My Internal Battle of Auto Show Badges

Media previews are starting for the North American International Auto Show here in Detroit, and I’m about to cover my 47 billionth auto show. This time, however, I may lose track of who I am, why I am, or what I’m doing. You see, this is the first time I’ll be schlepping my laptop, wearing ugly, but comfortable shoes and trying desperately, as a short-American, to breach the wall of unreasonably taller reporters at scrums aimed at dragging a usable quote from an auto executive who would honestly rather score a free cuppa cappuccino from a competitor’s stand–all as an enterprising freelance person, in two very separate roles. 

My purple badge says I’m attached to SMDI, which is the Steel Market Development Institute–a client of Franco PR agency where I’m a freelance “integrated media consultant.” The SMDI has a rather large display on the Cobo Center concourse. If you’re there and stop by, it’s my alta cocker voice booming from the speakers voicing over some excellent videos produced by Franco explaining why advanced high-strength steel is the best material for both current and future vehicles, most notably, autonomous cars and trucks. Oh, I also lent my voice to the very, very cool virtual reality experience that takes you through steel’s case. At the North American International Auto Show, I’ll be assisting in creating new videos the client may find useful in the future. I love working with Franco’s team since they’re young, energetic, talented and no one, yet, has said to me, “so what’s the old man consultant think? Still awake? Huh?” 

If I flip over my badge, ta da! It turns green! Now I’m a journalist! The…MEDIA! I’ll be contributing stories to the Forbes.com “transportation” page. I’ll revert to how I made a living during the bulk of my career, pad and pen in hand, curiosity dialed up way past 11 covering one of the most fascinating, fast-moving, competitive beats in the world. But I’ll have to be careful. If an automakers says something about steel..uh oh…I can’t write about that. The purple side of my badge will be at odds with the green side. “Oh boy,” he purple side will say. “We’ve got a great story to tell. Too bad you can’t write about it. That must kill you!” The  green side will take a breath, nod, in its own cute little way and agree, saying “Not ethical I couldn’t possibly write about an industry that’s also paying you to promote it.” Purple is sympathetic. “Yeah..you’re just a retired guy who can’t stand acting like a retired guy. So be strong..like, er..steel!” Green is not bent by its dilemma. “Ethics is ethics. Thanks for your support,” he tells purple. “Now flip yourself over!” 

It’s gonna be a long week. But hopefully, by the end of it, I’ve done my one job to help promote steel from behind my purple badge, but also proved my journalistic mettle from behind my green badge…upholding the ethical canon that you can wear different colors to play different roles but when it comes to being ethical and honest you can’t change your stripes. 

A Leaf Blower, Winter Yardwork..and Pissing Poodles

My house backs up to an area of trees too small to be an actual forest but way too large to be called a copse of trees. I have now achieved a long-deferred goal–using “copse of trees” in a sentence. Thank you for your indulgence even though none of you had any input, nor did I seek any. 

Having, let’s say, a big, big, big bunch of trees to look at every day is a mixed blessing. On one hand, trees are wonderful, they provide shade, beauty and a place for wildlife to hang out. On the other hand, my entire property is inundated with billions of freakin’ leaves. They get into every available space the way beach sand ends up in every bodily crack. Like millions of other homeowners I rake ‘em, blow ‘em, mulch ‘em and simply deal with the dead vegetation but unlike many homeowners who do not live near such a high volume of nature’s litter bugs, the leaves never seem to stop falling or mystifyingly transport themselves on a puff wind to my exact place in life. 

The leaf thing is supposed to be one of those rites of fall. But here it is, January, and I found myself breaking out the blower on a gorgeous sunny day, for the sole purpose of propelling those bastard stragglers back into the woods where they make a useful contribution by eventually decomposing to create new soil. 

Things were going along fine when a neighbor decided her two identical little white poodles would use my front yard as public restroom. Sure. Happens all time. That’s what dogs do. But these particular pampered puffs just pissed me off while they were enjoying their own little piss. For no apparent reason, they just started yapping and jumping around and spreading their pee into the wind’s lee. At that point I hoped the owner would take control and move her menagerie along. No such luck. I then was compelled to dream up some proactive tactics to end the situation. My blower being a corded electric device, I could have spread some peanut butter on the power cable, perhaps luring the annoying, peeing, jumping yappers to take a bite which would result in a rather convincing shock, thereby creating a positive Pavlov’s Dog-type cause/effect. 

