Almost true story: A fine Southern lady and her daughter are taking a cab through New York, when the young girl asks about several brazenly-dressed women standing at a nearby street corner. “Well, sweetheart,” her mother explains, “those women are personal escorts. Single gentlemen hire ladies like that to keep them company.”

“Aww comon, toots,” the driver blurts, “Tell her the truth! They’re hookers. They get paid to have sex.”

After a painful silence, the daughter asks, “But Mama, if that’s true, don’t they have babies?”

“Well, yes they do, darling. That’s where cabbies come from.”

What I love most about that adage is how, without abandoning her mannered gentility, Mama takes that cabbie to the woodshed like Bama whuppin the Gators down in Gainesville this year. As we’d say in the South, “Bless his heart, he didn’t know what hit him.”

And bless our hearts, but civility is becoming so rare in public discourse, these days I can even get a little giddy reading a graciously-stated opinion I disagree with. For example: In a September piece entitled Are Scientists Becoming the New Priests?, the San Francisco Chronicle’s Deborah Saunders (one of my favorite columnists) wrote, “For the record, I believe in evolution. But I also have respect for those who see God’s handiwork in the process — and see little reason to try to marginalize those with different personal beliefs.”

Naturally, I would prefer to see Deborah singing in the choir on Sundays, but I love the fact that she can weigh-in on one of the most contentious issues of our time without offending either side.

And that’s one of the beauties of a civil society: People can disagree with one another without disrespecting each other. Which (for example) is why, despite generally leaning to the right, I vastly prefer NPR to Fox News. Particularly the Friday-afternoon discussions between liberal EJ Dionne and conservative David Brooks. Two masters of the poignant zinger, whose political views are as diametrically opposed as the Tea Party and the Occupiers, yet who (unlike those two caustic coalitions) manage always to limit the aim of their occasional barbs to one another’s positions—not one another.

And boy do they ever disagree. But to hear them talk, I’m always left with the impression that these two guys are genuinely friends. So where did our public manners go? Personally, I’d lay most of the blame on the Baby Boom (of which, yes, I am a reluctant member); arguably the most self-congratulatory generation in human history, still endlessly celebrating—among other legacies—the righteous rallies of the Vietnam era.

Not that Vietnam wasn’t a terrible mistake. But imagine how much more effective the opposition might have been if they’d followed the peaceful-protest example of Martin Luther King—instead of staging an endless series of violent demonstrations that rarely amounted to little more than televised tantrums gone horribly wrong.

Imagine how the Watergate hearings would be remembered if they’d been led not by honorable elder statesmen like Sam Ervin and Howard Baker, but rather by the current crop on Capitol Hill. Particularly that new breed of politician, brilliantly characterized by my friend Hanson Watkins as “political suicide bombers”. They pretend to have our nation’s best interests at heart, but in truth they’re just professionally trained anger merchants—speaking across the proverbial aisle only through carefully-crafted, sarcasm-laden tweets and talking points.

To bring this all back home, if it wasn’t for my wife, I’d probably still be a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal myself when it comes to manners. Not that my parents didn’t try (and try, and try) to teach them to me. They just never fully sold me on the practical benefits of good manners, as a child. So while Martha has taught our kids by words and example, my primary contribution has been a fairly effective sales job for those practical benefits—which goes something like this:

If you have good manners, grownups will like you more than other children. They’ll do things for you they won’t do for other children. They might even buy you things they won’t buy other children. And some day, you’ll start having good manners just because you enjoy it.

In practical terms, that’s the ultimate benefit of a civil society: It simply makes life more enjoyable for everybody. Kids and adults. And if there’s one thing severely lacking in our culture these days, it’s a natural inclination to spread joy—no matter what the circumstances are. Now, if I could only remember that simple truth the next time I get behind the wheel.

This column was originally published in the January, 2012 issue of B-Metro Magazine

I recently met Mark Cubine, the marketing director at McLeod Software—who has conducted research indicating that one of the four most common questions truck drivers have about prospective employers these days is, “Are you a healthy, successful company?” Which makes perfect sense, after a rash of company collapses left hundreds (if not thousands) of drivers out of work.

Shortly thereafter, Baggett asked us to develop an ad featuring a solo driver (in this instance, Johnie Mantlo).

