Ask Not What Your Car Can Do for You…

…but what you can do for your car.

If you’re a loyal reader or old friend, let me explain who I am – some think I work at the Moore/Norman Technology Center, but I’m really only a Board member (we get $25 per month and it costs $600 to sponsor a golf team in our Foundation tournament – you do the math). My daughter thinks I’m one of the question writers for Jeopardy or Cash Cab, my wife thinks I’m a politician (full of it), and in reality I’m a Realtor.

What do Realtors do? Well, they buy, sell and show real estate – in my case, homes, houses or residences.

I say all this to share my little car’s ruin-my-next-three-days experience. I was driving to my office to meet the loveliest little couple you’d ever want to meet, to show them five homes. Most likely they would pick from these the one, the perfect, the home they would just have to write a contract on.

STOP!!!! Why did my car at 40 miles per hour just stop running??? Crummy #*%$^* buttons!!! I’m only about half a mile from the office, but my car is stopped, dead as a doornail. Not overheated, but it won’t turn over when I twist the key.

I called my wife for backup, she called my daughter for backup-to-the-backup. I called the Ford dealership to have Triple-A tow the car there. My wife waited at the car as I drove off in her car, while my daughter pulled up to take my wife when the car got towed.

Strike two – the Ford dealership called late Monday afternoon, saying that the alternator (which is the electrical system) “fried out” and ruined the battery. Of course, it’s going to be about 30% higher than a mom & pop garage, plus they’ve found seven other things that they recommend I have done (cha-ching – big buncha bucks) while my car is there, because of wear and tear or mileage. But I only want the alternator fixed (and a battery)!

Strike three – I go pick it up and meet Sinbad the Service Writer (yes, the pun is intended to defame him as a pirate). He escorts me to the cashier, who takes my check for what (in my mind) is a one-person attempt to stimulate the economy of at least four central states in the US of A.

Kristie the cashier then wants me to fill out a “customer survey”, which I shouldn’t have done prior to even seeing if my car existed in a life form recognizable to me. Being the nice guy I am (most of the time – wink, wink), my answers were fairly upper-positive on the scale. And what, in the big scheme of things, does this survey mean? Maybe a piece of macaroni in the world of Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Much to my dismay upon walking out (the Customer Service Survey Dingdongs didn’t even pull my car up) and trying to start my car, I did experience ignition. However, my eyes quickly zeroed in on the radio lights not being on. I pushed the off/on button with no luck. The heat started to rise in my body as I tried the headlights – mission aborted because of no radio, no lights, and I had just written a check that would pay for part of these car guys’ kids to go to college.

I pulled my car back into the service drive and proceeded to explain my dilemma to Sinbad the Service Writer, as he assured me that there will be no extra charge. After three days, blank-check bucks and needing to go to an appointment that will actually make me some money, Sinbad thinks “no charge” is gonna come near to hitting my “calm” button!

They took my car and I rushed to the cashier’s office ot rescind my customer survey card. Kristie the Cashier has never had this happen before, but I don’t buy it. She had dropped into a locked box for management to review. I insist she unlock the 73-cent lock and get it out. She did, then handed the card to me. I tore it into three pieces and told her to give THAT to the service manager.

After going back to the service drive, pacing, looking at my watch, I see it – INCOMING SCUD!!! Golfshirt Gary, the service manager, asked me, “Is there a problem, Mr. Casper?” “I’m Mr. COSPER, if that’s who you’re looking for.” Then Golfshirt Gary proceeded to tell me that his service people wouldn’t have any reason to check the radio or headlights when the alternator is fried and the battery blows, thus proving he is a complete moron who slept during those classes put on by Ford (probably from being out at a strip bar the night before with the rest of the golfshirt service managers).

I told Gary the Golfshirt that if I had been somewhere at night with NO HEADLIGHTS to get home, I’d only be satisfied with somebody’s head. Then I reminded him that he had plenty of time to check seven other things, call me about them to drain MORE money from me, but didn’t have time to check my flippin’ lights and radio. It would be best if he (Golfshirt Gary) just strolled back to his office and set a tee time or call somebody’s wife that he’s fooling around with, but LEAVE ME ALONE!

After 30 minutes my car did function, but the aftermath still reared its ugly head all into the next week. My car will not be put through that again. I’m sure they THINK I’ll be back, but I love my car (and blood pressure) way too much.

Random Ramblings from the Cosperator (aka Glenco portable office)

Well, my dear friends, let’s look at a little of the good, the bad and the ugly from this week…

GOOD!