But then I discovered, rather by accident, a much more fun solution. While I had my blower, blowing, I turned to look at a car passing by and, just by dumb luck, it was the same direction as the poodle piss party and the blower sent the offenders flying! Neither the owner nor the pups were amused but I believe I may have the grin it generated plastered on my puss until at least next Thursday. 

I do enjoy yard work on a sunny winter day..especially when it includes testing the aerodynamics of a four-legged nuisance taking a leak..on my now leaf-less lawn. 

New Years Convolutions-The Week “Between”

New-Year-2019-countdown-clock-hd

This time of year I look neither behind nor ahead. I look forward to the black hole known as the week between Christmas and New Years. Many folks use the week to take a nice vacation, escape winter or embrace the season and ski or sled or skate or roll around in the snow doing their spastic squirrel routine, which often follows ingesting many ounces of Yukon Jack.

For those of us who remain home, the holiday interregnum is a time to take a look around our houses, take in all the seasonal stuff we plastered everywhere, consider, in our case, both the tree and the menorah, and saying to ourselves, “holy crap. We have to put it all away.” It’s imperative to strip one’s abode of all signs of celebration by New Years Day, lest we be labeled “Holiday Lingerers.” You know who you are. Those people who leave their Christmas lights on their houses past Easter. Guess what? The Easter bunny doesn’t appreciate being greeted by another holiday’s gear. Not only does it piss him off, he swaps out chocolate eggs for ones made of nasty carob. That’s putting all your dregs in one basket!

For those of us who also celebrate Passover, a tardy decoration takedown yields a knock at the door from an incredulous Elijah the Prophet who testily asks, “what? you couldn’t get that schmuck Morty to move your holiday chazerei?”

During normal times when we don’t have lunatic as President there’s not much news to follow either. The POTUS and family go somewhere warm, members of Congress try to remember where they actually live and the government is basically shut down..because employees are on vacation…not locked out of their jobs because the Prez is taking a Twitter tantrum, telegraphing to the world he is, in fact, dumber than any episode of any TV show involving Tom Arnold.

I normally use the week to sort my stacks of Post-it notes, doing a jigsaw puzzle that makes a picture of air, and asking family members to fill in the blank for the sentence: “When I look at my ass in a mirror it reminds me of _________.” That’s a perennial favorite and generally elicits hilarious responses such as “Trump’s head with no hair,” “Two Half Harvest Moons,” and “New Hampshire and Vermont… if their edges were a little more rounded.” I can’t wait to hear this year’s responses. Don’t worry. I won’t share them with you…unless you beg. My readers always come first.

I try not to think about work, which is easy, since I’m mostly retired. My two freelance gigs are fun, don’t take a lot of time and I work from home, which means no office gossip or backbiting. walterwhiteI did, however, spread a rumor about myself to the Walter White bobble-head on my desk that I tried to steal pens and Scotch tape from my wife’s desk. I could swear it warned me to “tread lightly.” Scared the crap out of me.

We don’t do anything on New Year’s Eve anymore because, frankly, we’ve seen a lot of old years become new years and, well, all it means is now I have to trash all my calendars and replace them with new ones. Frankly, it makes me sad to say goodbye to my “Pithy Marcel Marceau Quotes Day-By-Day” calendar. But now I can look forward to the “2019 Reasons to Rejoice the End of The Big Bang Theory” calendar. I looked ahead. January 1st? “Don’t have to go to shrink anymore to try to un-see Sheldon and Amy having sex.” 

But that’s all just me. I wish you all a wonderful 2019. Now take down that tree!

Signs of Un-Intelligent Life

I must ask you all something. Do you hang signs in your house or office? I’m not talking about signs that offer actual information or warnings like “Exit” or “Laundry” or “Joey’s Room-Stay Out!” I’m talking about signs with dopey stuff like this one like this:fishingtradesign

 Ha! Funny stuff. Well, back at ya from the eternally eye-rolling spouse with this one: missinghusband Can you just see these dueling placards decorating a special place in home populated by people so dumb, all their IQs added together couldn’t pass muster with Mensa.

