Years back, I bought a company and wanted to do some management training and planning with our offices scattered across the Midwest. To reward the branch managers (or minimize excuses for not attending), I selected a desirable sight in Florida to escape the frigid weather.
The first day was going mediocre at best. I encouraged a give & take atmosphere, and fought hard to maintain a neutral visage in the face of disagreement or complaint. As they grew more confident that I sincerely wanted them to speak up, I detected an underlying problem.
Respect. Source credibility, to be precise. I could preach all I wanted about the way things should be, but I wasn’t in the field. They were where the rubber meets the road. I wasn’t.
I had bought the company, not worked my way up. They didn’t know me. They knew my reputation for succeeding, but hadn’t personally witnessed me do anything of note, for the most part, and didn’t know what I was capable of.
Unless I pulled a rabbit out of my hat, this training and strategizing was sure to fall on deaf ears. I didn’t have any rabbits.
At the end of the day, I had vans take them to a good restaurant. Then, I whisked them to a trendy chic bar. Very “Miami Vice” (the TV show was hot at the time). I told them the tab was mine. They warmed to me perceptibly.
But, that only buys you so much. I knew it would evaporate by morning.
We leaned on the acrylic bar and swilled pastel-colored drinks while Jan Hammer blared in the background. I tried to work in snippets of business sagacity, but their attention was elsewhere.
Their gazes led to a spectacular redhead sharing the rail with us. Her parents should’ve received the Nobel Prize for architecture.
We watched a few guys make their passes and go down in flames. My crew kept elbowing Sean Andrews, a Brad Pitt type who ran our Dayton operation, and tilting their heads toward the woman.
Okay, I get it. Andrews is the stud goose and they want him to take the shot, bringing vicarious glory to the team. He snugged up his tie and brushed the lank hair back from his forehead. I knew he was going in for the kill.
Andrews cranked up his smile to the full 500 watts and leaned in. I couldn’t hear the opening gambit, but saw her press her hands to her temples in anguish. When she did so, I also saw something else of significance to me. Maybe I did have a rabbit, after all.
She shook her head in the negative, but Andrews pressed the attack. Good for him. A key rule of selling is to never accept the first “no.” He kept firing, but she impaled him with a withering stare. Andrews broke off the attack and slunk back to base. Comforting hands found his shoulders.
“Okay boys, take a lesson.” I downed the remainder of my drink and tried not to cough. Would’ve spoiled the effect. I edged over to the woman, catching their gapes of disbelief in the mirror behind the bar.
The “oh crap” look crept across her features. I get a lot of that. “I know you’ve been hit on by half the bar with boring pickup lines. But, I have a proposition that I know will intrigue you.”
“Oh really. And what might that be? And, I’m already kicking myself for asking.”
“I have a unique and unusual talent that will truly amaze you. Truly. If I do, you let me buy you a drink. If I don’t, I walk.”
“You’re about to walk anyway, but just for kicks and grins, what is this so-called talent? And, it had better not be obscene. I know the bouncer.”
“Not in the least. I have memorized and can sing the alma mater of every high school in the United States of America. Name one and I’ll sing for you.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
“Every one.”
“Every single one.”
“That isn’t very interesting, but it’s definitely unusual. Why would you do that?”
“I’ll throw in the explanation with the serenade. Do we have a deal?”
She pondered it. “Okay, slick. You’re on.”
“You have to name a school before I sing.” She did and I did.
She was, in fact, amazed. I bought her a drink and chatted long enough to establish creds with my gang (amazing them). I don’t recall the reason I divulged for allegedly memorizing the songs, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever it was, I made it up on the spot.
I spoke on many topics with her, with the notable exception of how I knew the alma mater of the school she named. You see, when she had previously put her fingers to her temples, I noticed the distinctive class ring of my own high school. She didn’t need to know that, and neither did my protégés.
The next day went infinitely better. My coup had mushroomed to epic proportions by the time breakfast dishes were cleared.
