Camera Shopping

My rusty-trusty Canon digital camera finally bit the dust, a victim of severe photo abuse. It’s hard being without a pocket camera, so yesterday morning I went to Best Buy and bought one of those Nikon Coolpix cameras. It's exactly the same as the old Canon, only lighter (and slower - an annoying trait of these digital cameras). I paid $199 for it ($214, including tax). From doing a little research, I knew I could have sourced the camera online for around $160, saving over $40. But I decided against doing that, and here’s why.

Retailers suffer when consumers go in, look at a product and then go home and buy it online. That bothers me. It bothered me a lot even before the internet came along.

As a motorcycle rider, I’ve always needed “things” to support the habit. You know, riding gear: helmets, jackets, gloves, rainsuits, accessories…all the stuff that goes along with riding the bike. Back in the 1970’s there used to be a number of motorcycle shops that specialized in nothing but parts and accessories. But as more and more discount catalog organizations flourished, the local stores found that they couldn’t compete. The consumer asked: Why buy a helmet at full retail when you can get the exact same helmet for some nice discount from a catalog?

Well, because it helps the local economy and keeps that store in business, that’s why. It’s only gotten worse since the invention of personal computers and the ability to click-shop.

To use Best Buy (or any retailer for that matter) for my camera comparison “shopping” and then go buy it off the internet would be unfair, I think. Lots of my friends have no qualms about doing their research in stores and then buying online. And so I imagine this practice will continue if not increase.

But what happens when there are no more retailers like Best Buy? I did not count them, but there was the usual crowd of employees running around the store yesterday morning. Where will those people work? My friend Matt works in a bank. But there are “e-banks” available now with virtually all the services of a “real” bank. The downside is that there is no physical building to visit, but honestly, how often do you actually need to go into your bank nowadays? The only reason I do is because my company cannot direct-deposit my paycheck yet. But that will change, probably soon.

Having stores like Best Buy around is worth something to me. I was able to go in there and compare a whole bunch of similar cameras they had on display side by side. And the choices are many! Initially, I wasn’t married to the Nikon, but it ended up being the one I liked best. So I bought it. They had plenty in stock. I got it the same day I wanted it, not at some point in the future.

Then there’s the tax issue. If you buy online, you usually don’t have to pay Florida sales tax, although some vendors do charge it. (Whether or not they actually remit it to the state is another story.) So the $15 in tax that I paid yesterday would most likely not have gotten to the state’s treasury.

Obviously our global economy is changing as we shift more toward buying things off the internet and not from a local store. And maybe I was foolish to “waste” the $40 I could have otherwise saved. I don’t know. All I know is that I feel better for buying this little camera from a local business, even if it did cost me more.

Halloween Party

Matt and Alisha came down from Atlanta for the weekend to attend the wedding of two friends out on the beach. Getting married at sunset on the beach on Halloween night? Odd, in my opinion, but hey- who am I to judge? Why be conventional? The three of us planned on meeting up afterward.

There are nights that I don’t like to go out and party. New Year’s Eve being one of them, St. Patrick’s Day and Halloween being two others. But I agreed to meet them out at Cap’n Fun on Pensacola Beach. I got there around ten, and the place was jumping. A lot of times I’m the oldest guy in places like that. But not last night! It was a nice, diverse crowd. Everyone was in a good mood and the entire huge place had a good vibe going on. Maybe 90% of the people there were wearing a costume. Of the remaining 10%, I couldn't tell if maybe half of them were supposed to be in costume or were just wearing their usual strange getup. Kids these days...

Actually it was the four of us. Matt dressed as Yankee baseball great, Joe Dimaggio. Alisha was Marilyn Monroe. Pete the pharmacist was (a very convincing) Borat. And Bob was…well, Bob doesn’t dress up on Halloween, being the stick-in-the-mud, party-pooper that he is. No, that’s not correct; I went dressed in my usual costume…as a geeky helicopter pilot. One very inebriated little girl stopped me on the way back from the bathroom, standing directly in front of me, blocking my path, sizing me up and down.

“Who are you?” she demanded.
I am nobody, I replied.
“Well you should say you’re Mr. Rogers!” she suggested brightly.

I looked at her closely, trying to determine if she was mocking me or just having a good time in the spirit of the night. She seemed drunkenly sincere, so I thanked her, and laughed, and left. Heh- Mr. Rogers. Good one. Come to think of it, I should've borrowed the McGruff costume from the Sheriff's Office.

