Thanx IV Time-Sharin'

Took some time out of my regularly scheduled boredom to have a busy week recently. Here's how it started:

A few weeks back, Allan and I wandered over to a small town festival in Culver City. It was the typical fair fare: rides made from rusty iron and tetanus, held together with nostalgia; greasy food stands offering all the junk people only eat at boardwalks or fairs; a somewhat sad petting zoo populated only by chickens, goats and a few alpacas; and the requisite arts and crafts concessions and local company recruitment booths. One of these booths was boasting a chance to win a trip to Tahiti. It's been a while since I've been anywhere new, and since I will pretty much enter any sweepstakes, drawing or game of chance, Al and I wandered over to get the details.

Turned out that the drawing for the trip could only be entered if you signed up for something feared and mostly misunderstood by scam-wary citizens young and old: the vacation time share sales presentation.

I had always heard about people going to these elaborate presentations, where you sit in a room and salespeople pressure and embarrass people into buying shares in a vacation property they would have no interest in visiting, with money they didn't have to spend. The friendly, personable sales reps dangle trips and prizes in front of your face to tempt you into listening to their colleagues' well rehearsed and tested spiels, and promise that you get your prizes, whether or not you make a purchase. Our chosen lure was Macy's gift certificates, free movie passes and two free nights in Las Vegas (which we were thinking of driving to soon anyway). With my eyes on the prizes, we pondered this challenge: could two ADHD-addled but smart and cynical people sit and listen to a bullshit sales pitch for 2 hours for something we didn't understand but knew we had no interest in, resisting the pressure -- and the boredom -- in exchange for some lunch, some prizes, and something to laugh about for years to come?

Hells yeah.

On the hottest LA weekend of the year, we drove to what felt like the surface of the sun: Pasadena, where the time share offices sat in a small, but air conditioned mall complex. They ushered us in, asked us to fill in a few forms, show ID and bask in artificial cool air until our rep escorted us to the buffet, and then to a small table.

Our guide to the wonderful world of "Vacationing" was also named Al. Al chit-chatted for a while, asking us about trips we've taken, what we do for a living, where we'd like to go on vacation... all the things he would write down so that he could tailor his story to our personal interests and situation. Though I was interested in finding out exactly how vacation shares work, I was much more interested in the sales pitch -- how they present the concepts, options and benefits to different customers and make it sound like a dream come true and a great investment as well. Al-1, my Al, took copious notes, while I absorbed the process, including Al-2's explanations and sharing of personal stories (which totally didn't add up. Who leaves a highly lucrative technology job to sell time shares? Who buys their wife luxury cars and jewelry and travels 15 weeks of the year on a pyramid-scheme salary?).

After Al-2 finished his presentation, they brought in the numbers guy. Where Al was all personable banter and flair, the numbers guy was gruff, oafish, and to the point. He gave us prices, pretended to listen as Al-2 shared details of our vacation aspirations and our position on the program and then point-blank asked us if we wanted to buy. When we told him no, his surgically-altered nostrils flared for a minute, and then he outlined a few other, more reasonably priced, options. We turned him down again, he tossed off a few somewhat condescending phrases, and he stomped off.

We were then asked to sit for a few more minutes, so that the business manager could come by, make sure our experience was as pleasant as possible, and give us our prize vouchers. At this point, we had already been there much longer than the promised 90 minutes (though this was mostly due to Al-1's incessant questions. Hell-bent on getting the whole experience and playing the role of contemplative prospective vacationers, he went a bit overboard in trying to authentically seem like we were interested), but they obviously weren't shelling out the gifts until they had tried every available angle. And the final weapon in their arsenal was pretty awe-inspiring, but not for reasons you would think.

The secret weapon brought in to close the deal: Balki Bartokumus. Well, almost.

The business manager came over to chat just a bit more about the program and see if we qualified to come back at a later date. I stared at him, transfixed as he explained the options, realized we were never going to buy a time share, and then chatted with Al about their shared interest in the music business while he finished the paperwork.

My part in this final dance was negligible. I could do nothing but stare at this guy who bore the most amazing resemblance to Bronson Pinchot, formerly Balki from Mypos on the old Perfect Stranges sitcom of the late 80s or early 90s, and most recentlly a Simple Life celebrity-has-been-housemate. The fact that our closer's name badge said Justin Pinchot added fuel to my pop-culture obsessive fire. I was thorougly convinced that this guy had to be a relative of Bronson, but I didn't want to add insult to the injury of our not making a purchase by pointing out that he looked like the vastly less successful brother of a Hollywood D-lister from the 80s. And what if I was wrong and they weren't related? Being so wrong about an 80s entertainment pop culture hunch would be more than my fragile ego could take. So, with an uncharacteristic bout with restraint, Al and I left without mentioning the 800-pound Myposian gorilla at the table, went to the cashier's window, claimed our prizes, and high-tailed it back into the Pasadena heatwave hellscape.

After obsessing over this on and off for a few days, I finally remembered to do some internet sleuthing on Bronson and any family members he might have in the Los Angeles area. In about two seconds, I came upon his Wikipedia page, where I learned that Bronson Pinchot has a TWIN brother, named JUSTIN. He was even on an ep of Perfect Strangers.

So, all in all, I came out of the deal with detailed knowledge about time shares, some cool gifts, another semi-celeb sighting, an afternoon's worth of funny stories and my pop culture queen reputation intact. Couldn't ask for more.

If you've finished this lengthy diatribe, check back soon for tales of my OTHER bizarre LA experience of the week.