Soupy Sales passed away, but we were lucky that he came into our lives. You just gotta love the Soupster — over 20,000 pies to his face and 5,000 live TV appearances. Good clean (pun intended) fun for culture, not the vile, repulsive crap we get now.

The Olympics in Vancouver should be a home run. If you’ve never been to Vancouver, well, you’ve really missed out. It’s the Hollywood/San Francisco combined of Canada. A real happening place with an international-plus-urban big flair. Nice folks up there!

BAD – BAD – VULGAR

People scamming other people with H1N1 (swine flu) products and medicines. Fake Tamiflu for unsuspecting people when their loved ones’ very lives are at stake. These people are below pimps and maybe tied with child molesters.

UGLY/SENSELESS/SCARY

I’m ticking down the time to get on a plane to Denver as I’m writing this. What’s the deal with those bozo airline pilots in the Minnesota incident (“incident” if somebody else is involved, “big ding-dong whopper deal” if I’m involved) about “just missing the airport”? Get a grip, guys — this isn’t the freeway off-ramp to Garden Ridge Pottery or Hu Flung Wok’s Chinese Buffet. You missed landing at the airport (BIG airport — I’ve been there) with lots of other big planes. You are supposed to be concerned with safety and (don’t everyone laugh at once or get your eyes all watery) a scheduled time of arrival!

What’s the deal? Were Captain Bert and co-pilot Ernie just too enthralled, going ga-ga over the combo iPod/Foot Massager in the SkyMall magazine? Were these jokesters playing “I Spy” out the front window of the plane? Their lawyer may get them to say they were stunned into zombiness when the radar screen formed the outline of the Virgin Mary. My vote is to ground these dunderheads and have them drive the airport shuttle.

When I get on the plane Tuesday, I want to hear the pilot talk every five minutes all the way to Denver, even if it’s to tell me the name of his dog, or “We are now over the spot where four states touch each other.” If he doesn’t, I hope everyone bugs the bilucy’s out of the stewardesses to go check on them.

This is the Cosperator, signing off and approaching the gate. Please gather up your personal belongings.

Another Edition of “You Think It, I’ll Say It”

All this big hullabaloo about the healthcare debate — public options, everyone is covered, or who, what or where will get gypped. Everyone agrees the healthcare system needs reform of some sort. The doctors need to practice medicine, not get dumped on by low reimbursement payments or forced CYA tactics or paperwork nightmares.

So our very own lame-brain idea is Rep. Lucky Lamons wants the doctors to write prescriptions for medicines ALREADY available over-the-counter. You or I can’t just walk into Walgreens and buy an over-the-counter cough, cold or allergy medicine (some of which are behind the counter), and you are required to (1) present your ID and (2) you are limited to two boxes of it. All this added processing for stuff is absurd and ludicrous, not to mention burdensome.

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Well, flip my flapjacks — Ellen DeGeneres is the new judge on American Idol. So are we going for funny criticism instead of cruel? What a joke — her show didn’t even pay their ASCAP (royalty fees) to the artists that she uses to do her little “dance time” segment. Ripping these fellow entertainers off and defrauding them from their royalty fees — shame on Ellen! This judge votes her out.

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Recently, Al Fischer donated blood to reach a lifetime level of giving gallon #40 to the cause. So he’s donated a hot water tank full of blood. That’s a lot of corpuscles, any way you stack ‘em! Salute to you, Big Al!!!

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Where would you go to be alone? A guy and gal in Wichita picked a dumpster. Yessaroo, they wanted their “intimate moment” to take place in a dumpster. Too bad romance was interrupted by being robbed. Now, if you were of a mind to go on a crime streak, would a dumpster be the first place you’d look for a victim? Whose idea was it to have your “date” in the dumpster? Can’t you just hear his wife? “I thought you were out cheating on me, but I know you can’t be because you smell like a dumpster.” Wait until she watches the news!

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I just saw another one of those annoying TV ads about the Oklahoma lottery creating money for education. You know, the ones that say “The lottery money could buy two billion #2 wooden pencils…” Like we forgot the Governor told us it brings in five times as much as it really does.

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More later about “MAPS for Mick” — who gets the money and the benefits?

Fair? You Can’t Handle the Fair!

It all starts as you inch your way into the parking areas. Country, rock and rap music all blaring from cars, trucks and “things” that breathed a sigh of relief that they didn’t meet their demise on the Cash for Clunkers scrap pile. These are all competing with young families or grandparents taking their grandkids to park the closest to the gate.

