyway, because their prices had been least competitive to begin with. The trade-in was reasonable, but not enough to overcome the poor pricing and ick factor overall.

As I was walking around the outside trying to find Deb, yet another salesman accosted me–let’s call him Potato. He’d seen the Idaho tags and wanted to talk, so we talked about Idaho and other meaningless things while I tried to spot my wife. He then switched to asking questions about our purchase. I explained that we were there for a trade-in value only. He persisted, asking rapid-fire questions about what we wanted to buy, and demanded to know why we did not buy today. I politely changed the subject. “You haven’t answered my question!” Potato said, polymer grin masking frustration. I said something else irrelevant. “You’re not even going to answer my question?” he demanded. Yes, demanded–and incredulously. I spotted Deb, said we needed to get going, and walked away. My last memory of Potato was his voice complaining: “I’ve never been treated this way before!”

So, I guess, in his universe, I was required to submit to any and all forms of inquiry, and if I declined politely, I was just a jerk. Nice job, Mr. Wilson.

Next it was off to Royal Baby, where Walmart had offered the best prices and most promising trade-in range. However, Walmart wasn’t working, so I figured I was on my own. I didn’t think that mattered much; surely they would price competitively, and if it was the best deal, we’d seriously consider it. That began with getting a firm trade-in value, and they didn’t give us too much grief about that. Their offer was very respectable, and we retired to Taco Time to eat lunch and consult. Over lunch, we decided to go back to Royal Baby and take the next step. Little did we know how much we were about to learn about the retail auto sales business, and that if we’d thought Mr. Wilson was a bag of foreskins, we hadn’t seen anything yet.

We sat down with a young salesman whom let’s call Julio, and began to talk about what we wanted–we had pretty well chosen one of the three original possibilities. Immediately another salesman let’s call Insurance Beard, supposedly a sales manager, sat down with him. The desk was by the front window, so I promptly turned my chair to put my back against that window. I looked askance at him: “Do you also have a role in this transaction?” Insurance Beard said something vague, which I interpreted to mean: ‘This is Julio’s first day and he doesn’t know beer from urine.’ We explained what we wanted and asked for a quotation. Julio and Insurance Beard left and came back with the list price minus the trade-in–which was much lower than the earlier value given, $1000 lower, in fact.

I kid you not.

I explained that I was very, very surprised, and that I’d expected a competitive quote. I gather that this caused them to think of Walmart, whom I hadn’t mentioned (why should I?). That set off some sort of alarm in Insurance Beard’s mind. He went in the back and dug through some emails, then came out with a look of patient disapproval on his face. “Did you get some quotations from Walmart?” Yes, I had, I said, but I figured he wasn’t here, so I had to start over. Insurance Beard went back, then came out with a hardcase let’s call Elijah. Elijah remonstrated with us for not telling them about Walmart in the first place. He talked over me, and I could tell he was mad as hell. Elijah began to lecture me about how Internet sales and floor sales were totally separate things, that good floor guys sold maybe twelve cars a month, but good Internet guys sold forty.

(As an aside: think about the implications of that. That means that they get a ton of online inquiries, and that those people get much better prices. Salespeople are evaluated on the profit they earn for the firm. That tells you that if you walk into the lot cold, you are getting the very worst pricing. The only way to buy new cars for a decent price is to contact them online, where you can keep a boundary between yourself and the ick.)

Next, Elijah accused me of trying to pit the departments against each other. When I tried to explain that I had no idea how his sales department worked, and didn’t care, he kept talking over me. He finished by presenting Wal-Mart’s original offer plus a couple hundred in movement on the trade–a very good offer, and one we would have accepted if presented by a non-jerk. “This offer is good right now only. If you want to do business, fine. If not, it’s been nice meeting you,” he said, in a tone that contradicted his words.

I wasn’t going to be bullied; I said we’d have to reconsider. I reached to take the paper with the offer. “You don’t get to keep that. That’s my property!” he snarled. At that point, Deb had had enough. My beautiful bride stood up and walked out, instructing Elijah to fuck himself. Brimming with marital pride, I followed her, commenting to Julio (who seemed very disappointed) that I’d never dealt with such an asshole before in my life, and that I was sorry he had to work for someone like that. We’d been told by locals that Royal Baby was a dump, and now we know just how truly awful it was. As we drove away, we marveled at the sort of stupidity that had a sale and destroyed it with bad attitude.

We also now had to think on our next move. While we’d made people uncomfortable at two dealerships, about which I felt zero guilt, we didn’t yet have forward movement on a purchase. I’m a believer that better people should get the business. I’m also a believer that once one identifies the better people, when it comes down to the firm process of making a deal, being forthright can get you places. Thus, I got on the phone to Samira. I explained that we’d just come out of two other dealerships and that we wanted to scrub ourselves off with brillo. I told her we’d like to stop by, if she’d still be there, even though she was a bit higher than the lowest competition. How much? asked she. I do poorly talking or calculating on cell phones while riding in the passenger seat, so I guessed at a gap of $1800 including trade-in, making very clear that it was just a guess. I suggested that if she could meet us in the middle, that would work. She called me back in a few minutes and told me she could come down $500, so that we wouldn’t be surprised when we got there. We still decided to proceed.

When we came in, I did the math in front of Samira. I labeled one column Samira and one Jerk, then put down honest figures as they stood at the moment. That got a laugh out of her. My estimate had been wide of the mark: they were $1261 apart, not $1800. “Samira, half the difference is $630, discounting the buck. Meet me there, and we’ll have a deal.” She checked, and did, as I was pretty sure she would. It was too late to go to the bank for a cashier’s check, so we picked out the specific vehicle and arranged to handle the transaction the next day.

Could we have beaten her up a little more on price? Perhaps, but I gave consideration to Samira’s overall presentation. She was the only one who had done only what we requested and neither pushed for more nor asked unwanted questions. She had done the best job by far. In fact, she was the only one who had done an acceptable job.

How’d we do on pricing? Per KBB, the fair market price is $25,916 out the door. We paid, let’s see: about $23,500. Not bad. However, if we’d been able to time it better, we could have improved that. It surely would have improved in another month. Unfortunately, greater considerations impacted us. I think we didn’t do too badly.

We learned a lot, though, especially about the difference between pre-shopping online and just bombulating into the front door. Let’s distill what we learned:

  1. If you just walk in the front door, you are a sheep awaiting shearing.
  2. Advance research and price comparison are crucial.
  3. Expect a good percentage of the dealerships you contact online to ignore everything you asked them, and to ‘follow up’ with you or put you on spam lists.
  4. They really do hate when you keep control of the sale, which is primarily accomplished by refusing to let them put you into their patented sales process.
  5. If they don’t get their way, they get borderline loutish. They may believe they are entitled to demand answers of you.
  6. They expect to hold all the information cards, and for you to hold and play none. When you play one, that’s cheating. When they play one, that’s smart business.
  7. You can’t trust Yelp or other online site reviews of any business. There are ‘reputation management’ companies out there busily creating spurious reviews loaded with bologna. In fact, my experience is you should go the opposite direction. Any business with massive amounts of loving reviews, especially with the same ‘customer service manager’ graciously returning all the oral sex in the comments, has quite probably bought them to swamp glaring deficiencies or simply render negative reviews harder to find.
  8. If you get a variety of offers online, you can use the best one to beat up (that’s sales jargon for negotiating aggressively) the floor salespeople anywhere but the dealership that gave you the online quote. Just don’t go to that same dealership’s floor people, that’s all.
  9. Trade-ins can vary widely–our lowest and highest offers were $2900 and $4500. You should learn in advance what is the acceptable range.
  10. Trade-ins are a shell game, and a silly one. Who cares whether they knock $1000 off the price, or give you $1000 more for the trade? It’s all the same unless sales tax is involved (which in Oregon it is not).
  11. Even if you don’t plan to trade your car in, you can still have them evaluate it, and see how they respond to your insistence that they do no more than that, and ask you no further questions.