There was a band playing that called themselves Monsterprty. Without the “a.” I suspect that their name once appeared on a marquee or flier that was too small to fit the entire name, so someone decided to drop a vowel for space considerations. Either that or it was a typo that stuck. Either that or they mistakenly thought it would be clever. They were a high-energy party band that had a varied repertoire that ranged from ultramodern stuff way back to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline,” which inexplicably has become something of a bar-band staple 'round here.

As I've mentioned before, Matt and I love live music. There is just something about the spontaneity and creativity of music being performed live. Over the years we've seen an awful lot of bands. And a lot of awful bands! They're usually at least tolerable, and we’ve only walked out on…maybe two bands since we’ve been hanging out. We both agreed that Monsterprty wasn’t bad. They weren’t good either, but they weren’t bad. At least they were in tune. Most of the time. And they were loud, I’ll give them that. Fortunately (or not), my hearing has been so damaged by a lifetime of flying noisy helicopters that I can tolerate the loudest of bar-bands now. At least I don’t have tinnitus. Yet.

After one of Monsterprty’s lively sets, the very young (maaaaayyyybe 21 year old) lead singer came down and was chatting up some girls right near where we were standing. I nudged Matt, “Go tell him!” And Matt, my ever-willing accomplice, leaned over to the boy and said, “Hey, you guys aren’t half-bad.” I couldn’t hear the singer’s response, but I saw his face light up with pleasure as he mouthed the words, “Thank you!”

It’s not that we like to be unkind. We don’t. In fact, we prefer to pass along positive feedback to bands we see. But sometimes we can’t resist messing with them just a little. Monsterprty may be a halfway decent bar-band, but they’re surely not the Next Big Thing. Not as long as they're content to be singing other people's songs. Bands like that generally don't have a very long shelf life. I hope that lead singer is putting money away for college.

Unusually for me, I didn’t drink much last night. Between ten p.m. and two a.m. I only had four overpriced, watered-down Rum and Cokes. The FAA is now taking the view that someone who gets a DWI cannot be trusted to obey all of the federal regulations that guide us pilots. So we are required to report to them such driver’s license “actions” (suspensions, etc.) within 60 days of the event. Some sort of counseling is usually required, even for a first offense. A pilot who accumulates three DWI’s will find himself no longer a pilot at all. I won’t say I’ve never driven drunk in the past when I was young(er) and stupid(er), but it’s sure not worth the risk now. I must be getting old.

I will close with this: If America is really serious about getting drunk drivers off the road, why do they let bars have parking lots? It's not like we go to bars only to ogle the girls and listen to mediocre bands. A lot of people go there to drink, too.

McGruff Duty

So I flew McGruff the Crime Dog around all this past week while the Boss was out of town. I got roped into it last year when the Boss generously donated the use of the helicopter to the local county Sheriff’s Department while he was also out of town. They were doing an anti-drug presentation at various local elementary schools and thought it would be neat if McGruff could arrive by helicopter. My boss thought it would be neat too.

The police do this in conjunction with “Red Ribbon Week.” They've been using a helicopter to transport McGruff for three years now. Escambia County (Alabama) Sheriff Grover Smith puts the show on, and it is emceed by the capable, enthusiastic Chief Deputy Mike Lambert who does a great job. Basically, they give a couple of short anti-drug speeches, a drug-dog demo, then show a video of an exciting local police car chase filmed by one of the dash-cams.

The kids either got to see McGruff arrive or leave the school (sometimes both). I gave them a demonstration of how the helicopter can hover in one spot, then move sideways and backwards. No airshow, no funny stuff. The last thing in the world I want is to have a couple of hundred kids seeing McGruff die in the flaming wreckage of a helicopter. Oh, the headlines...

The first year, they used a local operator who is no longer around. The second year, they came to us. And when the police ask for a favor, whaddya gonna say, no?

Atmore P.D. Officer Matt Rabren and his partner, Avalon

That year, I had big “POLICE” decals made up and stuck on the side of the ship. The cops gave me a blue jumpsuit (but no gun, dammit) and asked me to give a talk to each assembly about police aviation. Like an idiot, I said yes. We were all a big hit. But when the Boss got back from vacation and heard about it, he was not pleased. He said we’d missed a golden marketing opportunity with all those potential customers (teachers) in the audience.