Where this story gets really interesting is that, during my interview with Johnie, his comments touched-on the question above—and two more of the Top Four in McLeod’s research: 1) “Are you going to help me stay CSA Compliant?” and 2) “Are you committed to maintaining legal dispatch policies?”

We then added our own spin to the creative, based on our own research—which indicates that, lately, independent truckers have been having a terrible time getting financing from bankers (who have never been particularly popular among truckers anyhow).

CLICK HERE to see the ad.

(Special thanks to Randall Reilly rep James Hudson—who managed to snap a pretty good shot of Johnie during the Great American Truck show in Dallas).

CLICK HERE to see our fourth ad for Baggett.

On the morning of Thursday, December 23, I received an email from Jo Brake—The Owners Association’s London-based Regional Manager for Europe, Middle East, Africa and Australasia. She had a last-minute request, in case we could handle it on short notice: A seasonal greeting card design, using the photo below.

Although Jo already had specific copy she wanted to use (“Wishing you a prosperous 2012…” etc, etc), the image—and its sender—struck me as deserving a British “spin”, if you will, on the message. And as a part-time, self-appointed, amateur Rock ‘n’ Roll historian, one song title immediately presented itself as the ideal copy solution.

Naturally, Jo opted for her own copy. But I still say our idea was more fun (particularly if you recognize the song that inspired it)—and entirely appropriate to the image.

That said, what I really love about this card is the design solution Allison banged-out in just a matter of minutes. It kind of reminded me of that fabulous Tiger Woods Nike spot (screen shot below)—which, according to legend, was shot in a single take.

Why would it remind me of that spot? Sometimes, you never fully appreciate a person’s extraordinary talent until you see what they can do when they’re just playing around. Is it any wonder we love our Art Director so much?

BTW: if you don’t know the song “Holidays In The Sun”
(which is OK, considering Jo’s British, and she didn’t either),
it’s the first track on this landmark release.

We’re particularly excited about the results we’ve achieved in building-up Baggett’s Facebook page following. In less than 3 months (and with a huge assist from Baggett’s Recruiting Director Daniel Buckhannan), we increased their Facebook Fan count from 36 to 3884.

More importantly, Baggett (a family-owned company with less than 100 drivers) now commands a “talking about this” rate of nearly 19%. By point of comparison, the Facebook page for publicly-traded Schneider National (the nation’s second largest trucking company with literally thousands of drivers) has a “talking about this” rate of .0025%.

To put these numbers in perspective, we’ll quote the industry blog Social Media Today:

“A decent People Talking About number works out to be anywhere between .5% and 2% of your total fans. More than 2%, and you’re clearly a rock star.”

All of which is why we’re extra proud to announce Baggett’s new brandline: No Brown M&Ms.*

*For those of you under the age of 40: At the height of their popularity, Van Halen aroused the ire of many a righteous journalist when it was revealed that their concert contract included a rider demanding that all brown M&Ms be removed from any backstage candy dishes. Far from being the ultimate symbol of Rockstar Self Indulgence (as it was widely labeled), the clause was inserted by the band’s attorney to test whether or not promoters were actually reading the contract.

It’s 5:05 in the morning, and my next door neighbor’s retriever is barking right outside my son Fletcher’s bedroom window. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo about clocks Falling Back next week—because he and his two equally-vocal housemates normally don’t start until after 6:00.

To be perfectly fair, Next Door Dogs have come a long way since Mister + Mizz brought home their first little precious (a miniature dachshund)—who “introduced” herself to the neighborhood that day, and night, for 17 hours. Non-stop. I remember the day, and night, vividly—because I was more miserably ill than I’ve been since my senior year in college (1982), and I’d quarantined myself in the future-Fletcher’s room. Where I lay awake for 17 hours, listening to Little Precious, before finally pleading with Mister to take her inside.

Before I go further, let me assure you: I love dogs. My instinctive reaction whenever I’m near virtually any dog—acquaintance or stranger—is a slow, deep knee bend, with lowered hands gently extended. It’s a rare dog I can’t make an instant friend. Which is why it bears repeating: I love dogs. My problem is dog owners.

The first question we always ask ourselves whenever a neighbor’s dog barks long enough to get our teeth grinding is: How can they stand it? After all, they’re a lot closer than we are, there’s no possible way they can’t hear it.

Of course, that question has reached an entirely new level of bewilderment in recent months. On several occasions, Next Door Dogs have struck-up a three-part chorus loud enough to impede television listening in our living room. While they are indoors. With the windows shut. And Mister + Mizz are at home.