It’s still as slimy a business as it has ever been. It has not gotten better at all. The more the dealership brags about how ‘different’ it is than the others, the more you should guard your wallet. You are still dealing with a fundamentally deceptive, dishonest business, and as such, you do not owe it honesty or candor unless someone earns these of you. And after studying Russell’s advice–which fortified us greatly, and in gratitude for which we can’t wait to buy him a decent dinner if life ever brings him our direction–I suggest that when shopping for cars, you consider the words of Anton LaVey (the carny who became a Satanist to shock people, then decided he liked it). I think he cribbed it from an Eastern proverb:

Lie to a liar for lies are his coin;

Steal from a thief, ’tis easy you’ll find;

Trick a trickster and win the first time —

But beware of the man who has no axe to grind.

Never as true as when dealing with auto dealerships.

Queen’s guard

I once was, of sorts, for a day. And on that day I learned a great lesson.

Back in 1983, when I was in Army ROTC at the University of Washington, Reagan had invited Queen Elizabeth II to visit the Pacific Northwest. I suspect everyone was stunned when Her Majesty took the President up on his offer. One stop on the Royal tour was a visit to UW. She would do whatever else she did, put in an appearance and give a speech at Hec Ed (the basketball arena), then move on.

The word went out at the Husky Battalion in Clark Hall: no more than twenty volunteers were needed, with the duty of assisting the Secret Service and UWPD (or ‘U-Pud,’ as it was most often called) with security. A similar number were accepted from the AFROTC squadron and NROTC battalion, both of which also headquartered in Clark Hall: I think the Air Force was on the third floor, Navy on the second, and we were downstairs. A lot of us knew each other, especially through our Ranger FTXes (‘futtockses,’ or Field Training Exercises). The Marine Option NROTC midshipmen were most interested in joining us for fun-filled weekends getting soaked and freezing our asses off at Ft. Lewis, but a few Air Force cadets also participated.

The volunteer list filled up in record time, and I was fortunate enough to secure a spot. When the day arrived, we were to show up at some side entrance at Hec Ed, very early, in dress uniforms with white pistol belts. We would not be armed. One of our cadre officers, a captain in Special Forces, wore a pistol in a skeleton holster under the back of his dress jacket. If I recall correctly, a Secret Service officer at least perfunctorily searched us, or at least ritually asked us if we were carrying any weapons. We gathered around for a briefing from a Secret Service officer.

Each of us would be stationed at some specified point, shown on a chart with sections described by who would inhabit them. Mine was the Queen’s Tea Party, from whom no threat was expected, just in case you got the impression that I was about to have to do anything brave. The SS explained the pins worn by the various security contingents; a small enameled sheriff’s star pin would denote Secret Service personnel. A similar pin with the EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) emblem marked those. Cheaper pins with one letter each would signal armed personnel, whom I presume mostly came from UWPD and were not in uniform, and others with varying duties.

In those days I was bursting with nationalism and patriotism, vastly honored to be representing my nation before an allied head of state, and even though the former have been beaten out of me by life, the latter honor hasn’t faded for me. It was the rarest of privileges. While the SS didn’t expect trouble, it had already been made clear to us (by the cadre) that in the gravest unforeseen extreme, we were to act toward a threat by sacrificing our lives if necessary. Not that I’d get much chance to, in such a case, since I would be facing away from the bleachers, but the point was made.

So we served at first as ushers, helping people to their seats, and that’s where the lesson came to me–but I’ll finish with it. Then we took our assigned posts, stood at parade rest, and stayed there while the royal entourage entered from my far right; I was too far from the center aisle to see anything without moving my eyes, which one may not do at parade rest. We came to attention as the PA played God Save the Queen. There were speeches; the Queen has a rather powerful speaking voice, and some University dignitaries said or did something or other. As you can tell, beloved alma mater’s administration left lasting impressions on me.

No disturbances occurred of any kind, except for the media overstepping the bounds of their designated kennel. The SS had put the NROTC Marine Option midshipmen over there for a reason. Meanwhile, at various times, SS and EOD team members would pass by. One guy had an attaché case; another’s arm was in a sling. One didn’t have to be a mental giant to figure out what that was about.

Then the entourage came back down the center aisle, and exited to my left–thus passing directly before me. There must have been twenty people, more women than men. The Queen herself wore a blue suit and a matching dog dish hat; she is shorter than I had realized. I am pretty sure I recognized a RAF officer’s uniform. Prince Philip stopped to speak to one of our cadets, who promptly promoted him to King by addressing him as ‘Your Majesty.’ I cringed inwardly. A tall officer whose uniform and bearing shouted ‘Colonel of Royal Marines’ came to a sudden, very military halt in front of me. He did a precise left face immediately, looking me directly in the eyes. I did not return his gaze, because I didn’t move, and he was taller than me, so I believe I stared directly through his nose.

One wonders why he did that. A little test of the military discipline of future officers of his nation’s most powerful ally? Simple puckishness? Did he see my last name, and think to himself–with the IRA supporters demonstrating outside–that he might have in (extremely remote and unlikely) theory had to trust his monarch’s life to this uniformed, unarmed teenager with a quintessentially Irish surname? I will never know. The entourage continued out, and the event closed. Consensus was that UW represented itself well, with those of us representing the armed forces doing our part.

But as we were ushering, and before we took up our posts, something interesting happened. An ancient lady, a bit heavyset and apparently about ninety years of age, was struggling up into the lower bleachers. I and a Navy midshipman were close to hand. We each took a side and half helped, half hoisted her into her assigned bleacher seat. As she was settled, she looked at each of us in turn. I don’t remember her face, but I won’t ever forget those clear, alert, intelligent eyes. She said, “Thank you, you young gentlemen. Someday someone will do this for you.”

It may have affected my nautical colleague as profoundly as it still does me, what must be at least two decades after she has almost surely passed on.

Erection Day in Idaho

That is not a typo, and believe it or not, this is not a partisan political post, but a satirical one.

I had an interesting Idaho Erection Day. Today is Erection Day for two reasons:

  • It is the day of the Idaho primaries, which will determine the outcome of the November balloting formalities foregone conclusions.
  • It is the day when all the robocalls culminate, each candidate seeking to convince me that his penis is more conservative than the penes of his rivals.

Thus, Erection Day.

My Erection Day began with a few robocalls encouraging me to vote for someone or other. I determined that robocalls are unaffected by one’s responses. One can curse at high volume without changing anything. One can accuse the candidate of shocking and hopefully illegal acts with livestock, pets and members of the immediate family. I tried. Nothing changes the robocall.

Had to take the White Lightning, my Toyota truck, in for an oil change. On the way there, I drove past an enormous funeral home with landscaped grounds. It is Erection Day, so the lawn was studded with political signs. For one man: the incumbent and running-for-re-erection Ada County Coroner.

Stopped to pick up mail, and discovered a notice in the mail from Vicky McIntyre, who is evidently the Ada County Treasurer. The notice advised that I had better pay my property tax by a certain date, lest I suffer financial penalties and gods know what else. Strange? Yes, considering that my property taxes are paid from a reserve collected by the mortgage holder.