My phony police helicopter

So this year, no decals and no jumpsuit. I wore a polo shirt with the company logo so there was no confusion that I was a civilian. In their speeches the cops gave us props for our part in making it all happen, which was nice. I thought I could weasel my way out of giving the kids the police-aviation talk, but no such luck.

When you stand up in front of a roomful of hundred kids or so, it’s short-attention-span theatre, baby. The first year I was pretty nervous, and from their blank stares I realized that some of the things I was telling them were way over their heads, so to speak. During the course of that week I tailored and refined (and shortened) the talk. But it was hardly riveting.

This year I decided to try comedy. I’m a frustrated stand-up comic anyway, and here was a perfect opportunity. I started off making jokes about McGruff, and what he was like as a puppy…e.g. chasing his tail instead of bad guys, “taking a bite out of…” the cat, and solving the mystery of my missing goldfish by pointing out to me the tiny paw prints of the cat on the side of the fishbowl. The teachers were all laughing, but the kids still looked back at me with that now-familiar blank stare.

Finally, at the last school I decided to speak their language. “My name is Bob Barbanes,” I announced. “But my friends all call me Sponge Bob.” (Uproariously laughter.) “They call me that because I’m always sponging off them…like, ‘Hey, you gonna finish those fries?’” (Blank stare/stony silence.)

Ah, well. So I’m no Mr. Rogers or Captain Kangaroo. But I'll do better next year, you just wait! I'm working on new material, and I'll have those little bastards laughing or my name aint Sponge Bob.

Balloon Boy

It’s not that I’m clairvoyant, but I am a big ol’ skeptic. I figured something was up. I mean, it didn't take a geeeeeenius to see through this one. And who names their kid “Falcon” anyway?

First we heard the alarming news that some sort of helium balloon...kind of a homemade flying saucer...had gotten loose from somebody's backyard in Colorado and there might be a boy inside it. Dear God! Edge-of-seat stuff! Another national emergency of the “baby falls down well” type we seem to do so well. News helicopters circled military helicopters who could only stand-by and do…well...nothing but watch with the rest of us.

Shortly thereafter the craft came down and lo and behold, no boy in the balloon. Did he fall out? Dear God! We were on the edge of our seats yet again. Turned out he’d been hiding in the attic over the garage all along, they said. Next, we heard that the parents had been on ABC-TV’s “Wife Swap” show.

Twice.

And that they were now "storm chasers."

Publicity stunt, said I.

And that’s all it was.

The sad thing is that the boy, already saddled with the unfortunate moniker, “Falcon” will now and forever be known as “Balloon Boy.” Just say those words and everyone knows who/what you’re talking about. Ain’t the media wonderful!

My youngest sister Eleanor tweeted, “Developing…Jon Gosselin to adopt Balloon Boy in advance of new poor parenting reality show.” I thought it was funny.

But seriously, who names their kid, “Falcon,” anyway?

"Catch The Wind" Again!

Two things: I heard an old song on the radio the other day and saw a new TV commercial. Both brought back a flood of memories.

Some time ago I wrote a post about two companies that used the old Donovan song, “Catch The Wind” in their television commercials. Volvo used it quite effectively; GE, not so much.

Now along comes the Massachusetts Mutual Life Insurance Company. Founded in 1851, it has long been known familiarly as “Mass Mutual.” Coincidentally, that is the marketing name they’ve taken on now: Odd how that works, eh? Of course they are more than just a life insurance company. These days, it’s the “MassMutual Financial Group.”

Okay, they needed a TV commercial. They wanted to stress family values in these troubled times, because that is what every insurance company/bank/investment company/big corporation wants you to feel when you think of them.

So the new MassMutual commercial begins at night with a shot of guy in a huge office. It must be late at night because it’s very dark outside and none of the surrounding buildings have many lights on (so it’s not just 5:30 on a winter’s day). We wonder: What kind of miserable, slave-driving company would pressure an employee to work those kinds of hours? Oh yeah – heh- an investment company! The phone rings, and the poor, overworked bastard looks down at a picture of his daughter on his desk - a daughter he probably hasn't seen much of lately.