I see a lot of signs since my family enjoys hunting for old stuff in antique malls. My wife finds things she can craft with. She’s incredibly inventive with how she turns something old into something new and fun. My son collects playing cards. I look for old records. What we don’t look for are dopey signs because, well, we try not to hang stupid stuff in our house which might spark a call from anyone visiting who might be worried about our sanity to call social services that might go like this: 

“Hello!”

“Yes sir. This is Morty Feid from social services. I understand you have a number of idiotic fishing signs hanging in your house.”

“Excuse me, Morty. They’re not idiotic. They’re providing valuable information regarding our regard for angling and total disregard for each other.”

“Well, Mr. Garsten. One of your neighbors gave us a call. She was concerned about your sanity.”

“Oh..you took the bait! HAHAHAHA! Bait! Get it? That should be a sign!”

MORTY HANGS UP.

Of course, not all signs pertain to fishing. Some have been created to merely convey class, or lack thereof.

Case in point, this one aimed at setting an immediate tone for visitors who need a quick pitstop: shitter

And this one, explaining why the living room may look more like a landfill: clean

I always thought this one provided nice, subtle information as to where one might clean their clothing:

laundry

Of course, it’s always nice to convey to friends just how much they mean to you when they pop over for a visit: friendship

The funny thing is, while I may see scores of signs for sale I have never once seen anyone actually buy one, or display such profundity in their homes, leading me to wonder if that’s a warning sign that one might not care to hang in their homes proof they’re a horse’s ass.

horse

 

I Grew Up With Mrs. Maisel

Marvelous-Mrs-Maisel-Season-2-Soundtrack

“So…P.S…. Gloria is getting shtupped by the Mike the apartment maintenance guy and that’s about as far as he’s going to fix her pipes!” Yeah, it’s true. Growing up in Queens in a 400 square foot garden apartment that’s the kind of stuff I’d hear every afternoon when my mother and her yenta friends drank coffee and puffed menthol Newports in our tight little kitchen while I was trying to do my homework.

As I watch the marvelous “Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” it dawned on me. Holy kishka! I grew up with a posse of Mrs. Maisels–repressed Jewish housewives with potty mouths and punchlines with my kitchen as their stage and each other as the toughest audience.

There was the haughty one my brother dubbed “The Duchess.” Big hair, big makeup, big mouth and owned one of the first color TVs in the apartments so her only, coddled, child, could watch the New York Rangers games in living color. “The uniforms look better in color!” is how The Duchess explained the extravagant largesse. “Who gives a shit, it’s just hockey and he’s 12!” the rough crowd responded and in unison sipped their heavily lightened and sweetened lukewarm coffee and puffed a menthol ciggy hanging from their over-glossed lips.

Another one didn’t have a nickname, or much of an act, but she was funny anyway because she doled out her lines in a breathy stream with things like “Ooohhh…fuck the PTA. Me? Bake cookies? Oooooohhh….fuck that!” Laughs, sips, puffs.

My sort-of best friend’s mom was a cross between Totie Fields and Don Rickles. Chunky, spunky and insulting. “Hey Gert!,” she’d holler at my mother. “Where’d you get this coffee! It taste like if you dipped my Murray’s schmecky in boiling water–limp and weak!” Raucous laughs, tentative sips, hearty puffs.

My mother had her sights on a showbiz career before she got married. She was a good singer and even cut a record. We had a single copy but sadly it was one of those old style brittle records, not the later unbreakable vinyl. and eventually broke into many pieces. As the host and ringleader of the Glen Oaks Village Afternoon Friar’s Club and Coffee Klatch she kept things moving with lines like “OK ladies–I gotta make dinner and  you all smell like shit!” Good natured..and knowing giggles, last, quick sips, ciggies quickly crushed followed by loud, deep, pre-emphysema coughs.

I never really did get much homework done. As they would say in the Catskills, the floorshow was very entertaining! Plus I’d attempt to figure out trig while I had my stereo on full blast and my feet were propped up on my little desk. When I once complained to my mother the noise in the next room was distracting me from my homework, my mother took a look over at the revolving turntable, cocked her ears to hear “Helter Skelter” blasting, gave me a questioning look, then smiled…and lit up a Newport, shook her head and left me with one last gut punch punchline, “Oh Edward, you’re gonna fail that test.” Humor is always based on truth. I laughed. 

P.S. My brother’s name is Joel.