The “buy a ticket” line is loooong, but people get to go to the front with rodeo tickets or monster truck tickets with a little “admit one” tabbie deal on the end.

I’m at the gate — let the people-watching begin! Hey, buddy with the spiky mohawk — do you use butch wax to make that stick up like that? Seems that one of the big deals this year is for girls and women (maybe a few ladies) to wear cowboy boots with shorts and skirts. Who’d have known? I don’t watch much CMT — well, maybe for Crossroads concerts. I mean Kidd Rock and Hank Williams Jr. — they will get your Monday Night Football yell going. How do you pick which cowboy boots go with shorts? Dressy or casual? Tri-colors or exotic skins? Daisy Duke’s and cowboy boots are bound to turn a few heads in the Pig Barn!

The biggest downside of the fair is females and males who think they need to wear shirts that show their bellies. Gross-a-mundo deluxe! It’s enough to make you heave your cheese on a stick, chunk your corn dog or toss your cinnamon roll in about six feet of fury.

The big upside is learning that if it exists, you can fry it. Fried Snickers, fried Oreos, fried ice cream, all for your pleasure — but if you want healthy, then there are roast beef sundaes (yes, you have to resort to that for healthy food).

I guess I’m really nostalgic about most things, so let me share what I miss at the fair — midgets racing on Shetland ponies or doing fancy riding tricks to packed audiences. The alligator lady that turns into a gorilla, the little mini-loaves of Wonder bread, Elsie the cow and her kids with ice cream. Everyone walking around with yardsticks (sword fights just broke out (I wonder why), and the motorcycle pit with riders circling the sides. And the games, the carney games of skill (ha ha!) that you knew were rigged, but you knew you could win anyway. Heck, it’s no big deal for you to toss a dime and have it land on the head of a pin!

Everyone can see all the people they have ever met in their life at the fair, even your next-door neighbor’s first wife — well, she wasn’t half bad when she wasn’t yelling! The Great State Fair of Oklahoma is NOT the same — but I guess we aren’t, either.

Darth Vader = Bank of America (or why I support local community banks)

Almost everyone is upset over the bailout billions going to banks that in turn dump on the people. Bank of America personifies everything that is evil with our convoluted system of no real checks and balances for the average Joe or Joette.

Their credit card companies charge obscene interest rates which should be banned as loan sharking, just as bad as Tony Soprano. They also were the first bank/credit card company to give credit cards to illegal aliens and also became their preferred bank. I know their BofA mothers are real proud of that.

Next, let’s look at a Money 101 basic premise. You write me a check on your Bank of America checking account of let’s say $35 as payment to me. The whole concept of a check is for me to present it to the issuing entity for payment. If I walk into a Bank of America to redeem your check is where the unethical (but not illegal) absurdity is committed.

BofA demands that you pay them a $5 fee, plus submit your thumbprints to redeem a check. This check was written by one of their (BofA’s) customers as payment to you, in lieu of cash. This is totally against the checking system established for many decades and honored by every bank in the United States.

Not only are they unethical, but also arrogant. Recently on the news, BofA turned down a man who tried to cash a check from his wife at her bank. This man had no arms (he was wearing prosthetics), and thus couldn’t give them a thumbprint. The bank would not make ANY accommodations for him, even though he had numerous forms of identification. Yes, friends, these idiots are getting OUR money to perpetuate this lunacy.

BofA has a constant thread in their organization of lying when answering questions in dealing with home mortgage purchases, and the long process of these individual home loans. The latest tactic is telling the closing company that the funds have been sent to fund a home closing, only to call back later requesting instructions on how to send it.

My gut says why, if the banks are regulated, then why aren’t the fees regulated? Why can illegal aliens be allowed credit cards?

Where’s the humor? Why the soapbox? Well, if you didn’t realize it, we are getting swallowed up by everyone taking away our consumer rights, but taking more and more of our money. We have plenty of local community banks to support, so why should we give these national banks the time of day?

Think LOCAL and help control your and your family’s future.

Friday Night in the Big Town at “The Scene”

Oh my God, who are these people, because they’re looking old!!! This mad mix of middle-age mayhem is a nostalgic twist ‘n’ shout down memory lane at the pretty new Oklahoma History Center (which has the Oklahoma Music Exhibit showing now).

A groovy re-creation of “THE SCENE” — that popular dance show and local teen dance club (in the Stockyards, which seemed ironic in itself). This, on the occasion of its Godfather/Founder/Host/Promoter who’s still going strong today, Mr. Ronnie Kaye, on his 72nd birthday.