The next shot is during the day, ostensibly the weekend. The guy is still in his office, still hard at work. But it is a home office now, and the only view he has is of his small backyard with its tiny pool in which his young daughter and a friend(?) are playing. We wonder: Was he terminated from his investment company job? A sign drawn in a child’s scrawl says, “Daddy’s Office.” Is he into Network Marketing now? Amway, perhaps? There is no dialogue. In the background, some smooth-talking voice-over announcer is saying something about decisions and policy-holders and...some other forgettable crap.

Throughout the commercial, Donovan’s “Catch The Wind” is playing. It must mean something. Is it a metaphor for the guy’s failing career? We don’t know.

If I were doing that spot, they would still show the home office and the sign his daughter made for it. But he would be in in the pool with her, not watching her play while he’s too busy “working.” And in the background, an unanswered phone would be heard faintly ringing…

I love when TV commercials use the right music, images and words. When it happens, it’s magical. Below, you can watch the new MassMutual commercial and decide for yourself whether it works for you or not. I think it is merely average, not very inspiring, and hardly magical. And alright already, I also think we’ve overused “Catch The Wind,” thank you very friggin much.





Okay, so much for that. Next, I heard an old Nick Drake song on Sirius/XM radio that I now cannot get out of my head. It was, naturally, in an advertisement where I first heard it.

So please watch what is probably the best commercial in the history of television commercials. Notice there is no narration. Notice how the people in the ad don't speak either. Notice how you cannot even see the product clearly. Notice the wonderfully appropriate soundtrack song. Notice how unlike a commercial it is and rather more like a little minature drama. But when the company's logo lights up at the very end of the spot, I want one!





I can watch that commercial over and over. One YouTube commenter called it ":59 seconds of art." And I agree! How do you say so much in quick, little shots? I love the part when you just see the backup lights come on, then the next shot is the car driving off down the road. They made their decision! I love the questions the spot raises about the relationship of the couple in the backseat: The way the boy looks at the girl early on - first date, perhaps? And I love how she looks at him at the very end. Car? It's about a car? Who car? What car?

Volkswagen has always put out creative, fun commercials, even today. But this old one for the Cabrio was just the best.



DISCLAIMER: My family has always owned Volkswagens. Many years ago I bought a white Cabriolet for my mom in California, and drove it out to her from Florida. I loved that car - I think my sister in Albany, NY still has it. And I currently own an '85 VW Camper which is (patiently) awaiting a new engine - coming soon!

Too Funny

I don't often laugh out loud at things I see on the internet (other than Scott Meyers' "Basic Instructions" of course). But I could not resist posting this.

People. Feh- Who Needs 'Em?

We Harley riders like to tell you that our bikes have “personality.” We especially like to tell you this when they break down and strand us out in the middle of nowhere. As mine did today.

Ah, did not know I had a(nother) motorcycle, eh? It’s a long story. A three-part story actually, which you’ll read some day if I ever could get the pictures off my old computer that died so bad that it won’t even turn on now. It’s on my list...

But I digress.

Today was a gorgeous day for a ride. I didn’t have to go up to Brewton, but it seemed like a good excuse to roll the bike out of the garage, as if I needed one. “Work” completed (hah), I was on the way home, taking the long way/scenic route as usual. We’re talking back roads. And I was just cruising along, not a care in the world…fat, dumb and happy, singing out loud.

Going down that long, lonesome hiway
Bound for the mountains and the…

Then the engine died.

Crikey! Or words to that effect.

Oddly, the engine didn’t completely quit. It kept running at idle or just a little above, but would not accept any throttle (an important piece of troubleshooting information that would come in handy). And it kept backfiring. And all my electrical devices were dead. It was like somebody sort of shut the key off. But not.

I stopped in the driveway of a farm, a million miles from nowhere. The bike continued to idle, and I did not shut it off, oh no! Over the years, I’ve learned this the hard way. When something is wrong and you pull over by the side of the road, DO NOT SHUT THE FRICKEN ENGINE OFF! Believe me, it will *not* restart. Just ask my friends Greg and Chuck about the time I got the “Alternator” light in my Jetta on I-10 and pulled over to the side to look under the hood. Out of habit, I threw it in “Park” and shut the ignition off. As soon as I did, we all three looked at each other with that, “Oh shit,” expression. I screwed up. Coulda just left it running and drove to the nearest exit to check things out, but noooooooooooooooooo. I had to strand us on the Interstate for a couple of hours. I am moron.

Anyway, lesson learned, as I said.