Drove past many signs extolling the conservatism of various male organs owned by politicians. Didn’t see any for those clowns who were on the gubernatorial debate, though I think it would be shortsighted to assume that this means their penes are less conservative. I’m pretty sure both those guys would run your head through a wall for that, at least.

Stopped by credit union to ask mortgage representative about the property tax bill. Genial inquiry is met with friendly eyeroll. “Everyone’s getting them. Everyone.”

“But how can this make sense? These people are inept! What the hell’s wrong with this Vicky?”

“You’re right, it doesn’t. But have no fear. We still plan to pay your property tax from your reserve on this timely date.”

“That’s good to know. But I don’t even see how they can spend all this money sending out completely useless notices? This person is supposed to be the treasurer, and this is how she spends the money?”

“Maybe her penis is less conservative than those of others, sir.”

Okay, the nice young lady did not actually say that. But it would have made my day if she had.

Call up Vicky’s office. Vicky’s representative blames the entire thing on the credit union. In her view, the Ada County Treasurer’s office is not at fault for sending out what are probably tens of thousands of spurious tax notices, and the associated costs. To hear her tell it, no one at Ada County was responsible for noticing that they were generating a mailing very significantly larger than the expected norm.

I am beginning understand why there’s a lot of drinking in Idaho.

It’s 3:27 PM MDT, approximately eight hours prior to my traditional cocktail hour, and I find myself tempted to have a belt. I should not, and won’t, because I have work to do. But I’ll probably tune in to the news later to discover the erection results, and if and when I do that, I will most likely decide that I am permitted to have something to drink before they begin.

168 Clif bars

I just purchased fourteen boxes of twelve Iced Gingerbread Clif bars to a box.

Hey, it could have been worse. Yesterday I was watching Filipino comic Rex Navarrette talking about balut, which to me looks like the world’s biggest hard-boiled egg fail. He described it as the ‘Pinoy Clif bar.’ That’s one of many reasons I like Rex’s comedy, that and my affection for Filipino cultures, from relatives to friends and beyond.

But no, I didn’t buy 168 baluts.

Self-revelation: I can be the world’s cheapest bastard. I pick up pennies in parking lots. I’m still attempting to use up a lifetime supply of drinking straws (want any?). I have enough saran wrap for several kinky parties. I built most of my garage storage out of junk, including a doghouse made from rejected forklift pallet pieces. I hate going to Costco (which is not to say that I hate Costco, just the experience), and my standard check to the cashier is about $550. I built my wife a holder for odd-shaped art stuff which I call the Nebelwerfer, after the WWII German rocket launcher. It’s five coffee cans canted slightly upward in a cluster on a stand. If I ever handmade you a gift, I probably made it out of garbage.

Not that I mind spending money to take friends out to a nice dinner, or to leave a decent tip, or something else socially productive. Nothing is finer than the opportunity to do a hospitable kindness people will enjoy. I do not mind spending money. But oh, oh, oh, how I hate to waste it. Or anything.

So I always check the grocery store’s bargain baskets and shelves. You never know what in hell they’ll be trying to get rid of. Case of decent wine, $7 a bottle? I’m on it. Ten jars of alfredo sauce, half price? Guess what we’re going to be eating. And the other day, I was at my local Fred Meyer buying ant poison and groceries. Stopped by the bargain corner, and saw boxes and boxes of Clif bars. Pumpkin Something and Iced Gingerbread.

I don’t care for Clif bars. Not that I hate them, just that if I were buying a chiseled-calf hipster-beard overpriced bicycle-advocate vegan granola-based energy bar, I’d pick almost anything else first. They neither look nor taste that appealing to me. And that’s good, because not only am I supposed to eat some form of breakfast, it has to meet my strict criteria:

It must cleanse my mouth of the residual coffee aftertaste, which I hate, and is the sole pleasure benefit of me eating in the morning.

It must require zero effort, because first thing in the morning, I will not make any, and if I have to speak, my first words will be vile.

It must be bearable without being appetizing, providing no temptation to overdo it, because I need to be less fat.

It must be minimalist, because I’m forcing myself to do this for reasons of good health. I really don’t want any food in the morning.

Pumpkin anything can be a weird taste for me, but I figured I’d buy a box of the Iced Gingerbread: twelve 59¢ breakfasts, and reasonably healthy to boot, would fit all my specifications. Paid, took home, tried them, found them bearable, and went back to the store to clean them out. Some days it’s helpful being absolutely indifferent to the looks you get, and believe me, when you have fourteen boxes of Clif bars in your shopping cart, you get some strange looks.

Cashier: “Wow. You must really like Clif bars.”

Me: “Nah, not much.”

Cashier: “Then how come you’re buying this many?”

(Such inquiries would be unthinkable some places, such as Seattle with its privacy bubbles. This is Idaho. In Idaho, people are rarely standoffish toward friendly conversation, and there is no invisible ‘I am the consumer and you must deify me’ bubble. Thus, by Idaho standards, this was not at all intrusive. He was acting like an Idahoan, presuming approachability and friendliness, anticipating only goodwill. Standoffishness would have shocked him, especially from a heavyset bearded guy, thus presumably an Idahoan Character. I find this aspect of Idaho invigorating. Seattle tolerates but ignores characters, not daring to comment, and any wacko buying fourteen cases of Clif bars is a character. Idaho talks to them and treats them like people. I will miss this.)

Me: “Cheap breakfasts, and nothing I’ll be tempted to eat two of. Yogurts cost over a buck, and are more perishable. I just saved myself about $80 over the next few months.”

(That, he understood completely. Idaho has a low minimum wage, vestigial social services, and a lot of very poor people, and the cashier was probably one of them. And his count was perfect: 168 Iced Gingerbread Clif bars.)

Cashier: “Enjoy! Have a great afternoon.”

Me: “I’ll try. You do the same.”

I’m writing this in March. By the time I have to start thinking about breakfast again, the leaves will be starting to turn autumn color. By my logic, the sicker I get of them, the better: less temptation, and more eating them out of obligation to realize value.

I was a terrifying accountant, in a past life.

Locked out half naked on I-5

This story explains one reason why I remain open to metaphysical ideas, which is not to say I buy into them all without question.

Back in summer 1990, I bought my first real vehicle at the age of 27. We don’t count the Corvair with the failing transmission and rotting tires, which was stolen with the connivance of the dealer and the assent of our precious legal system, nor do we count the Skyhawk that also had a failing trannie, which I shoved up the seller’s rear end. It was the White Lightning, my 1990 Toyota pickup. I paid $10,200 for it. A two-wheel-drive vanilla-colored and vanilla-looking vehicle, it is, and some of the better money I have ever spent in my life. I’m still driving it.

It might surprise you, then, that one evening early in my ownership, I tried to kick the back window out–but I’m getting ahead of myself. At the time, I was engaged to K., an accountant about my age. She lived near Lynnwood, north of Seattle, and I lived in what would later become Shoreline. I was working over in Bellevue as a computer salesman in the trenches of the IBM/Microsoft wars. My work required that I wear a dress shirt, slacks, tie and dress shoes.

I was still wearing most of them late that summer evening, because I’d gone straight from arrival back at my apartment up to see K. I don’t remember why, but she was distraught about something–probably about her racist S.O.B. parents, with whom she still lived, or her abominable uncle, or her arrogant brother and cousin, or her idiot sister. If you are beginning to suspect that I didn’t have a joyous relationship with K.’s family, and that perhaps the relationship eventually disintegrated, you are a perceptive reader. Her distress wasn’t due to anything I’d done, at least.

