SIGN OF THE TIMES (Sign spinner)

Vince Stromberg thinks he's doing a better job than me -- whirling his surfboard-size sign like a helicopter blade near the Russell Road onramp to the Las Vegas Beltway.

While the only thing I spin well is Charmin -- provided the roll isn't an Ultra Big -- I know that the most important element of sign-spinning is getting motorists to notice you. And, boy, does this happen whenever my turn comes.

"Nice job, retard!" screams one guy through a crack in a white pickup's tinted side window, after I flub a spin slow enough to tell time by. (Fortunately, the 3 pound sign -- which advertises a nearby realty development called Manhattan West -- is made of corrugated plastic tough enough to withstand repeated pavement encounters.)

Sure, some people honk at Stromberg this afternoon, some flick their thumbs up. But nobody notices him enough to yell.

"If that's how you want to think about it," the 19-year-old tells me.

Stromberg is one of 60 Las Vegans spinning for a San Diego-based advertising agency called Aarrow. Since last year, he has worked two or three weekly six-hour shifts for Aarrow clients such as 1-800-HOTBABES, Vitamin Water and Quizno's Subs.

"It's fun entertaining people," Stromberg says, adding that the ladies seem especially impressed.

"Last night, we were spinning on the Strip, and a lot of girls flashed me," he claims.

Sign-spinners earn between $15 and $20 an hour, their exact paycheck reflecting how many tricks they've mastered. (Proof of every new one bumps them up 10 cents an hour.) There's also the occasional tip.

"Mostly, it's a few dollars a week," says Stromberg, although he reports once receiving $26.

"They said I was kicking ass," says the Mojave High School graduate, who is saving his money for college.

Sign-spinning was invented five years ago near San Diego, by two teenagers who worked as static "human billboards." (The company that employed them, Directional Concepts, had a Las Vegas office until last year.)

"All they did was stand there and hold signs," Stromberg says of Aarrow's co-founders. "They were like, 'This isn't fun and it isn't working. Let's try something else.' "

Spinning their signs worked because vertebrates are hardwired to pay greater attention to objects that move. (It's how our ancestors avoided becoming saber-tooth dim sung.) In fact, it worked so well that Aarrow -- which infiltrated the valley in 2005 -- expects to generate $4 million this year (almost double its 2006 revenue).

"Watch," Stromberg says, fanning me with a 107-degree breeze as he demonstrates a behind-the-back routine called a blender.

He passes the sign to me just as the traffic light turns red. This makes three approaching cars my captive audience for two minutes.

Because I decide not to send the sign behind me, I am able to keep it from smacking the traffic island for 45 seconds. This sets a new personal best. The first two drivers stare straight ahead, emotionless, as though my sign reads "Hungry, please help." The third, a man in his 30s, shakes his head and laughs.

This brings up another benefit of my technique: My twirls are unfettered by the blurriness that distinguishes the sign in Stromberg's ninja hands. At least I'm always clearly advertising the client.

"OK," Stromberg says, pointing his finger toward the Manhattan West sales office, "but you might want to face the arrow in the right direction next time."

Mark Chatow, marketing vice president for the development's builder, hired Aarrow because his office is in the back of an industrial park. (The company charges clients $35 to $45 an hour for the service.)

"We thought sign-spinners were a good way to bring attention to the direction people should go," Chatow said, noting that foot traffic has since increased by 20 percent.

Aarrow makes an even loftier claim: that real estate has been known to move simply because its signs do.

"Occasionally, you're gonna have people who purchase a home exclusively based on that," said Justin Brown, Aarrow's head "spinstructor." (While I find it hard to believe that the most expensive purchase of an average lifetime has ever been decided by a giant arrow, don't be surprised if you see at least one of the valley's 27,000 "for sale" signs desperately twirling in someone's front yard next time you're on your way to work.)

"Sorry about that," Stromberg says.

Thirty seconds ago, he placed the sign on the ground like a yoga mat, then performed a tight somersault, scooping the sign up while straightening his body. This trick is called a tuck and roll.

Stromberg claims he didn't mean to stab one of the sign's rear corners directly into my unprintables.

"You were standing too close," he says.

This is a trick that I receive a raise for -- in the pitch of my voice for two minutes. Stromberg says I should be proud of my "spinjury," recalling one he received last year when a no-handy went awry during a gig for Bella Vita Condominiums.

"I threw the sign up really high and it came down and hit me in the face," he says, blaming his bloodied nose and lip on unexpected wind.

"Where are you going?" Stromberg asks me.

My groin is sore and my head is spinning more than my sign can ever hope to. It's time to check in with Manhattan West for my official sales count.

"We've had seven prospective residents on average for Tuesdays over the last three weeks," Chatow says. "With your help today, we had two."

Neither, shockingly, represented a sale.

What did I tell you? Nobody buys real estate based on a twirling sign. (How's that for a spin job?)

Watch video of Levitan sign-spinning at www.reviewjournal.com/video/fearandloafing.html. Fear and Loafing runs Mondays in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures are posted at fearandloafing.com.