On the Harley today, I did not see anything obviously wrong, nor did I expect to. It was an electrical problem to be sure. But what? I knew there was a convenience store about five miles ahead, so I limped on down the road at about 15 mph, idling in second gear, which is all I could get out of it. Many things go through your mind at a time like this. Mainly, how much is it gonna cost me to flatbed this sonovabitch piece of junk home from here? $100? Probably.

Coughing and spitting and popping, I made it to the convenience store. As luck would have it there was another motorcycle parked outside. Turned out that it belonged to the slightly scary-looking bestudded and “gauged” teenage clerk inside with the unnaturally black hair. I switched the bike off and, sure enough, it would not restart. When I turned the key back on, no juice at all. It was almost as if…thinking now…the battery…had…completely…died. But that usually doesn’t happen. Plus it’s a relatively new battery.

I pulled the left sidecover off, exposing said battery. On the inside of the cover there was a little decal with a diagram that showed the negative cable from the battery and the location where it attached to the engine. Why this diagram is there, I have no idea. (Or…maybe I do now.) When I looked at the connector post on the back of the engine where the negative battery cable was supposed to be, it was empty – nothing attached to it. What the…?

Probing a little further, I found the wayward negative cable. The terminal end had cracked cleanly off, and then the cable had fallen down among some others that are clumped there between the engine and the frame. Harleys do vibrate a bit. Even modern ones. They’ve rubber-mounted the engine now to keep the vibrations away from the rider, but the engine itself still jumps around like a hardware store paint shaker.

So it was just a broken electrical connection. All breakdowns should be this easy! On the other hand, I had not brought along even one lousy tool, not a pair of pliers or a screwdriver, not even my trusty Leatherman which I usually never leave home without, except for today. As I said, I am a moron.

The store manager, a short, heavyset, pleasant woman named Kathy came outside for a smoke. She was about my age. And she noticed me standing there over my motorcycle, scratching my head.

“Got a problem?” she asked.

“Well, it is a Harley…” I cracked. “And it is broke.”

She chuckled. “Is there anything I can do to help?” She came over and bent down over the engine, probing in a way that said it wasn’t the first dead Harley she’d ever troubleshot by the side of the road. I explained what had happened, and showed her the naked terminal post. She fished around for the cable like she knew what she was doing. And to my surprise she discovered it without me having to point it out.

“Well, what do you need, hon?”

“A length of wire would do it, I suppose.” All convenience stores these days have a selection of automotive supplies. I figured that they’d have something I could make work. I pointed inside the store. “I’ll find something in there. I needed to stop for a cold drink anyway.” I was very affecting an air of Ah can do this ma-self, ma’am, thankyouverymuch.

Kathy wasn’t having it. She marched me inside with an odd sense of urgency. She disappeared into a back office, then came right back out with some old computer power cords they weren’t using anymore. In her hands were a pair of scissors and a razor knife. “Will this work?”

Man, I laughed. I didn’t know what to say. Of course it would work! It was exactly what I needed. So I sat down at a table and in a couple of minutes had fashioned me a new wire that I was able to splice between the old, broken one and a (different) grounding point on the engine. I knew it would get me home. I went outside, hooked everything together and the bike started right up as if it had never missed a beat. I had been there less than fifteen minutes, total. I killed the engine and went back inside.

“I don’t know how to thank you, ma’am,” I said, sincerely. (Actually, I do, and I will.)

”Bahhh, don’t worry about it, hon,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ve watched plenty of Harleys get worked on in plenty of strange places. Things are always vibrating loose and breaking on ‘em. You just be careful riding home.”

The absolute, incredible kindness and generosity of complete strangers is one thing that constantly amazes and delights me about people. I did not know this Kathy from Adam. Yet she jumped right in to solve my little problem as if it were her own…as if I were 2,000 light-years from home, not 20.

One of the nice things about being a motorcyclist is that you get to interact with people in interesting ways. People still seem to be drawn to and friendly to motorcyclists for some reason. And when the motorcycle you ride is a Harley, you often get to interact with them under…well, unusual…circumstances. (Although having said, that, Harleys are waaaaaay more reliable than they used to be.)

In my short, sweet life, I have had far more rewarding and positive experiences with people than bad ones. And it is these positive experiences that keep me coming back for more (or is it “going out for more?"), seeking out all the good Kathys of the world so I can talk to them, even just for a little bit.

I love people. What a dreadful place this planet would be without them.