The evening ended up with K. and I parked out in Alderwood Manor somewhere, with her bawling and sniffling, and me trying to be supportive. At one point, she had needed a mucous control method. Being the type, I had taken off my white dress shirt and encouraged her to load it up with snot and tears. That didn’t concern me. While I decided against putting the shirt back on, I figured it didn’t matter if I drove home topless. It was night. The only people who would see were my fellow tenants at the slum called The Villager, and I simply didn’t give a damn what any of my fellow Villager people thought about anything. About 10:00, I dropped K. off and headed for I-5. I’d be home in twenty minutes, maybe less. Couple beers and bed.

One decision I had made after buying the truck was a quiet protest against the apathetic climate toward stranded motorists, combined with the culture of fear. Everyone was afraid to stop and help someone, a mentality I still decry. This was before the prevalence of cell phones, so being stuck was a bigger problem than it is today, and being helped was mighty nice. I had decided to be the sort of person who would stop and help people if he could. Ah, those idealistic days. As I rolled down I-5 southbound near the 220th St. SE exit for Mountlake Terrace (mine was the next after that), I saw a vehicle stopped on the shoulder with a young man leaning against it. This Was My Time.

I didn’t stop and think about my appearance, of course. I flipped on my turn signal, braked back and pulled in behind the guy. It made sense to leave my engine running and the lights on, or so I thought. I got out, bare-chested but otherwise dressed for office work, and asked: “What’s wrong?”

The kid told me that his car had died. “Sucks,” I replied. “Where do you live?”

“Mountlake Terrace.”

“Okay. I’ll give you a ride to your place if you like.”

“Sounds good.” I moved to get into the driver’s side. It was locked. My long habits of locking doors behind me had caused me to screw myself but good. Now I was the shirtless guy who had locked himself out of his new truck along I-5 around 10:15 PM, and wasn’t much use to the kid anymore. I had a bit of a panic, and figured that I needed to break a window and get in, so I climbed into the bed. I sat on the right wheelwell, brought back my foot and booted the back window with all my might. Thump. Tried again. Thump. After a third futile kick, and a perverse gratification with the obvious fruits of Toyota’s PPG auto glass standards, I got out and tried to think what to do next.

I’ll bet it was a good thing I couldn’t see the poor kid’s expression. Then I had an idea, one of a series of naive ideas I had that night, each arguably naiver than the last. There’s naive, and then there’s twentysomething J.K. naive.

“Tell you what. I have to call a tow truck to let me back into this thing before it runs out of gas. There’s a gas station off the exit. I’ll just trot down there, call a tow truck, get him to slim jim me into my truck, and if you want, he can tow yours and take you home. Wait here, okay?”

And if you can believe this, I imagined that he would. So off I went, the jogger out for his nightly conditioning run in his dress clothes, manly chest bared for the world not to see (what with it being dark). I wasn’t in bad shape back then, playing hockey and softball, and it didn’t take me that long to reach the exit and then the convenience store. I used a pay phone–kids, that’s what we used to have to do back in the day–to call a tow truck, then set off at a return trot. This was not how I’d planned to spend that evening’s end, but stupid happens.

Can you believe that the kid had bugged out on me? What was the matter with that ungrateful little bastard? In any case, I had no other business but to await the tow truck. It was getting on around 10:45 now, and a vehicle pulled up behind me, headlights like little suns. I couldn’t tell who it was, but it didn’t take long to find out.

Out stepped a Washington State Patrolman, flashlight over the shoulder and directly in my eyes. I understand why they do that, even if it wasn’t any fun. One suspected that perhaps the officer would like to know what was going on, and might justly be prepared for risk, so I did the natural thing. Keeping my hands open, wide and visible, I gave him a cheerful: “Howdy, trooper!”

“Would you like to tell me what’s going on here?”

In fact, I would rather not have, but it was a reasonable question. And if the tow truck didn’t show up, he’d be able to summon any necessary assistance. Fair’s fair; he’d stopped to help someone, so I appreciated that on a couple of levels. I told him the story to this point, omitting nothing. “Now I’m waiting for the tow truck,” I finished.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself in a jam,” advised Trooper Obvious. Couldn’t blame him, though. He was trying his best not to laugh.

A second set of lights appeared behind his patrol car. “Trooper, I think your backup just showed up.”

He looked. “No, that’s a Snohomish County Deputy. Why don’t you stay here with your vehicle and wait for the tow truck, and I’ll go explain this to him.”

While the stater was furnishing his colleague with the Nightly Civilian Comedy Report, another set of lights pulled in behind the deputy’s car. That was the tow truck, and the officers directed the driver toward me. The driver didn’t start laughing, maybe because he had seen weirder things. He took his slim jim and got to work while I watched in nervous mode. He wasn’t succeeding, it was after 11:00 PM, my engine was still running, there were five vehicles present, and I’m not a big fan of being the center of attention at the best of times. The tow truck guy still wasn’t getting anywhere with the slim jim. He explained that on newer models, Toyota had redesigned the lock mechanism. Oh, joy.

I saw a sixth car pull up, just ahead of the kid’s stalled car. Oh, crap. More cops. Not that I didn’t appreciate that the cops had stopped to begin with, but I wasn’t looking forward to another addition to the merry throng. Then I saw the license plate.

Washington, WCA 105. It’s been nearly twenty-four years, and I still remember it purely for this reason. K.’s tags.

A little cautiously, K. got out of her maroon Mustang. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, other than locking myself out of my truck.”

“What did you do, stop and help someone, then lock yourself out?”

She knew me that well, at least. I nodded.

This is where trust pays off. When I’d bought the truck, my first act was to give K. a spare key. You never know. She pulled out her key ring, walked over and unlocked my door. Situation resolved. Then I started thinking. “What brought you out here? I’d have thought you were in bed. That’s why I didn’t call you, I figured you’d have a hard time getting to sleep as it was. Did you call my place?” I rarely ask anyone for anything, and hate to inconvenience people, especially when it will require me to explain how dumb I can be.

“No. I just knew you were in trouble, so I got in my car and headed back the way I knew you would go home.” I thanked her, hugged and kissed her, and almost hugged and kissed the tow truck driver when he declined to charge me for coming out. While he hadn’t actually achieved anything, those things aren’t free to operate. I guess he figured I’d had suffered enough for one night. Nice guy. After advising the police officers of the solution, everyone saddled up and went our various ways.

And then I began to think. She had sensed I was in trouble, taken the correct route, happened to spot my truck despite the presence of a varied little fleet of vehicles making it less than easy to pick out, and shown up with the solution in her purse. How does such a thing occur? Most of my mental answers were in language unsuitable for the blog, which maintains rather tolerant standards in that area. The kinds of things one says when one is both creeped out and relieved.

While I’m not trying to cite this as proof of the existence of psychic phenomena, it’s enough to make you think. Anyone remember the old Charlie Daniels Band tune The Legend of Wooley Swamp? It’s one of my country favorites, as they are one of my favorite country bands. And as it keeps repeating:

“Some thangs in this world ya just can’t explain.”

And to this day, I will neither get into nor out of my truck without a spare key on my person.

It has since bailed me out a couple more times.

Fun with collection agencies

This is a new one for me, because I’ve never had anyone need to sick the collection dogs on me in all my life. Either I’m not paying and someone can go to hell because I don’t rightly owe the money, or (99.9%) I’m paying promptly in full–or if I slip up, accepting responsibility and apologizing. (Well, why not, if it was my screwup?) So I do not know much about how it feels to have bill collectors call.

I do know that most of the people they’re after have probably defaulted on multiple debts. Sometimes it’s not their fault; our medical system is like a random fiscal meteorite shower, where a little bad luck can wreck your finances for life. But those who are said to owe, probably do owe, and I am sure that in a majority of cases they would just prefer not to pay that which they fairly owe. If the collecting were done by the party to whom the money was originally owed, I’d have more sympathy for the collecting side, but it’s their duty to get their facts right. Including the correct phone number.

