Polyester Frank

I'm in the hunt for a new car. As such, my social media feed is a constant nonstop flow of ads from every carmaker under the sun.

Buying a car at my age is a lot different than buying a car when I still had hair on my head.

I'm older, wiser and much less forgiving with car salesmen/saleswomen. Having spent the better part of my advertising career dealing with these grease weasels, I know the Four Corners™ they use to squeeze a healthy profit from every transaction. 

Every. Damn. Transaction. 

I'll have none of that because frankly I'm in the driver's seat. I have a wealth of information at my disposal via the internet. I'm more than willing to pit one dealer against another. And I'm willing to be rude to get what I want. Not what they want.

Yeah, I do mind you asking. Why would I tip my cards and let you know that not one dealer has come even remotely close to meeting my ridiculous expectations? This is a negotiation not a chat with my BFF.

Chances are that none of the 20+ dealers that have come-a-knocking will have exactly what I'm hoping for. And that's OK because I'm not in a rush. And I'm not willing to budge. I'm playing hardball. 

And I'm playing the long game. 

Furthermore I'm not ashamed to admit that my distaste for car dealers and my need to needle them stems from an incident that happened way back in 1988. Oddly enough when Ms. Muse and I worked together at Bozell Advertising.

Reader's Digest version: I had been assigned to work on the Southern California Chrysler Plymouth Dealers Association who had just signed Ricardo Montleban as their spokesman. 

After months of preparation and carefully gaining the trust of Mr. Montleban, I was summoned to the Downtown Athletic Club, a fancy ballroom where I would unveil the new 10-spot campaign to a roomful of oily, polyester-clad, hood-pounders. 

Upon completing my strategically sculpted presentation to the seemingly unimpressed crowd, I went to go sit down. 

At which point, Buzzcut Frank from San Diego, a loud mouth man in an even louder sport coat, leapt from his seat and proclaimed, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not sinking a goddamned dime of my money into any of this shit!"

Revenge is best served cold. And 36 years late.