On the 8 Nights of Chanukah..Hint: No Partridges..Not Kosher

qqHanukkah oil

On the first night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..

pastrami

A sandwich of hot pastrami

 

 

On the second night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..

2 sizzling latkeslatkes

and a sandwich of hot pastrami

On the third night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..


3 types of guiltguilt

2 sizzling latkes

and a sandwich of hot pastrami

 

On the fourth night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..

rabbi_Schmanukkah_01  4 aggravations

 

3 types of guilt

2 sizzling latkes

and a sandwich of hot pastrami

On the fifth night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..

5 pouting putzes…

putz

4 aggravations

3 types of guilt

2 sizzling latkes

and a sandwich of hot pastrami

On the sixth night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..

6 cheese blintzescheeseblinz

5 pouting putzes

4 aggravations

3 types of guilt

2 sizzling latkes

and a sandwich of hot pastrami

On the seventh night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..

7 yapping yentas

yenta

6 cheese blintzes

5 pouting putzes

4 aggravations

3 types of guilt

2 sizzling latkes

and a sandwich of hot pastrami

On the eighth night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..

8 grounds for impeachment impeach-trump-pumpkin-sign

7 yapping yentas

6 cheese blintzes 

5 pouting putzes

4 aggravations

3 types of guilt

2 sizzling latkes

and a sandwich of hot pastrami

Happy Hanukkah everyone!

Happy Hanukkah Cats

Assembly Plant Postcards

 

Detroit resident Evetta Osborne, (right), works side by side with her daughter, Monique Watson, at General Motors’ Detroit-Hamtramck assembly plant where the two have installed the lithium-ion battery pack on nearly every Chevrolet Volt, Opel Ampera, Holden Volt, and Cadillac ELR since production began.

GM’s announcement this week that it plans to close several assembly plants has me feeling extremely sad for all those affected and I wish them well, and it also has me thinking about some people I’ve met and experiences I’ve had visiting a number of auto factories during my 30 years of covering the industry. 

I’ll start with a couple of the doomed GM plants. First, Detroit-Hamtramck. During my 12 years as CNN Detroit Bureau Chief and Correspondent, we visited that giant factory several times, but were only allowed to shoot assembly line footage once. That was in 1989. That stuff had to hold us for a long time because every time we mentioned that plant or GM production workers, that’s all the footage we had. But as you know, things change quickly in the auto industry and the models being built in ’89 weren’t the same as those moving down the line in subsequent years. In fact, we used that stuff so long we wondered if the line worker featured in most of our closeups was still alive. We assumed he wasn’t, and so that stock footage was named “Dead Guy.” When it was time to use the footage in a piece, we’d just mark on the script, or tell the video editor, “Dead Guy.” Yeah..news people can be cruel.

LordstownAnother GM plant scheduled to close is in Lordstown, Ohio. Lordstown is a big ol’ plant that specializes in building small cars. Ahead of the 2003 contract talks, I took a ride over to Lordstown to prepare a set-up piece for The Detroit News. Got to the local UAW union hall where I was to interview some of the factory workers about their feelings going into the talks and what they hoped they’d gain from GM. After the formal interview I had a side conversation with one of the older workers due to retire. 71_Chevrolet_Vega_Hatchback_CoupeHe mentioned some of the vehicles built over the years at Lordstown including the disastrous Chevy Vega. I told him I had owned a 19474 Vega. The gentleman’s smile quickly disappeared. He clenched his teeth and peered directly into my eyes and his voice took on the tone of someone shocked at hearing of a sudden death in your family as he said, “Ed. On behalf of all the men and women here at Lordstown Assembly, I offer you our deepest apologies.” Apology accepted! We then took a quick moment, started laughing and said in unison, “yeah, what a piece of shit.”