As it is, a couple times a week, I get a robocall from a bill collection agency. Now, the first time, I could see that perhaps it was the former owner of the phone number. However, I don’t recognize the right to robocall anyone on such matters. Want to have a conversation? Call, introduce yourself by full name and organization, and tell me your business in a forthright manner. All civil. Mistaken identity? Glad to clarify. If they robocall me, they get nothing. Robocall me several times, and no matter what they do thereafter, they get nothing. I’m now collecting my own bill from them, and I feel free to determine that new debt is accrued each time they disturb me for any reason. I no longer wish to make nice. After all, I don’t have a problem. I don’t owe any past due bills. I don’t need to take ownership of their problem.

Got one today; saw the caller ID and got my game face on. These days, most companies have someone who speaks Spanish.

“Bonjour ?”

“Hello, may I speak to Mary Dublois?” (pronouncing it dew-BLOYZ)?

“Quoi ?”

“Do you speak English?

“Je ne comprends pas.” (I don’t understand.)

“What language is that?”

“Qui est a l’appareil ?” (Who’s calling?)

“Is that Spanish?”

“Je ne vous comprends pas.” (I don’t understand you.)

“We’ll have someone call back who speaks Spanish.”

“Merde alors.” (Break a leg–my sarcastic way of saying ‘knock yourself out.’ Though the literal meaning, ‘shit, then’ would also work.)

When they call back, I will answer. But not in Spanish or French:

“?שלום. מי שמטלפן” (Hello. Who’s calling?)

They really should not robocall me. And if the excuse were that this was the most practical model for their business, my response is that this is the most practical model for my own business, and that their problem is not my problem, and that I decline to own or accommodate their problems, especially in view of the lack of consideration they show for mine.

I wish more people would stop letting institutions make the rules. That is part of what we have come to as a society. Companies made rules, acted on them to our detriment, and we accepted ‘that’s just our policy’ as a valid excuse. Me, I think I have as much right to make policy for myself as they do for themselves.

And mine is rigorously enforced.

America for foreigners: cutting through the fiction

Every nationality has its perceptions of the United States, some of which have bases in fact. Some are overblown or false. Let us do away with the false ones, and explain the true ones.

Please do bear in mind that this guidance is based primarily upon visiting the U.S. It may not apply to Facebook conversations at a distance, for example.

Americans smile constantly. Not true. This is more a regional thing, even in the service industry. Wyoming, for example, is rather taciturn, same for Wisconsin or New York City. Here’s what you should take away: whether an American is smiling at you or not doesn’t mean much either way. In LA, it means she has a pulse (or she just had them bleached, capped, etc).

Americans are insincere. Partly true. It is partly true because Americans have a lot of pat questions and phrases into which we often don’t put a lot of thought. Some Americans, when they wish you a nice day, honestly mean that. Some won’t even remember having said it, and thought nothing of it at the time.

However, faulting us for these is wide of the mark. These are our social customs. Every culture has its social customs, and ours are no stupider than any other culture’s obligatory niceties (or abruptnesses, in some cases). To omit these here is as rude as patting a Thai on the head in Bangkok, or ignoring the shopkeeper in Rouen, or wearing your shoes into a Japanese home. If it’s okay to avoid waving with your left hand in the Middle East (even though waving hardly involves one’s behind), and not okay to make fun of that, then it is okay to wish some stranger a nice day, and not okay to ridicule that, either. That said, at times when we hint at a lasting connection, we don’t really mean it. You have a right not to take such hints at face value.

Americans are mostly very ignorant of the world. Mostly but not universally true. You might be surprised. One can get very far off course by making assumptions. What is more, life has taught me that the world is nearly as ignorant of us as we are of it. Most of what we–as in all people–learn of other places comes from the extreme and entertaining examples presented by media. Our media are fairly trashy, but other media can be even trashier. It helps to put their input aside.

Americans are mostly monolingual. Less true than it used to be, especially in larger cities or near universities. It’s not that we don’t study foreign languages; probably half of us took them in school. We may fairly be blamed for making no further effort after leaving school, but at least there is an effort made in the right direction. Most university students or graduates speak (or used to speak) at least one foreign language. A very few U.S. residents speak no English at all, but most of those aren’t here legally.

Americans are unreceptive to criticism of their country. True, at least while you are visiting us. We consider that as rude as if, say, you invited us over to dinner and our way of showing appreciation was to tell you that your food was lousy. We reason that anyone who doesn’t like us was not forced to come here, and is free to leave if it’s that bad. Our achilles heel here is that many of our own people don’t follow this ethic when they are the travelers. This may give other peoples the idea that insulting the local culture and customs is acceptable to Americans, so we have to take some responsibility for authoring this problem.

It is also true that some Americans think their country should never, ever be criticized by any foreigner at any time, because it is always right–because its actions define rightness. That is a smaller minority, but the viewpoint does exist. There’s nothing you or I can do about that. I’m in a position to break that hornets’ nest, but a visitor should probably avoid the subject.

Americans all walk around armed to the teeth. Untrue. Probably a majority of American homes own at least one firearm, but a very small percentage actually carry weapons on a regular basis. A rather smaller portion have fired at least one weapon in the past year, and I’d guess that 99% of the rounds fired were target practice, hunting or competitive shooting. Most of the parts of the country where people tend to carry weapons openly are very low in crime, so if this idea intimidates you, you’re thinking emotionally rather than logically.

Those individuals who carry firearms very rarely draw those weapons, partly because most are sane. While a carried weapon might attract no notice in some places, a drawn weapon would bring instant reactions, so that is very rare. Also, remember that in areas where a lot of people walk around armed, if someone draws a gun and does something stupid, there are a lot of people who could take corrective action. Ask yourself why no nation has launched a nuclear attack since 1945, and in macrocosm you will grasp the microcosm of why Wyoming and Alaska should not frighten you just because a lot of people go around strapped.

Americans have a terrible gang violence problem. Situational. There are parts of some cities that can be very dangerous, and if locals recommend that you avoid an area, I would take their advice. However, in a majority of the country, you will not encounter gang violence. Petty crime is another story, and is as endemic to our cities as it is to most of yours. By and large, the bigger the city, the smarter and more professional the criminals. Lock up your bike with a cheap cable in Boise? It’ll probably still be there when you return. Seattle? You didn’t really want that bike anyway, to go by how you secured it.

Americans are highly religious. Somewhat true, in that we are more religious than most peoples in the developed world. However, a lot of us are very independent in our application and practice of religion. Quite a few of us are casually religious, or not at all. The role of religion in our society is one of our hottest national debates. It wrecks friendships, divides families, and makes us hate random fellow American strangers. It might be our most divisive and crippling social problem–not religion itself, but the way it affects our behavior.

Americans are unhelpful to visitors. Occasionally true, but mostly not. This really depends a great deal upon the visitor and American in question. Some people are simply assholes (it has nothing to do with nationality and everything to do with personality), and won’t help anyone, ever, including their neighbors. Some people are impatient, ignorant or xenophobic, and won’t help people because of a heavy accent. Most of us are better than that, and respect your efforts to communicate. Quite a few of us will go well out of our way to help.

Let’s examine the part about foreign accents, because I can think of reasons for it. They are not excuses, but maybe they can help explain it. At least a small minority of Americans will not extend themselves to make life easier for someone with a heavy foreign accent. It’s unfair, of course, because someone’s just trying his or her best to communicate in the dominant national language. Wouldn’t good manners and common sense suggest that we value this, and meet them halfway as good hosts? Yeah, they would, and yeah, we should.

