First of all, thanks to all who left comments on my last two blogs. It's nice to hear a friendly professional voice eager to help.

On with the madness!

Ever have one of those bad blind dates where you talk over the phone and the person over the phone is breathing all heavily, cooing assuring phrases like "Yeah baby! I'm 5'7", 120lbs., blond hair, blue eyes, big heaving breasts, just waiting to please! People say I look like Heidi Klum"...

(For the ladies: "Yeah baby! I'm 6'4", 190lbs., blond hair, blue eyes, huge sold pecs, just waiting to please! People say I look like a clean shaven Brad Pitt in Kalifornia.")

And then, when you arrive you discover he/she's 5'2", 300+lbs., no hair, no eyes, zits everywhere, as well as other topical diseases? Purgeful, eh?

Well, this prospective client provided me with the business equivalent of that very blind date from hell!

Originally, to get me to come down from Costa Mesa to San Diego, he told me he'd pay my cost to get me to come down. Sounded okay. I was still suspicious. Why did I have to work onsite? Why was he so insistant? Especially when he was originally going to pay me pennies?

So I sent a quote. His next email said he'd like to meet with me first for "a trial run" before they make a decision (the blind date equivalent of farting loudly over the phone).

I guess it was the loud phone fart that got me curious. After all, what have I got to lose? One day, and at worse, I'm out $40 for a rental car and some gas.

I arrived at the address given to me. Problem ..1: It's a Private Mailbox Address. I call the CEO. He gives me the correct address: a few miles south of where I was. How could he have made that mistake?

Oh well. I arrive at the correct physical address. Problem ..2: The building is a two story dance/performance studio that is partially under construction.

I call again. Right address. Go around to the back.

You know, friends, whenever someone you are to do business with tells you to "go around back", your mental sirens should be screaming. Guess mine were broken.

I go around back. Staircase leading to roof. Paper sign with arrow. Has correct company name. Now THAT's outdoor advertising!

Up the stairs. On the roof. Around the corner. Another arrow sign leads down the non-lit hall. By now, I'm wondering if ninjas are going to ambuse me. A sign next to an open door. The company name. A sign next to it: "The Ten Commandments of Proper Vocal Performance" (BTW, none of this is being fabricated or exaggerated. This all happened to me this past Monday.)

I enter the company's corporate headquarters: A 200 sq. ft. room with four IKEA desks, a brand new fooseball table, a printer, and a white mini fridge.

"Please tell me I'm dreaming this," I thought. "I'm looking for Christian," I said loudly to the two man, one woman crew that didn't even notice my entrance.

"Das wut be me," stated a tuft of brown hair over a black PC monitor. As if the ground moved in one fell swoop, a gigantic German man with muscles upon muscles walks over to me from the desk. He is wearing a tight black polo and tight khakis. (Now I'm a big guy. 6'4". 250lbs. If I say a guy is gigantic, you can take that to the bank!)

He shakes my hand. I look; it's still there uncrushed.

"Sit," he says.

I sit in a leather IKEA desk chair next to him. He proceeds to go over a verbal brief as to what he wants out of his next direct mail campaign. Cool! Now we are getting somewhere. I feverishly take notes. Ready to go, fully in action!

"I vil now takg yoo to dee Caul Centah! There yoo vil caul our Product Manager fah mare einfo." Olaf declares.

I couldn't even utter a breath before I find myself following him to the "Call Center": a spare bedroom with a desk and, yes friends, a PHONE! Wow! Modern technology.

As soon as I walk in, he walks out, back to his desk. I'm left alone with the phone. I call the number for the Product Manager in Illinois to get more information.

"Hello?" a voice asks.

"Yes, may I speak to Jaime?"

"Huh?" he says, as if I called the wrong number.

"I'm looking for Jamie, the Product Manager," I said.

"Uhhh...who's this?"

I explain what I'm doing in that godforsaken building and he instantly remembers who he is and what he does and fills me in. Apparently, in his words, no one gives a shit about what the company is offering (Imagine that? What is the company offering anyway?), then decides he has better things to do. I give him the number written on the phone and he says he'll call me later.

I never spoke to that poor misguided fool again.

Later, I found myself staring at the screen of a laptop, looking up yellow page advertising statistics. It was at this point that I revelated that this "company" offers some form of Internet yellow page advertising. I was coming upon some stats that $11 billion are spent each year in yellow page ads. It was then that I am startled out of my seat by the VP of sales.

"Yikes!" say I.

"Didn't mean to startle you like that," said the VP sales lady. She wore a loose blouse exposing all her sunspots (I mean ALL her sunspots). She choose not to look directly at me. I have a problem with people that don't give eye contact. I insist on it with my body language.

That's when I discover that she has TWO (not one or 27 but 2) lazy eyes (is that medically possible?) Apparently, she can see, but it appears as though she is not making eye contact (I wondering what was so interesting in the corner of the call center bedroom).

She proceeded to rebrief me - considerably differently than the hulking CEO. She wants to proceed in a different direction, a much more simplified one.

I'm game. Simple is always best.

What was to follow for the next four hours was the battling between Hulk and Eyegirl over how the copy should look. It was as if I wasn't even in the room. Then, they notice and Hulk tries to convince me the best way to write copy is by using cryptography (In other words, misspell certain words on purpose, thereby forcing the reader to concentrate longer on those words, like "yellov" for yellow.)

I officially feel that I've entered the Twilight Zone. Four hours go by, they leave me alone again, and no mention of any kind of payment or acknowledgement of my written contract.

Not good. It's time for me to go.

I take a peek in the office: They're playing fooseball.

LOUDLY!

I mean, I thought people were dying in there! I guess fooseball is serious schizz in Germany.

Half hour later, I'm sitting in the call center with three intial drafts and no dignity. I enter to office, hand them to Olaf, and take my leave.

No mention of pay. No mention of future work. No mention of whether or not they'll even use the copy. No mention of whether or not the guy remembers my name.

Yes, I laugh now, but Monday overall felt like a complete waste of time! I was pissed! I wasn't even taken seriously in there! As if they could be taken seriously in their two room HQ. Forget it!

Let this be a lesson played many times over for us freelancers: If it smells like shit, IT IS SHIT! Case closed.

I mean, they didn't even let me play fooseball.