Take a Pass

Years ago I was an advertising copywriter (still am) and was job hunting. After many attempts — creative directors at ad agencies often don’t place interviewing freelance writers high on their list — I finally got in to see Ken Fitzgerald, then a creative director at Trahan, Burden and Charles, one of the larger and more creative shops in Baltimore. (He’s no longer there.) I started showing him my portfolio, which he really liked, and all of a sudden he picked up his phone and called a creative director at another ad agency in town. “Bill, I’m looking at a book of a guy named David Sattler. You should see him. You’d really like his book. His humor is just like yours. Next Tuesday, okay, hold on.” He turned to me, asked if I was free the following Tuesday at 3 p.m. (I was), and made an appointment for me. He did the same thing with two other ad agencies, and left messages for a couple of other folks who were out of the office.

 He wrote down the names and numbers of everyone he’d called, then told me a couple of other folks I should call “and feel free to use my name.”

 I was astonished: here was a guy I’d never met and didn’t know, who certainly didn’t owe me anything, getting me appointments with folks I’d been unsuccessfully trying to see for weeks. “Ken,” I said, “I’m completely blown away by what you’re doing.”

 He told me he remembered all the times he tried to get an interview with someone and couldn’t, “and I promised myself that when I was in a position to see people and help people I would.”

 I told him I hoped I was in a position one day to return the favor, though I doubted I ever would be in that position. “You want to return the favor?” he asked. “Then pass it on.”

Indeed.

Meet the Flintstone

A couple of years ago Parade magazine had a contest for car-related stories, so I sent in this one. I don't remember the prize, but I think it was $1,000. I figured I couldn't miss with this:

Like most nine-year-old boys, I liked to pretend to drive my mother's car when it was parked. (For the record, it was a big old Plymouth Belvedere, which I liked because it had a second set of turn signals mounted on the front fenders, so you could see the signals blink from the driver's seat).

One day I "pretended" a little too well.

Moving the gear shift, as I'd seen my mother do many times, I accidentally put the car into neutral and it (and I) began rolling down the driveway. As I'd seen Fred Flintstone do on TV, I opened the car door and began dragging my left foot.

Well, a nine-year-old's dragging foot was not about to stop a 3,500 pound car, and the Plymouth and I rolled into the front year before stopping.

Hoping my mother wouldn't notice I ran into the house, and nervously waited until, finally, she needed to leave the house to go somewhere.

My hope was in vain. She noticed the car was in the middle of the front yard right away. (Guess she was smarter than I gave her credit for.)

I don't remember my punishment, but I'm sure it was pretty severe. I did learn a couple of things.

Don't move the gearshift lever.

Admit when you've done something wrong.

Introductory physics should be taught in third grade.

And the Parade magazine contest? I lost out to some sappy, maudlin story about how a car that broke down led to a chance meeting and marriage. It was sweet, it was lovey-dovey, it was nauseating.

I thought my combination of stupidity, humor, crime and punishment was a no-brainer.

Peace Out

Today, as you no doubt already knew, is the 50th anniversary of the peace sign. (What, you didn't plan your Peace Party yet?)

You might think that the four-lined artwork — so simple a three-year-old could draw a reasonable facsimile of it — was the stoned brainchild of some self-styled artist on Haight-Ashbury, who later graduated to painting VW buses.

You would be wrong. Introduced to the world by its inventor,  British graphic designer Gerald Holtom, at a Ban the Bomb rally in England on April 4, 1958, the symbol has had a much stormier history than a symbol for peace should have: criticized, vilified, co-opted by virtually every movement (women's rights, environmental groups, civil rights, gay rights and every anti-war group from every generation since), slapped on every type of bag, garment, footwear and poster around, to the point where there's only one group that hasn't embraced the symbol: the U.S. Copyright Office.

Holtom, as it turns out, never copyrighted what is, no doubt, his most famous work, meaning that the symbol is in the public domain and anyone can use it. The folks who have put it on millions of items haven't paid its designer, its creator, its originator a dime.

Folks who make materials for war appear to profit handsomely. Peace, apparently, is much less lucrative.

What Would Jesus Drive?

Keep your eyes open and the world is a very entertaining place.