Problem #1: nearly every American has had this experience. One calls a company–a US-based company–with some issue. She needs technical support, or has a billing question, or needs to change her service. Bear in mind that she’s often frustrated when she calls. She struggles her way through the automated options, which are sometimes confusing and incomplete. When she finally gets through to a human being, she receives an overly long greeting read aloud to her in a very heavy foreign accent. It is hard for her to understand. All the responses are script-read answers, all of them prefaced with the time-wasting “I’ll be very happy to provide  you with excellent service on that matter…” or somesuch, over and over. This employee isn’t empowered to solve much of anything. Our caller knows damn well that the employee is in the Philippines, or India, or somewhere else she can’t drive to. She doesn’t hate the employee, but a part of her does resent that the job was farmed out overseas. That’s not unnatural, even if she should properly take out her frustrations on the company rather than the hapless employee just trying to make a living in Hyderabad or Quezon.

All she wants is someone to solve her problem in a helpful manner without being obtuse or repeating the same stupid scripts over and over. Most of the time, our caller hits a brick wall and hangs up even more frustrated than she was when she phoned. And after a few dozen such experiences, she starts to lose some of her patience and good manners when confronted with heavy foreign accents in any American context. It’s not right, but perhaps it’s understandable.

Problem #2: right or wrong, a great many Americans see and resent the evident movement toward a bilingual nation. They don’t like to see businesses pandering to non-Anglophone markets with bilingual signage, and they resent having to press a button to interact in English. They consider this divisive on several levels, one of the chiefest being that it affects the ability to make a living. If one has to be bilingual in order to get a job–and this is the reality in some places–the advantage goes to the bilingual. Myself, I love being multilingual, but in my opinion a bilingual requirement is the wrong approach to the problem. A fairer approach is to expect new residents (legal or not) to take it upon themselves to learn the predominant language of business and government. That’s more reasonable than demanding that those who were born here should now learn another language, all to accommodate people who in some cases didn’t even follow the legal procedure, and in some cases now feel entitled to demand amnesty and access to benefits.

The same rejoinder is in play: then all the more reason to be helpful to those who are here legally, who took the time to learn English before arriving, and are now valiantly making their best efforts! I agree 100%, and that’s why I delight in surprising visitors by speaking to them in their own language–and helping them, if I can. But our national language controversy has had its impact, and it has caused some Americans to dig in. And while you and I might agree that this is misplaced and lamentable, we can see that it had a genesis other than “people being xenophobic douchebags.” As before: it’s not right–in fact, let’s not mince words, it’s foolish and counterproductive–but it’s somewhat understandable.

I don’t like situations where the innocent suffer for the faults of the guilty, and this is one. But at least now you are equipped to understand why it might be. And if you were inclined to dismiss this as simple xenophobia or bigotry, perhaps now you will see that it is not so simple, nor did it start from a position of fundamental hostility. Because I can tell you this with confidence: if service representatives on the phone spoke clearer English, and had more power to resolve problems, and if new residents of the country stopped wanting services in languages other than English, and if they were more willing to learn it on their own initiative, this situation would change for the better. For all of us.

Americans tip everybody. An exaggeration. Skycaps (people who carry your bags on an airport cart), bellmen, restaurant waitresses, taxi drivers, most barbers and massage therapists expect tips. The people most deserving of tips are waitresses, since in most cases they are paid well below minimum.

There are surely good books on tipping in America, but were I a visitor unfamiliar with the terrain, I would tip a cab driver 15% if he refrained from padding the bill by taking a roundabout route. I would tip your typical waitress 15% unless she (not the kitchen) did a lousy job, but more if she did a very good job–they work hard. I’d give your bellman $3-5 per bag–if you don’t, they will take revenge you won’t like. If you stay more than one night, might leave $2-5 for the maid per night, unless she does a bad job. (Her job is miserable to begin with, but no point rewarding her for doing it lousy.)

It’s not really tipping-related, but never, ever, ever try to bribe an American police officer. The odds of success are dismal. The odds of arrest are very high. And if you’re wealthy with a fancy rental car, don’t imagine that will give you a better chance of bribe acceptance. Some of our police are corrupt, some are brutal, and a few are purely evil, but when you offer one a bribe, you insult his or her integrity–and even more so if you seem rich, since most police do not make piles of money, nor do they hail from wealthy backgrounds. Even most of the assholes are honest assholes. The only people in a position to offer the police bribes without being arrested are those who are already too rich or famous or well-connected for the police to dare bother unless they just shot someone, or rammed a carload of nurses, or exposed themselves to the governor’s wife. Or had weed. One of our national pastimes is jailing people for years and years for possessing an herb.

New Yorkers are rude, Southerners are polite, southern Californians are phony, xxx are xxx. Mostly false. Regional stereotypes exist, have bases in fact, and if you seek examples of them, you can find both the positive and negative stereotypes confirmed. My wife has found New Yorkers very helpful. I’ve met appallingly rude Southerners. I was born in southern California: am I phony? Would I be less phony if my parents had driven to Arizona when my mom went into labor? The reality is that we differ less from region to region than we seem to, yet have the habit of highlighting those differences rather than our commonalities. Because there is a sense that…

Americans are deeply divided by region against one another. Sometimes true, depending on the individual. Those who feel most divided, though, tend to be most vocal. They get much more media focus, so the extent is well overblown. It was not always like this. I remember a time when even our firebrands still hated perceived external enemies more than they hated their fellow Americans for disagreeing with them.

Americans waste a lot. It’s true, especially plastic and paper. However, we do not waste nearly as much as we once did. We are gradually adopting the recycling concept. The degree of recycling is often connected to a region’s politics, which is just brain-crushingly stupid, since politics have zero to do with the need to reduce garbage.

American public schools are broken. True of many. You can while away whole afternoons listening to us argue about whether to fix them or destroy them, and whose fault this is, if that interests you. However, realize that your typical American high school graduate has a far poorer education than his or her counterpart in most of the developed world.

Americans are fat. True, but the world is catching up, so the elephant in our room is soon coming to yours unless you do something. Laughing at us isn’t burning that many calories.

Americans by and large lack social services. Mostly untrue. However, ours are very decentralized. Most states run their own, as do some counties and municipalities; some are better, some worse, some atrocious. Many are run by charities, and an enormous percentage of Americans regularly do volunteer work–this is one aspect of our lives of which the world knows nearly nothing. What we do not have is a monolithic national government that is responsible for everything.

This decentralization of services stems from the debate, which began even before we finished winning the Revolutionary War, over how much power the Federal government should have. Many Europeans take for granted the idea of government as a kindly uncle who protects and helps them. Well, we’ve never really had that kind of Federal government, which is why some of us are suspicious of it gaining or asserting more power. To understand Americans, you have to imagine European standards of living mixed with a government that often colludes against the public interest. Should it be that way? Of course not. Is that the reality you will experience? Yes. So if it feels like Argentina or Tanzania, where the government is best avoided when you can, that’s why. Experience has taught many of us to distrust it. Our government has a very callous streak and style that shows up in letters we get, proclamations, even in how-to manuals. It rarely speaks in a tone that invites willing cooperation, or speaks to our best interests. It speaks in authoritarian language, and many of us perceive it as authoritarian. The main ‘best interest’ it usually speaks to is: ‘it’s in your best interest to obey, so we don’t punish you.’ So we may well obey, but you can see why some of us don’t walk away feeling cared for and protected.