The second question I always want to ask Obnoxious Dog owner is: How can you stand being That Person? Much as Neighbor Dogs may irritate me, no barking dogs ever irritate me faster than my own. And lemme tellya: They know it.

Which is why it rarely takes more than a “Hush Lurleen” or “Shaddup Kitty” to restore silence in my back yard. And why I have always encouraged my neighbors (including Mister + Mizz—whom, despite my kvetching, I actually like) to tell us if our dogs are ever a problem. Because I never want to be That Person, who allows their dogs to make life miserable for everyone around them.

The toughest part about living near That Person, or That Couple, or That Family, is that a friendly request for considerateness (or two, or three) is rarely sufficient. And I am constitutionally unsuited for conflict. It fills my veins with vinegar. It makes my fingers shake. It just plain sucks.

All that said, the ultimate irony of refusing to rob one’s Little Precious of his quote-unquote “right” to unrestrained self-expression is this: An endlessly barking dog is not a happy dog. Let’s assume that being a good neighbor simply isn’t motivation enough. When you train your dog to be quiet, you’re giving him the gift of contentment.

On the bright side, there is that rare moment of poetic justice for the long-suffering. I once lived next door to That Couple, and no amount of pleading (friendly, not-so-friendly, or downright hostile) ever convinced them to be otherwise. One day, while I was home, burglars ransacked their house. And no, I was not aware it was happening.

That afternoon, the investigating officer came to our house. He asked if I’d heard their dogs barking at the time of the alleged 10-21 (That’s police code. I Googled it). “Yes, sir.” Disparaging glare. “So why didn’t you do anything?” Fair question. “The dogs always bark.” Brief pause. “Sorry I bothered you.”

Too bad for That Couple that they’d never had the same thought.

*NOTE: The title of this month’s column was taken directly from a poem by the same name (and on the same topic) by the 2001 – 2003 US Poet Laureate, Billy Collins.

This column was originally published in the December, 2011 issue of B-Metro Magazine

In late September, Baggett’s most-excellent recruiting director Daniel Buckhannan asked if we could find a place, in his current ads, to insert a simple Happy Thanksgiving message for the month of November. We looked. We thought about it. Then we thought about it some more.

We were just about to call Daniel and tell him it wasn’t going to work, when we stopped and asked ourselves: Why not do an entirely new ad centered around a Thanksgiving message? After all, Baggett’s freight business is almost exclusively dedicated to our armed forces.

Needless to say, our top concern was to produce something that expressed a genuinely thankful sentiment without patting ourselves on the back in the process. It should also go without saying that Daniel played a pivotal role in the final results.

CLICK HERE to see the ad.

And because we couldn’t resist . . . While we were searching photo sites for an image,  we saw several that clearly were not suitable for our message. However, they did inspire us (after we’d completed and delivered the real ad, mind you) to bang-out a Just For Fun, alternate version. Which, needless to say, will not be running in print. Anywhere.

CLICK HERE to see the results—with our apologies in advance.

CLICK HERE to see our third ad for Baggett.

CLICK HERE to see our fifth ad for Baggett.

REMEMBERING TECH’S COOLEST CONTROL FREAK.

It’s six days after Steve Jobs’ death, and I interrupted my work flow this morning to click on a melodramatic story headline about the biological father he never knew. Needless to say, I can’t ever remember being so endlessly fascinated by a company CEO—which is why, at the 11^th hour this month, I decided to shelve the column I was struggling mightily to complete, and offer my own two cents’ worth on Apple’s founder.

No less an authority than former GE leader (and business legend in his own right) Jack Welch is reported to have said that Steve Jobs was the greatest CEO ever. Although I haven’t given much thought to his competition, I’d certainly place him in the running. At the same time, I would unequivocally give Jobs my personal award as the single most aggravating CEO of all time.

First, a little background: Few, if any, industries have a more devoted Apple following than advertising. Among my professional peers, the fact that I have never purchased an Apple product for my own personal use makes me, well, downright weird. Don’t get me wrong: My agency has never bought anything but Apple computers for our art directors. And, I will freely acknowledge that any number of competing products I’ve bought for myself are functionally inferior to Apple’s.

So what’s my problem? Much as I appreciate the beauty and elegance of Steve Jobs’ vision, I abhor being told how I can, and can’t, use what I’ve already bought. And in the entire history of product manufacturing, I know of no more zealous control freak than Jobs was.