I remember once I pulled up behind a car at a stoplight and I noticed its bumper sticker, "Honk If You Love Jesus." Deciding to see what would happen — Haven't you been curious when you see those "Honk If You..." bumper stickers? — I gave my horn a couple of polite toots.

The woman behind the wheel flung open her door, stomped out of the car, and screamed, "Can you see the light is red?", let loose a string of obscenities, jumped back in the car and slammed the door so hard the car shook.

When the light turned green I had to pull over, I was laughing so hard.

Must not have been her car.

Surplus Stuff

The state of Maryland issued its annual list of unclaimed property today and, in a ritual that has become all too depressingly familiar, we aren't on it.

I was hoping for a long forgotten bank account that, with interest, had grown to a princely sum. A car left somewhere in a drunken stupor (though I have to believe any car left behind and forgotten couldn't be that valuable. "Honey, have you seen the Benz?" "Not since we went to the Henderson's party last Friday.")

Still, somehow 66,387 Marylanders have almost $46 million in unclaimed funds, mostly, according to the newspaper insert, from bank accounts, stocks, dividends and payroll.

How, precisely, does one "forget" about a bank account or a paycheck?

There are some interesting names on the list. A company called A Better Way Credit may not have actually found a better way, if their own finances are any indication. Ditto AAmes Home Loan, which may have more money than it knows what to do with. Ditto Accubank Mortgage Co. and Access National Mortgage. If East Coast Asset Group is missing some assets, I know where to look. The 89th medical group at Andrews Air Force Base should march right over and claim their assets. (Sorry, couldn't resist.) Lasalle Advisors? I've got some advice for you.

Lasalle Bank has unclaimed assets somewhere (hopefully, not at another bank). Rocket Fast Tax Refunds is on the list, too. (Insert your own joke.)  And the list goes on and on.

I understand that many of these folks are on the list inadvertently — moved and forgot to send the forwarding address to someone, are holding an account in escrow for an estate that is taking an inordinate amount of time to settle, that sort of thing — and some folks and businesses are listed in error.

Still, $46 million is $46 million, and I wish some of it was coming my way. Maybe I can pass myself off as Rockville High School.

Eyes Watching

There are tools bloggers can use to see who is visiting their sites — not the individual users, but where the users come from. Shortly after I posted my piece below about gasoline prices (which mentions Exxon Mobil), someone from exxonmobil.com visited this site.

Clearly these folks monitor every blog mention of their company, even a site such as mine, which receives only a few visitors a day. (Hey, tell your friends and maybe we can boost that to a dozen visitors a day.) I don't know whether to be amused, complimentary about Exxon Mobil's efficiency, or slightly paranoid.

Or should I see if I can become a highly paid corporate shill? If you help boost the readership on this site, I'll share the wealth with you.

Future Proof

I have seen the future. And it interviews well.

Recently I had the privilege in participating in a morning of mock interviews at the local high school, designed to give students a taste of the world of job interviews in a relaxed setting.

Not that all of the students were relaxed: I had to admonish one for cracking his knuckles, and tell another that it was all right to take off her jacket and sit down.

As part of their English classes, these students (all seniors) had to prepare a resume, and although a few produced unintended smiles (“Objective: to gain a job.”), every resume was way ahead of what I would have been able to muster as a high school senior: honor rolls, community service projects, perfect attendance, lists of academic and civic achievements so lengthy that I wondered when some of the students found time to sleep.

Any parent would have been proud to claim any one of these boys and girls as his or her own.

What was most amazing to me is that many of them already knew what they wanted to do for a living: auto mechanic, doctor, dancer and dance instructor. (At age 16 I generally didn’t know what I wanted to do that weekend. let alone for the rest of my life.)

Organized by the Greater Catonsville Chamber of Commerce and the high school, the morning gave a few dozen young men and women the chance to learn some valuable job interviewing skills — beyond “Don’t crack your knuckles” — and understand that a job interview is more than the opportunity to be a supplicant (“Yes, you want to be offered the position. But you also have to get the information you need to decide if you want it.”)

 And, as one of the other adult interviewers put it, “We have to encourage these kids, because they’re the ones who are going to be paying our social security.”