Now, you might say, what the hell did that have to do with source credibility? And I might respond, you don’t know guys very well, do you?
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Appointment in Samarra
I’m writing this in anticipation of my upcoming fortieth high school reunion. I’ll follow up with a post-event report.
I didn’t see this coming, but I got caught up in an uncharacteristic wave of nostalgia that seems to be emerging as I approach middle age. I define middle age as five years older than I am at any given time. It is a surprise to me that I’d consider the reunion worth the trouble of a 500-mile trek. In the aftermath, it’s always asked, how do these things happen?
In this case, the origin was an email from Lynda, one of my high school classmates. They were talking about organizing a reunion. It was already months past our graduation date anniversary; what’s the hurry? They said it wouldn’t be a party without me, so I had to come. If memory serves, they eked out any number of parties in high school without my presence. They must be record bored if they thought they needed me.
Each polite decline elicited a more determined effort. They would schedule the event around my calendar. Okay, I’ll go. I hadn’t been back to Philly in a few years and was suffering cheesesteak withdrawal. I’m not alluding to the ersatz, bland pretenders you find on every other chain menu. I mean the finely crafted collages of flavors and grease that play upon your taste buds like Ramsey Lewis works the ivories.
Decades ago, I had gone to our tenth. It was scheduled the same week I would be in Philadelphia on business, so why not? Also, two months after my wife’s reunion, through which I had suffered three days of designer logo shirts, pressed khakis, and polished Volvos. Not my style. Quid pro quo was in order.
That was not a sentimental journey. There were 1,100 in my graduation class, counting what were termed vocational arts students (the dawn of the age of euphemisms), and I spent most of that reunion running into people and inquiring, “Did we ever know each other?”
I asked Carol what she thought of the scruffy crowd. She pulled her chair closer to mine and shuddered. “These people look like they’re from West Side Story.”
“These people thought “West Side Story” was a comedy.” I smiled to myself. Mission accomplished.
The weeks wore on since my agreement to attend the fortieth. Lynda shot me an occasional email to keep me on the hook. She said they were having a little difficulty finding enough people with an interest in helping with the reunion. Bruno, another classmate, emailed me that the theme should be, “We didn’t give a damn about each other then; why the hell would we now?”
I’ve never been one to sit by idly, so I put together a class web board to generate a little communication and excitement. One by one, they straggled on. But, not one message was posted.
I decided to prime the pump with a trivia quiz on the site about the school, teachers, etc. that would evoke some warm memories. I even offered a prize. The winning response by default (it was the only post) was, “Who gives a rat’s ass?” All right! The tone was set.
Weeks passed and still no invitation. Finally, an email went out with the date. Waiting until the last minute, they could only find a hall open on a Friday night. That would deter out-of-town attendees, but Lynda assured me that many of the people I would want to see lived in the city, and weren’t permitted to leave it anyway. I didn’t ask why.
At last, a glimmer of enthusiasm. The committee decided the members of the championship football team should be presented commemorative jerseys. We were asked for our sizes. That’s more like it. A week later, a few of us received a follow-up email, saying we wouldn’t receive the honor because of when we had been “expunged” from the team.
The week before the “big game,” some of the rank seepage that comprised our rival had defaced our stadium. It was widely known who did it, but trite phrases like “innocent until proven guilty” and “lack of evidence” were bandied about, and justice was forsaken.
This aggression could not stand.
A small band of right-minded patriots rose to the occasion and exacted our due. Justice was served. For some reason, the authorities knew precisely whom to come see about it. They severely overreacted to our little prank. Probably because they substituted pejorative terms for “prank,” like “federal offense.” You say tomato, I say tomahto.
This was outrageous. No jersey? I was being Pete-Rosed! It’s been forty years for crying out loud. What’s the statute of limitations?