On an assignment to a newer plant down south operated by a foreign automaker I ran into the head of human resources who, at that moment, looked pretty dismayed. The occasion was the Job 1 ceremony for a new pickup truck. I won’t reveal the name of the automaker because my story might cause some heartburn, or at least embarrassment and that’s not my purpose. The plant was fairly new and was still ramping up its staff, including assembly line workers. So I asked the nice HR lady how it was going. She thought for a moment, shook her head and said, in her nice southern accent, “weelll, not so good. Damned idiots forget what they’re doing and keep leaning on the brand new trucks with their stupid belt buckles and scratch ‘em all up!” I asked why they weren’t placing protectors over their buckles as is the practice in every other plant. “Wellll,” she replied, “they say ya cain’t see the pretty buckles if you put ‘em on.”  Cain’t argue with dat. And thus the industry’s belt tightening continues.18_btcom_media_1080x720_marketbuckle

Sensory Shopping On Black Friday

blackfridayI love Black Friday. I never buy anything, but I never come home from the stores empty-handed. Or should I say empty-headed, because my noggin’ is chock full of scenes squirreled away as I plow through the crowds of consumers who may as well be wearing camo and greasepaint as if they were hunting for buck Up North.

Let me start with the big, big guy imparting his wisdom to the little, little lady about the early lull before the deluge. “It’s like this,” he said in his best philosopher’s/bullshitter’s voice. “The folks are either regurgitating or recovering (from Thanksgiving).” Too polite to call the lummox on his profound nonsense but not dumb enough to adopt it, she replied, “Must be. Or else they just haven’t yet arrived. It’s still early.” The big guy didn’t realized he’d been owned and mustered a lusty “See?”

bigtvIt was Def-con 1 at the local Walmart, hours before the official start of Black Friday. The troops scurried to set up crime scene tape from the front clear to the back of the store, delineating the expected lengthy checkout queues. Men and women ran around like SWAT team members, armed with two-way radios, clipboards and earnest faces, ready to intervene during the inevitable wrestling match between customers fighting over the last 99,000-inch TV on sale for $1.50.

jacksonantiquemallI’ll move on to an antique mall in Jackson, Michigan. That’s about 90 minutes west of Detroit off I-94. Somehow we ended up out there because it was a sunny day and it seemed better to take a drive then look for parking spaces at the mall. Now for those unfamiliar with Jackson, it’s main “industry” is home to a group of state prisons. I always thought a catchy little slogan for the town would be, “Making a Living Off Lifers.” Just never caught on. Anyway, we hit two antique malls. At the first, a sprawling one-story affair, a guy kept wandering into every booth we were in. He seemed legit except for him constantly telling us, “I got one of those.” It hurried our pace. We did find a few bargains if you count some old doilies and other stuff made of fabric my wife uses for crafting. There was a pot of free coffee, but it looked like an antique too. I mean..is coffee supposed to be solid? 

About a mile away the second place was much bigger. Three floors of old stuff including a can of Liquid Wrench, which looked like the one I still have in my garage. The featured “guest” in this episode was the barrel-chested gray-haired guy wearing a University of Arizona jacket, pushing a stroller that would accommodate two toddlers. Psych! As he pushed the buggy through the tiny aisles I could hear women screeching little baby-waby-cutey-tooty  things in voices of such high frequency it would compromise the integrity of bullet-proof glass. Those must be cute babies, I thought. So I waited until the guy made his way towards where we were standing and man, those babies were brothers from another mother…a mother with four legs! They were twin tea cup shitzus! Yeah, they were cute as hell and the guy was cool. We got talking to him because my wife and I are both University of Arizona alumni, which made him instantly cool. Had a nice conversation, gave each other the obligatory “Bear Down!” and moved along. As we thought about it, we figured the guy didn’t really want any antiques. He was one of those folks who wheels around their adorable pets to elicit squeals from others sane people.

I’ll wrap this up with today’s early morning trip to the mall. Wasn’t in the market for anything. It’s just a lousy, rainy day and it’s a place to walk and absorb. The big crowds hadn’t yet arrived, as most of the stores still were not open. What caught me attention was the kid getting the Cinnabon stand ready. The lights were out, but he was near the window so I could see what appeared to be a desperate young person apparently freebasing frosting, perhaps to get that kickstart for what would be a challenging day.

At that point it was time to escape. A nice line of cars followed me to my parking space which I was more than happy to relinquish. I have to admit though. I was a bit surprised at the initial lack of shoppers in the mall. Maybe they were just regurgitating, or recovering.