My first vexing Apple experience came when I rented an hour of time on one of the Macs at The Graphic Zone in the late 80’s. It certainly didn’t help matters that the quote-unquote “word processing program” they set me up with was Quark. But what literally sent me straight to the PC world—where I remain today—was how infuriatingly typist-unfriendly Apple’s keyboard was. That keyboard was followed by a series of successors which clearly met Jobs’ aesthetic standards, but (for my money) ignored even the most basic principles of ergonomics.

Those keyboards were followed and/or accompanied by a succession of equally aggravating mouses—which were objects of rare beauty compared to my butt-ugly Microsoft mouse, but lacked left/right-click and page-scrolling capabilities because Jobs refused (for years) to defile their unsullied design lines with dual-click buttons and rollers.

No matter. My artists were happy, and I was perfectly satisfied living in the uncool world, compatibly, with the other 95% of the market.

My exasperation with Jobs took a giant step forward with the introduction of the iPod—which was hardly the first MP3 player on the market, but was light years ahead of anything before it, in ease of use.

Problem for me was, Apple refused to make it compatible with Rhapsody—a service which gives subscribers click-and-play streaming access to about a million albums, and the freedom to download most of that music onto nearly any MP3 player but an iPod; all for a monthly fee of $15.99. Given the fact that there have been days on Rhapsody when I’ve listened, at a cost of under 52¢, to what would amount to $100 worth of iTunes music (at 99¢ a song), while both of my children are plugged into MP3 players filled with Rhapsody downloads, it still astounds me how completely Apple has come to dominate music sales.

That said, I wasn’t remotely surprised by the iPhone’s popularity. I still distinctly remember watching, with my son, the entire 30-minute introductory video at apple.com—and proclaiming, without a hint of irony, that it was probably the single coolest thing ever made.

But I was equally irritated that, for years, it was available only to subscribers of AT&T. Then there was the fact that Jobs refused to equip it, and the iPad, with Flash-file-playing capabilities; rendering partly or wholly inoperable, to millions of his customers, millions of websites built with Flash.

All that said, here’s the reason I wouldn’t disagree with calling Jobs the greatest CEO ever: Not one of my complaints has ever made any difference to Apple’s devotees. Because, for all his shortcomings, in my book Steve Jobs was the greatest brand-marketer who ever lived. So what if I saved enough money in one year, on music alone, to buy a super-bitchin’ full suspension mountain bike with 29” wheels and hydraulic disc brakes? Rhapsody will never be as cool as iTunes.

And yes, as long as Apple continues to exert constraints over user freedom, I’ll keep buying the other guys’ products. But as long as Jobs’ company continues living-up to his legacy for brilliant, innovative, user-friendly product design, I’ll be buying the other guys’ stuff with the full knowledge that, thanks to him, they are way better than they would have ever been without him.

This column was originally published in the November, 2011 issue of B-Metro Magazine

(Yeah, that’s Ellen. We go way back.)

Monday, October 24, the IHG Owners Association (an organization representing IHG Hotel Franchisees worldwide, formerly known as IAHI, The Owners’ Association) premiered its new brand platform during the IHG Americas Conference in Las Vegas—culminating a re-branding process we began with them just over a year ago.

And yes, the headline was an exaggeration—but, given the comments (at the bottom of this post) of the association’s VP of Sales and Marketing, Jill Ellis, we’d like to think the work was well-received.

BACKGROUND
For several years, the IAHI had used the logo below—incorporating a literal globe image. Our feeling was that, given the leverage they’d built-up in that identity, we shouldn’t throw-out the proverbial baby with the bathwater.

Instead, given the organization’s mission, we recommended developing an iconic globe image incorporating human-form outlines in place of land masses.

Our client contact throughout the process (Director of Communications Chris Lambert—whom many of our clients remember as Hare Communications’ fine account executive Chris Byrum, once upon a time) liked the idea. And she added a key idea of her own: For one of the people / land-masses, use the profile of Holiday Inn founder Kemmons Wilson.

TEST GROUP REACTIONS TO THE LOGO
You literally couldn’t write a better script. On at least two separate occasions, when Chris revealed the new logo to test groups, their initial comments went in exactly this order:
“Well, I can tell it’s a globe, but I don’t recognize the continents.”
”Wait a minute, those are people.”
”And hey, the person on the left…That’s Kemmons Wilson, isn’t it?”