Local bands Uptown Syndicate and Jim Edgar and the Roadrunners performed, plus Brewer of Brewer & Shipley sang a few songs and led a singalong for his hit “One Toke Over the Line”. Plus, plus — national hitmakers from Southwestern University at Weatherford (in those days), The Five Americans, were there to play their hits.

The crowd was a cross-section of crazies, kookies, hippies and rock ‘n’ rollers — better known as grandmas, great-grandmas, aunts, and so on, and so on, or the lady from Accounting at work. These students (from the 1960s and ’70s) were there to reminisce, have some fun and to see who was there. Clusters of yells when Ronnie went down the roll call of schools — Who’s from Putnam City? Midwest City? U.S. Grant? Funny thing, as I stood by an old friend, Randy George, from Western Heights, he said, “Just like back in the old days, they NEVER yell out ‘Who’s from Western Heights?’” I just told him, “Now you can e-mail him to complain or set up a web page to bring sympathy to your cause…”

Birthday cake, Count Gregor, Danny Williams, Dale Wehba and the dancers from the original Scene were there, led by Christy/Misty/Sissy/Missy, or whatever her name was, but she still had the BIG PUFFY HAIR. White go-go boots were seen everywhere and bell-bottoms were dragging, but the only sagging pants were the ones underneath the middle-age spreads.

Yes, we had our usual army of us men in our Hawaiian shirts (because they come in XXL and XXXL, you know), lots of laughs, sharing grandkid pictures and dancing, plus some took in the museum exhibits.

If you haven’t been yet, then shamey, shamey on YOU!

By the Time He Got to Woodstock…

As a lad in the middle of music and things, this 1969 high school graduate was semi-plugged into the VIBES, man. I dragged my best friend Randy (who had 8-tracks of The Lettermen, The Association, Kenny Rogers, The Fifth Dimension and Paul Williams as his music — LOL!) to Norman in the night to see Jimi Hendrix live at OU. His eyes got bigger than a Texas donut, looking at the hippies, freaks and people collection. Loud and vibrating, this concert showed the music was getting HUGE as it swelled up from the summer of 1967 through this 1968 concert, ratcheting up as we went toward the 1970s.

Now at 58, I’ve been to over 500 concerts, but myself and about 34 other people decided that when Woodstock, the movie, came out in 1970, that we had to experience it somehow. So we chose to gather at the Winchester Drive-In (sorry, Patty!) on the ground at the front, by the screen. We turned up all the surrounding speakers (because the cars all parked in the back half of rows, not at the front) to play the music. It had to be the world’s worst sound system — it would have made Mr. Bose do flip-flops in his grave. The music was LOUD, but not very pure.

To make it through this LONG weekend, we stocked up with bubble gum, potato chips, Pixie Stix, Cokes, orange juice, summer sausage, cheese, Snickers, Cherry Mashes and Hostess Snowballs — after all, this Woodstock thing was a three-day event (3-1/2 hour movie). OK, just 184 minutes, but it seemed so long! We chanted, we danced, we played air guitar and huddled together during the bad weather.

It wasn’t your typical festival that we were used to, like the Sand Bass Festival or Kolache Festival. This experience changed our lives forever — not to mention that we were asked not to come back to the drive-in again. As with many forbidden things in my life, the Glenster did many times again prowl the grounds of the Winchester Drive-In, but music was always playing faintly in the background on those occasions. The same aroma of expensive frozen pizza shot through the night air, leaving me to think, “Why didn’t I bring some Hostess Snowballs?”

We had the anniversary of the man walking on the moon and Woodstock, so I guess all we need now is the Jets winning the Superbowl (like THAT’S gonna happen….).

A True Educator, Not Just a Teacher

I want to take executive blogmaster privilege to vacate sarcasm today. My good friend Mike Adkins passed on this week after a tough fight. Were Mike and I best buds, like hanging out all the time? No. Did we go to school together? No. How were we good friends, you ask? Mutual respect.

I had the privilege to have some long, involved talks with Mike about education, students and administration’s role in the process. Our common joy of watching students experience the learning process was also our bonding experience. As a Moore Public School Board member, I need a group of people to gather input from about education and teachers for a perspective I haven’t experienced. Mike was one of those trusted people whom I didn’t always agree with, but took his opinion into the mix in formulating my own.