American police are dangerous and should be avoided. Some truth to this. I would strongly advise visitors to work hard not to come to the official attention of the police, especially in rural areas. We have no national uniformed police force out among the public, so most police departments are city, county or state-operated and will reflect the local culture. (Our primary national police agency, the FBI, is more of a counterintelligence and counterinsurgency force, and has had a political policing role since inception.)

There are parts of the Northeast where some police are little better than the criminals. There are cities where some police are very casual about obeying their own rules. There are counties where the police are only moderately literate. There are regions where the main role of police is to raise tax money by writing tickets to people who can’t contest them in court unless they want to travel back to the location, which is rarely productive. If you have to deal with American police, don’t get an attitude. Be polite, don’t answer questions they didn’t ask, and if you didn’t know the law, apologize for not knowing it. That will help in most cases.

The good news is that if you obey traffic laws, don’t park in stupid places like sidewalks and no-parking zones, and don’t bother them, most of the police won’t bother you. Use your turn signals, stay within 3 mph of the speed limit, stop at the red lights and octagonal signs, don’t weave around like a drunk, and you will be of little interest to the police. And most especially, don’t park in a disabled spot without a permit. Ever. Not even for three minutes just to dash in. Someone will see you, dial her cell phone, and you will return to find a police officer writing you a well-deserved ticket.

America is deeply racist. True, but that doesn’t mean that all Americans are, nor that we are comfortable with it, nor that it is always overt, nor that racism equals racial hatred. We have many social attitudes that are holdovers from more racist past eras, and that’s why I say ‘deeply’–I did not mean ‘very.’ I mean that many bits of racism are deep enough in our social fabric that we are still learning to understand their impact. Piece by piece, many of us are trying to work our society away from those holdovers.

In any case, in most of the country, overt displays of racism are unwelcome, as are racial slurs. In many cases, those will get you a lot of bad reactions, and not necessarily from the members of the slurred group. Most of us have friends, and often relatives, from all walks of society. We tend to stick up for them.

Never discuss politics or religion with Americans. True, with modification: I’d say never discuss them with random Americans you don’t know, unless you’re feeling adventuresome. The problem here is a combination of passion and half-baked attitudes: a lot of Americans who are passionate about their religion and politics haven’t thought either one through, so you may embarrass them. That probably will not end well, because no one likes to feel stupid. For example, something like a majority of Americans believe that ‘socialism’ equals ‘anything government does.’ If you try to define the word for them, you’ll just annoy them. Just skip it. Sometimes it’s a choice between winning arguments or having a good time.

Compared to Europe, gasoline in the US is almost free. True, considering the relative price difference. Only our large cities have respectable public transportation; bus and train service between cities is rudimentary. American travel is largely motor travel, unless you want to fly. Try not to laugh at us when we complain that $3.50 per gallon is exorbitant. Most Americans don’t know that where you come from, it costs double.

Americans truly believe theirs is the world’s greatest country. Generally true. In fact, questioning this bromide will get a person (American or otherwise) nothing but hassle. Don’t get into the argument; it’s pointless, especially since there is no objective standard for ‘great.’ It’ll just deteriorate into people saying things they can’t take back.

All of the US works on the English measurement system. No, actually not all of it. Our military is almost totally metric. Nearly every packaged food at the grocery store has measurements in English and metric. It is true, though, that your average American doesn’t know the metric system well. Millimeters are best known, since a lot of gun calibers come in mm. Kilograms (2.2 pounds) are not well known, nor are meters (about 1.1 yards) or liters (about 1.05 quarts). Most rental cars will have speed indicators in kph, but the speed limit signs will be in mph. If you stick around and become a carpenter, yeah, you’ll need to learn the English system. If that’s not part of your travel plans, you’ll be okay. Seriously: you don’t need a thermometer to tell you it’s hot or cold.

American road etiquette is less prevalent than Europe. True in some ways, but it’s fairer to say that our etiquette is different (and in some ways, a lot kinder and more tolerant). In some places on earth, it’s a mortal sin not to move right to let someone past, grounds for outrage. Americans don’t like it either, but Americans also mostly don’t regard bullying as something to tolerate. Therefore, if you roar up on an American’s bumper and expect her to move right in response to your dominance, she may just slow down to piss you off. (And before you jump out to confront her at the next stoppage, do bear in mind that she might own a pistol and know how to use it.)

In many places, Americans will adjust their driving to help you out, such as changing lanes to let you merge onto the freeway. Cities and big macho pickup trucks are normally the rudest, taken on average; rural areas and passenger cars are typically kindest. Americans also expect people to keep right unless passing, though, so you can’t go wrong doing that (most of us observe this custom). Just don’t expect to bully people into it by tailgating them, figuring that they are afraid or ashamed to make you mad. They do not care if you get mad, unless you seem dangerous. Which, if you are tailgating, you are.

Americans dress like slobs with no fashion sense. Often true. Why should we let other people’s views (foreign or domestic) decide for us what we think of ourselves? Outside fashionable cities and the work environment, many of us have grasped the truth that the clothes you can afford are a lousy measure of what kind of person you are. We still have fashionistas and fashion-conscious regions, and a lot of people would be fashionistas if they could afford it, but many of us look at clothes as superficial–something to look past, and see the real person.

Americans are prudish. More so than some peoples, less so than others, and it varies by region and the age of the individual. Today’s twentysomething hellraiser may well be a stuffy prude by his sixties. However, it’s a bad idea to swear in front of old people, women or children, and most Americans wouldn’t approve of their kids watching porn. (Not that it’s easy to prevent that, and not that the parents usually succeed.)

Differences in law between states can trip you up. Only minimally true. Those matter more for residency than visiting. Maximum speed limits and alcohol sales restrictions will affect some visitors, but the major differences are in taxation methods, land use laws, and other stuff that hardly matters to you.

America is just a scary place. False. It is a friendly, if undereducated and sometimes backward place, and most of it is very safe. You can explore it at your own pace, and that is the best way to know it. It is also a vast place with many regional climates and cultures. Most Americans have not seen it all.

America has awe-inspiring scenery. Very true. This is a land of extremes. It is a large country of diverse climates and terrain. It has cities that mesmerize at night, enormous canyons, great rivers, vast swamps, beautiful beaches, wheat farms the size of Liechtenstein, cattle ranches bigger than Luxembourg, snowy peaks, wild forests, mighty winds, mighty storms, lethal heat, brutal cold, baseball-sized hail (and larger), monsoon downpours, blizzards, floods, volcanoes.

We have animals. The road signs warning you not to hit a deer are not there just to make you nervous. Moose come into Anchorage in winter. Alligators turn up on Florida golf courses. In Yellowstone, the way it works is that Mr. and Mrs. Bison decide where they want to be, and everyone else arranges to get out of the way. Our national symbol has been known to dive on, capture and eat people’s chihuahuas.

Our scenery and climate have majesty. They kick our butts. If they kick yours, therefore, don’t feel bad. The butt-kicking just makes you fit in better, especially if you do as we do: get up, try to laugh, and move on.

Just like your country, the best way is to come see it for yourself.

(Comments are closed because it’s almost inevitable that this will set off political squirreliness, which doesn’t interest me. What people might say about my article doesn’t concern me; it is the nanny-nanny-naa-naa of commenter to commenter that I don’t want to have to police. My apologies to all civilized readers for this measure’s necessity.)

Making the chile

While I’ve never been much of a cook, I’ve long believed that even non-cooks need to know how to make a few things well. The ideal specialties are low-effort, high-flavor, high leftover, and inoculated against fails due to temperature issues or cooking time.