Warning: Please Don’t Buy A Jeep Wrangler (If You Can’t Handle One)

20181008_090959I hate waking up to idiocy, but today I did. It was a story in the Detroit Free Press discussing so-called “death wobble” in Jeep Wranglers. The story is based on testimonials from some Wrangler owners that if you hit a bump at a high speed the steering wheel will shake. At least the story correctly explains the Wrangler has a solid front axle which is less forgiving than the independent front suspension. The Wrangler is equipped with such an axle because the Wrangler is designed to be a superior off-road vehicle and solid axles perform better than independent front suspensions when a vehicle is taken off road.

What the story doesn’t talk about is the fact that many Wrangler owners should not own one.  So I’ll do that. Oh, thousands of folks aspire to a Wrangler because they look cool and when you pass one on the road the driver will often give you a little wave. What anyone who covets a Wrangler must do before buying one is drive one and know it does not, and is not designed to, provide a cushy, comfortable ride. I know. I own a 2013 Wrangler Unlimited Moab Edition. Some members of my family called it the “back breaker,” while others have dubbed it the “jaw rattler.” When I pull up to give them a ride, you can see their faces drop knowing they will be experiencing a journey destined to churn their insides and maybe loosen the change from their pockets. I’ve made a few bucks from all the quarters I find under the back seat!

“Why? Oh why did you buy this shaky buggy?” I’m asked. It’s easy. I like to drive where I like to drive and obstacles, rutted dirt roads and remote two-tracks amuse me. My kayaks look cool when I pop them on top and my skis and hockey gear fit nicely in the back and I can take them wherever the hell I want.  I don’t care much about shiny vehicles. I do like to have fun, and mud on the fenders and gook in the tires are evidence I just had some. Floating on air is not my style. I like to feel the road.

I knew this going in. This is my fourth Jeep, but my first Wrangler and the only one I consider an actual Jeep. I drove one around for many miles and the more bumps and dips I felt the bigger my smile got. That Wrangler has more rock and roll than Cleveland and as much soul as Motown.

So if you’re looking for a smooth, comfortable ride, do me a favor. Don’t buy a Wrangler. Let it sit on the lot waiting for someone who appreciates what it is and what it isn’t. Death wobble? Ha! That’s the Wrangler saying “let’s have some fun!”

Two Years Away From Facebook. Happy Birthday To Everyone I Missed

facebooktrashThe other day I had lunch with someone who had been a good source for me. The first thing he said when we sat down was “where ya been? I don’t see you on Facebook anymore!” I could only smile as I replied, “well, I’ve been everywhere…just not on Facebook.” It’s a little sad to think a person would deduce you disappeared from the world just because you disappeared from a social media site. I wasn’t hiding. I just was playing on a different field.

Two years ago I abruptly posted a status update on Facebook that I couldn’t face it anymore and would be hanging up my status-updating spurs. I had a good time for about six years cracking jokes, baiting those on the opposite side of the political spectrum from me to get all upset and silly, catching up with long lost friends, acquaintances and co-workers and using the site to promote this blog. But then it stopped being fun. Good-natured disagreements devolved into bitter rhetoric. It started feeling more like work to keep up with expectations of an unspecified number of funnies, or at least near-misses each day. So I quit. But I’m not gone.

Yes, every once in awhile I’ll lurk and read what’s going on at the CNN Alumni page. Too often it depresses me when I see the latest notice of one of the extended CNN family has passed away. I only actually posted when my very favorite former boss at the network died and offered some personal thoughts. Actually it was a link to a blog post.

Once a year I’m humbled by the number of people who wish me a happy birthday and I attempt to thank each and every one individually. If they took the time, then I can too.

I thought I’d miss it more, but I don’t. Aside from the total time-suck, I’ve made room in my brain for other thoughts and ideas, instead of scanning all sorts of news sites for funnies fodder. Now I read the news…to learn the news. There are enough jokes in government who are walking punchlines. Some deserve to be simply punched.

I still get friend requests. I’m not rejecting you. I’m ignoring you out of respect, because what kind of a friend would “friend” you then never interact with you.  I’ll save my ghosts for Halloween. 

Will I ever go back? Not a chance. People who need to find me know how. Besides, I don’t trust Facebook with my personal information and if I want to be targeted, I’ll have a bullseye tattooed on my ass. It’d be hard to miss.

And if I do think I came up with something funny, I’ll probably just torture my family or a friend in person. They won’t have to post a comment that says, “wow, that sucked!” They can just tell me face-to-face, and then we’ll pour some Jack on the rocks and have an honest laugh..together..like real friends.