Click Here to see new logo

WEBSITE RE-DESIGN
Once we had approval on both the logo and our recommended color palette for the new brand, we applied that foundation to their website.

Click Here to see screen shots of the old site.

The new site is still a work in progress (primarily where copy and secondary-page layouts are concerned), but we’re very pleased with the way the home page looks. (BTW: The color bars beside the primary image come directly from the new brand’s palette.)

BOOTH DISPLAY
We also produced the graphics for their booth. And while we can’t take credit for the (very impressive) booth layout—which came to us from Chicago—we certainly love the final results. Below is a snapshot, taken at the show, of the booth’s centerpiece.  (Click the thumbnail to enlarge).

Our primary conceptual contribution to the booth involved the challenge of depicting an evolution of the IAHI’s brand over time. Our solution: A “time-lapse” collage of photos (and IAHI logos), most taken from a book that documents the association’s first 55 years. Click Here to see the results.

JILL’S POST-CONFERENCE EMAIL
“Although you weren’t with us in Vegas, I can assure you that you were there in spirit. What a significant moment it was for this organization and the future. Your team, combined with Chris’ leadership on the rebranding project, made for a dynamic chemistry that delivered a compelling visual sign of change to our audience.

“We heard nothing but compliments on the new logo and supporting elements. We couldn’t be more pleased with the quality of work that has evolved from this project. The website has also received high marks!”

Is it any wonder we love this client?

(A true story, by Bob Carlton)

NOTE: Bob wrote this column for The Birmingham News August 6, 1999 . If you asked me, it’s still just as good 12 years later.

I have seen the Blair Witch. It was right outside my tent.

But first some background: Last week, I interrupted my annual baseball vacation to see The Blair Witch Project with my friend Chris Dugger, an old Birmingham buddy who became a Connecticut Yankee a couple of years ago.

It would be the perfect end to the perfect day. We saw the New York Mets and Pittsburgh Pirates in the afternoon, the New Haven Ravens and Portland Sea Dogs at night and The Blair Witch Project at midnight. I was pumped.

Then it dawned on me, about the time crazy Mary Brown started talking about seeing that hairy halfman/half-beast up near Tappy Creek, that I would be camping in the woods the next night. By myself.

Suddenly, I wished we were watching Runaway Bride instead.

Especially, 24 hours later, when, after driving around in circles for a half-hour, I stopped at the grocery store outside Norwich and asked how to get back onto Route 97. “Never heard of it,” the guy in the checkout line told me. Neither had the woman at the cash register.

Uh oh.

Like those three student filmmakers who disappeared in the woods outside Burkittsville, Md., I was lost. A complete unknown, with no direction home. I wondered whether the search team would ever find my rental car. And if they did, if they would find my body in it.

Suddenly, that twisted trick I played on Chris earlier that morning – mocking the most frightening scene from the movie, I stood in the corner of his living room waiting for him to walk in and find me – didn’t seem so funny anymore. (Not that it did then, either. “You’re a sick bleep,” was all Chris said, not even acknowledging the cleverness of my prank.)

But I stuck to the highway, tried not to panic, and by some miracle, eventually wound my way back to Salt Rock Campground. I drove up to my campsite – at the farthest end of a dark, unpaved road – said my prayers and crawled into my $29 Kmart tent.

Suddenly, I was glad I didn’t follow through with another one of my sick practical jokes and stack a pile of rocks outside my tent, mocking yet another scene from the movie. (I can be a real funny guy in the daytime.)

Suddenly, I couldn’t shake that image of those stick figures swinging from trees.

Suddenly, I started hearing things.

Suddenly, I wished I were staying at a Motel 6, where they leave the light on for wimps like me.

Suddenly, I wanted my mommy.

Then, by another small miracle, I fell asleep, cutting Z’s and dreaming sweet dreams. Blair Witch, my behind.

Suddenly, those pleasant dreams turned dark and sinister.

Suddenly, somebody – or some thing – caused the walls of my tent to start flapping like bed sheets on a clothes line.

I knew it was just a bad dream. I mean, what could the Blair Witch possibly be doing in Connecticut? Unless, of course, it was her wicked stepsister instead. I forced myself to wake up, and that flapping noise stopped as quickly as it began.