Deb always made good chile, but her recipe really took off when I suggested we put chorizo in it. She is more the type to substitute than I, and when she couldn’t find chorizo one time, she threw in sausage and it wasn’t the same. I prefer fascist measuring, precise ingredients and an exact recipe that will produce the same thing every time. Once it’s good, one doesn’t need to mess with it. I am going into unusual levels of detail here to help non-cooks best handle the annoying little details. Experienced cooks can rewrite this without the complete sentences and extra details that they already know to do.

Hardware you need:

  • A big wide pot (16″ wide x 5″ deep will work) with lid
  • A smaller wimp pot with lid (size depends on how many wimps you are feeding)
  • The usual utensils: skillet, knives, cutting board
  • Plastic bag to stick garbage in as you get it (don’t slob up the kitchen)

Software:

  • 1# hamburger (get the low fat kind)
  • 1# chorizo (beef is best)
  • 2 qts spicy tomato vegetable juice
  • 4 oz. chile seasoning (watch the packets, some brands are less than an ounce per packet)
  • 4 16 oz. cans chile beans
  • 1 onion (your choice which kind and size)
  • Cayenne
  • Fritos
  • Grated cheddar (shredded is better)
  • Sour cream (optional)

Process:

  • Wash your damn hands. Fascism in kitchen cleanliness is a virtue.
  • Don’t heckle the wimps, and don’t tell them the wimp pot is called the wimp pot. Their deficiency of taste is its own penalty, and in the end, you want everyone to have an excellent meal that they enjoy. If they are around, hide this recipe paper so they don’t see it.
  • Put on a big apron. As cook it is your right and privilege to wear this emblem of status. Plus, it’ll keep chile from splucking onto your shirt when you do a sloppy job of mixing it around.
  • Dice the onion in this way: put on goggles. Cut off the ends, without going overboard. Set on the flattest end, and split it in half right down the vertical center. Peel both halves. Turn one half on its side and start cutting it downward from the wide middle to the end, without cutting all the way through. Rotate 90° and cut downward again from one side, and this time go all the way through. Repeat for the other half. Fish out any skin pieces, especially at what were the ends. Dump in pot.
  • Dump the chile seasoning and beans in the pot. Yes, including the bean juice. Everything but the empty cans and packet paper.
  • Fry the hamburger and chorizo in skillet on wide burner on 5 until all the hamburger is brown. Make sure it gets well mixed up. But happily, even if there’s a spot you missed, relax. The later process will cook all those. Turn the wide burner down to 2. Dump meat in pot.
  • Put pot on wide burner on 2. Pour in spicy veg juice. Should just about fill the pot to 1″ from top. Mix it up real well, cover. Keep shoveling the chile around every so often with a spatula because on 2, some of it will stick to the bottom now and then.
  • After an hour on 2, turn the wide burner to simmer (1). Turn on a small burner, also set on simmer.
  • Ladle enough chile into the wimp pot (hold it over the main pot to avoid mess) to feed the wimps generously. Put the wimp pot on the smaller burner.
  • If you like it medium hot, put 1 tsp cayenne in the main pot. If you like it a lot hotter, knock yourself out. Cover both and let simmer for 3-4 hours, mixing them around now and then.
  • Everyone gets to set theirs up how they like it, but to make it really delicious, top the bowl with grated cheese and then a bunch of fritos. Sour cream is also good to add, either for taste or those terminally averse to even mild spiciness. The end result is sort of like liquid tamale.
  • Serves two hardworking, hungry, big, strong Canadians plus one hungry adult male, and still produces a bunch of leftovers. Leftovers make excellent topping on nachos.

The Everclear experiment

It was, let’s see…about November 1983. I was a Resident Advisor in the wildest dorm on campus, and I had just turned twenty (thus, drinking was illegal for me). I had dealt with some shocks in my early adult life, starting with college. In Spring 1981 I was seventeen, in my senior year at a high school of 48 in a town of 750. In Fall 1981 I was still seventeen, attending a university of 35,000 in a city of two million. At nineteen, I was riding very loose herd on forty-seven freshmen, two sophomores, a junior and an old acid-head fifth-year senior who had once been brilliant, and during his rare sobriety bouts, still was. It was another ‘what the hell am I doing here?’ time.

I also was not known for abstention, so when some of my staffmates went down to Vegas for a weekend, I asked them to pick me up some Everclear. (You could not get it in Washington except on some Indian reservations, last I knew, sort of like M-80s and silver salutes.) This is 190 proof grain alcohol, 95%. I’d tried it a time or two back when I was rooming with Markdove. In case you like trivia, it took half a ton of this to fully fuel a Russian MiG-25, in addition to the avgas. Everclear tastes so viciously fiery that I have to belt it down in a gulp. Otherwise my nose pours, my eyes water and my mouth feels like I drank acetone. The guys brought me back three quarts of it.

I’ll never forget a single detail of that Saturday evening. About 10 PM, I sat down to have a drink. Now, one of my favourite basic drinks has always been a simple vodka and soda. Everclear is just double-plus-strength vodka. I had these Coke glasses from Farrell’s, 24 oz., and one can fill them with ice, pour in however much booze, then fill the rest with club soda. So I made my drink in the prescribed fashion; about an inch and a half of the Everclear over ice, topped with soda. Cool, crisp, refreshing, barely taste the alcohol. I sat down to read a good book. Nice drink. Took me about forty-five minutes to finish it.

Around 11 PM, I remember reflecting on how overhyped Everclear was. I barely felt anything, just that very light buzz I always get from drinking anything at all, and the reason I am not a fan of midday imbibing. I was just debating making myself another drink.

Here there is a discontinuity; there is no time blank, no gap, no fall, no dreams, no stupor. For all I can know, I was teleported.

I was face down on the floor, the book splayed out next to me. The chair was tipped over. The lights were on. The lighting seemed odd somehow, not as dark as it ought to be. I looked at my clock.

Seven in the morning.

Had I immediately mixed and drank most of a second round, I suspect I’d either be dead or permanently impaired. There would have been no literary career, no hockey games, no beautiful wife, no trips abroad. The body can metabolize only so much alcohol. Too much and you die. My door was locked from the inside, and no one would have had a reason to bug me on a Sunday morning, nor expected me to emerge for any reason short of a fire alarm. I had a single room with my own bathroom. Had my ‘dents heard barfnoise from outside the room, the conversation might have gone:

“That sounds like our RA being really sick in there.”

“So, what you’re saying is that it’s Sunday morning? Lieutenant Obvious, I herewith promote you to Captain.”

I would have been dead about forty hours before anyone missed me. We had a mandatory staff meeting on Monday nights. Unexplained AWOLism from the staff meeting would have created genuine alarm. They’d have master-keyed in, and they would never have forgotten the sight unto their dotages, half a century thence. What a delightful parting legacy: “He left people who cared about him with the indelible memory of his eyes rolled back.”

I’ve nearly been killed a number of times, and this one that still creeps me out to remember, because it snuck up on me and hit me on the head with a mallet. All the rest I got to see coming, and faced as best one can. None were as avoidable, nor were any for as stupid a reason.

Are you young? Thinking of drinking some Everclear, tough guy? Think it’s macho? Macha? Not scared of any drink, or of anything some old guy tells you?

I can’t stop you, and I wouldn’t if I could. It’s your life. You own it. That is, until the day you fail to treat this stuff with respect, at which time you may surrender it.

How do you want to be remembered?

If you take it easy with this stuff, you’ll have a lot longer to mull over that decision.

Take your time.

[A version of this story was originally published at Epinions. I have reclaimed, edited and adapted it for this format. They don’t get to have it anymore.]