Both Mike and I are out-of-the-box thinkers. One of the hardest votes I have ever cast as a School Board member was to accept Mike’s resignation. He made a choice to accept a position with the Oklahoma History Center as an educator for programs taking Reenacting Experiences to high schools, events and celebrations. Why must I vote to let go of a former Teacher of the Year? He was someone that knew our rich heritage of Oklahoma history was unique and needs to be told, not a teacher for us to let escape. The rest of my Board members wouldn’t let me hold Mike hostage.

I got to work with Mike later, while serving on an advisory committee for the new Oklahoma History Center. This was great, getting to see the passion in his eyes once again. He was now spreading the Oklahoma message all over the state.

Mike, thanks for giving of yourself to the lives of others. You were one of the educators who touched thousands of lives.

Girls Gone Wild, Wilder, Wildest!

Oh my gosh, it’s Marsha Brady’s birthday — Marsha, Marsha, Marsha! As Marsha Brady, Maureen McCormick broke a lot of boys’ hearts when I was growing up. Now she’s a not-so-good actress and terrible country-western singer. I personally went for older women like Julie on The Mod Squad or Angie Dickinson on Police Woman (me and Sinatra — pretty good taste for a Southside boy).

Stop the world, you may wanna get off — Paula Abdul ISN’T going to be on American Idol next season (probably anymore, ever again). That goofy little pixie has danced her way off the show and into the world of being a choreographer mostly (I would assume). Her flittering, flubbering, and fixating had run its gamut. She said everyone was good and had so much potential. Just like a childhood piano teacher. You know — the ones you pay every week to punish your child and tell them they didn’t practice enough.

Whatever happened to the “alleged” romance between Paula and a contestant? Was it fodder manufactured by the A.I. marketing machine? Good-bye — save the last dance for Simon!

Last but not least, let me get this straight. Al Gore (Mister Carbon-Credit-Reach-into-Your-Wallet) sent these two Asian-looking young reporter ladies on an assignment. They were to report on something for Al Gore’s network. The reporters go into North Korea and get caught (’cause they weren’t supposed to be there) and are put in PRISON — not to be confused with illegal immigrants (why isn’t Gore being chastised?).

Now comes the “Big Woo-Ha”…. How can you think President Barack Obama picks former President Bill “Hound-Dog” Clinton to go to North Korea to bring back two girls in their twenties on a LOOOONG plane ride in a private jet? If I was their parents, I’d be more scared of “Wild Bill” than the North Koreans. Did you get the impression that in the future we may hear a racy story??? Besides, what did we have to promise North Korea to get their release?

Pathetic mother of the week — the lady who took 10 shots of vodka, smoked marijuana, and then drove her kids and others’ kids the wrong way down a highway. Pray for the families who have lost their children in these senseless deaths….

French Gangs Terrorize OKC — Artistic Graffiti Runs Rampant

Lots of occurrences fly under the radar screen or issues go undefined, but let’s shine the flashlight of “Duh!” onto an ever-growing problem — FRENCH GANGS. Unaware, you say? Not in my town could we have this problem! But alas, the “signs” (pun intended) are everywhere.

Between the bounds of the French Market Mall on the south, stretching to La Baguette on the north, freaked-out Frenchies frolic forth like swarming termites. The Frenchies have been caught chunking crusty croissants at Cousin’s Club customers or bombing beignets at Barnes & Noble neophytes as they park. Be aware and look around — all of a sudden there are people with black berets or horizontal-striped T-shirts with vests everywhere! Is it a coincidence? I don’t think so.

Be aware, my friends — next time you’re eating Chinese at the Lido (French, you know), look around and there’ll be some there. The Frenchies are recruiting more people everywhere. Just order eggs Benedict and see who approaches you. Are they the manager wanting feedback, or putting feelers out for your willingness to join the Frenchies?

Look out of the corner of your eye and you’ll catch them with their hands clasped together, forming the Eiffel tower, flashing that gang sign. Be careful how and where you speak — the French Cowgirl boutique is a secret front for their money-making arm. All those shiny, dangly, fashionably chic things are there to lure the money from non-Frenchies.

Keep your eyes open when you go out to eat. Target in on who has some small entrée served with a dash of sauce — it’s probably one of them. Catch someone sipping wine and nibbling some brie — that’s right, it’s one of them. You may have noticed their graffiti — Monet, Matisse or Gauguin-type renderings all over bridges, buildings or daycare vans. Sure, the colors are pleasing, but the rage behind those mellow hues is off the charts.

I beg you, be diligent in watching everywhere you go — and if you hear a chorus of “My Cherie Amour”, run for the nearest Mexican restaurant. They won’t go in after you. It’s all about the food — life is all about the food.

Beware of Bastille Day — the French toast you save may be your own!