But I was wide awake again, and morning couldn’t come fast enough. Back in Norwalk, I knew Chris was chuckling to himself: “Who’s laugh ing now, funny boy?”

I kept reminding myself that The Blair Witch Project was just a movie, and that those three college kids didn’t really disappear in the woods, did they? I managed to fall back to sleep.

But not for long.

Suddenly, I heard somebody – or some thing – unzipping the door to my tent. It was a kid, maybe 5, maybe 6. He stuck his head inside my tent and, in a voice cracking with fear, pleaded: “Can you please help me?”

I was confused. Was this the Blair Witch? Or did the Blair Witch lead him to me? Maybe it was just another nightmare.

I’m not sure. I didn’t stick around to find out. I woke up, and I got out of there.

But the videotape is still in the woods if anybody wants to go back and look for it.

If you asked me, Pete Townshend’s classic line
has a lot more to do with attitude than age.

First, make no mistake: When it comes to lifestyle, nobody’s older for his age than me. At 25, I married the perfect excuse to stop going out on weeknights. Six years later, we gave birth to the perfect excuse to avoid going out on weekends. Most nights, I’m in bed and reading by 9:00—and most days I wake up, without an alarm, by 5:15.

And, oh yeah: I like being 51. Way more than 31 or 21. And frankly, I’m not seeing a convertible Vette or a trophy wife (correction: A second trophy wife) anywhere in my future.

That said, living like an old man is far from the same thing as thinking like one. And I can distinctly remember that kind of thinking starting to happen around me as early as college. That was probably my first real exposure to the Silent, Smirky type—who doesn’t so much listen during conversation, as process others’ comments through the Smug Superiority filter. But then, that type usually comes from bad breeding, not premature aging—which strikes me as more of a resigned insistence that playtime, of any form or fashion, is officially over.

By my mid-20’s I’d learned to never ask anyone (especially guys), “What have you been doing lately?” because the answer was almost invariably the same: “Working.” Now there’s a fail-safe conversation killer. Not that other people’s work isn’t interesting to me; far from it. But it certainly isn’t interesting when that one-word response is delivered with all the enthusiasm of, say, “Herpes.”

Which is why, for the past 25 years or more, I’ve added two key words to that common question: “What have you been doing for fun lately?”

For about a decade, that produced consistently more interesting responses. But by the time I hit my mid-30’s, one answer became more and more common—and it was some variation on “Just chasing the kids.” A response which, by the time I hit my 40’s, typically meant weekends centered around organized sports—and often involved out-of-town (even out-of-state) trips, at family expense.

Again, don’t misunderstand: More often than not, Martha and I have enjoyed attending our own children’s soccer and basketball games. At the same time, they have always been well aware that Mama and Daddy have lives outside of their team activities. (Although it could be stated, with equal accuracy, that we’re simply too selfish to support Travel Team athletes.)

Now, to be perfectly fair, a lot of parents enjoy the Travel Team experience. I respect that. Particularly when you consider that the intense training and effort might just pay-off, down the road, in the form of scholarship offers.

But what really baffles me (even at my advanced age) is how often I’m now hearing the same answer to the question, “What have you been listening to lately?” Answer: “Whatever the kids are playing.” In the first place, kids have lousy taste in music. But more importantly, Mom and Dad, let’s remember where they’re playing that lousy music: On your stereo. In your car. And if it’s a weekend, probably during your free time—headed to and/or from their games.

Equally surprising is the number of young parents who already sound just like “Moms and Dads”. Like when people my age are shocked to learn that teenagers today often get into exactly the same kind of trouble we got into thirty years ago. Now, for the sake of full disclosure, I would be shocked if my kids got into the same kind of trouble I used to get into. But that’s entirely because I haven’t been cursed with the kind of children I deserved. Not because I’ve forgotten what it was like when I was their age.

Of course, appearing clueless and out of touch doesn’t necessarily make you uncool. My buddy Tom Spetalnick’s 81-year-old father, Ron, is still one cool cat in my book, despite starring in the ultimate Uncool Parent story ever. One day after high school, Tom arrived home—where Ron was mowing the front lawn wearing white loafers, knee-high black socks, and a Speedo. “AWWWW!” Tom wailed, “You look like someone’s Dad!” Ron thought about it, and asked, “Whose Dad?”

Whose Dad, indeed.

This column was originally published in the October, 2011 issue of B-Metro Magazine