I’m not one to look back and dwell on stale laurels, thinking my finest achievements are yet to come. I didn’t care that much about the jersey, but this just sucked. However, I wasn’t going to let it dampen my spirit.
Then Lynda emailed. “You wouldn’t be bringing Darlene by any chance?”
Ouch. Another sore spot. At my tenth reunion, almost everyone I had introduced Carol to seemed to greet her, turn to me and inquire, “What happened with Darlene?” Carol just loved that. I heard about it for many years to come. I think it may have even come up at our divorce hearing. Nice of Lynda to remind me of this.
Carol is a very pretty and charming woman, and they didn’t mean to slight her. But my classmates had always been fascinated and puzzled by Darlene going with me. She was beautiful, talented and led her class academically. They wrote it off to the fact that she attended another school and didn’t know me like they did. I wasn’t quite the polished gentleman you see today.
I told Lynda that I didn’t know anyone I would inflict this on and would be coming stag. I had re-connected with Darlene a few years back, but that’s another story.
Lynda emailed that the only reason guys come to a reunion stag is to try to nail the girls that wouldn’t have anything to do with them back in the old days. I was aghast. I told her that was groundless, unwarranted and unjust. I wondered how she knew.
Another group email went out, assuring us that invitations would soon be in the mail. It’s three weeks away. What’s the rush?
But I noticed something in her message to buoy the spirits. The email address of Nick “No Nose” Del Vecchio.
“Hey, Nose,” I emailed, “what’s shaking?”
“You lousy bastard. Every time I’m in Seaside Heights I think of you. The second I see you, I’m gonna ram my hand up your butt, grab your tonsils and yank you inside out. I hate you with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns.”
“If you meet me at Alvino’s before the reunion, I’ll buy you a grappa.”
“Deal!” He always had a low resistance to free booze. Things were looking up.
He sent a follow-up message. “Hey, whatever happened to that Darlene broad?” Great.
The message icon re-appeared. Sue “Beach Bunny” Lesnak had cadged my address from Lynda’s group email. “You need gas money to get here?”
Ouch. The ugly past came swimming up in my mind. I had doubled with her and John Gutkowski one summer day for a jaunt down to the shore. My car was set up for drag racing and could barely wring eight miles from a gallon of gas. I needed to fill up as soon as we go there, which I hadn’t factored into the game plan.
We spent an idyllic day romping on the beach, but stomachs began to growl. I took Gut aside and asked him how much money he had on him. Not much, as usual. We decided to leave before the subject of food arose.
On the drive home, the girls started politely alluding to being hungry, but Gut and I claimed to still being stuffed from the small bag of peanuts we had all split at the beach. Or, I simply feigned that the roar of the lake pipes had obscured their pleas. We dropped off Sue, then Darlene. I pointed my hot rod Chevy toward McDonald’s and burned rubber.
Gut and I pooled our coins, calculated the maximum amount of bulk we could buy and placed the order. We sat in my car (McDonald’s had no “dining area” in those days) and greedily gorged ourselves. Saved.
Not quite. A long white Caddy pulled into the space beside us. It wasn’t a Cadillac neighborhood and Darlene’s mother had the only white one I knew of. We looked over and there were Darlene and Sue glaring at us. Wordlessly, they flounced up to the window and obtained victuals. I would hear about that for a while. In fact, I was hearing about it now, forty years later.
“One little thing, BB, get over it.”
“One thing? That’s close! What about Parfait’s party?”
“Are you going to spend the reunion bringing up every stupid thing Gut and I ever did in high school?”
“Did you ever do any other kind of thing?” No snappy comeback for that.
“Really look forward to seeing you again, BB.” Right.
Another email, from Bruce Immordino. Ah, an up note.
“Believe it or not, I work at the high school in administration.”
“That’s great, Dino. At least they have Kevlar vests now.”
“I thought about you last spring. We suspended a kid for cutting and he said he must have the record. I told him he wasn’t even close.”
I must digress here. I viewed public schools much like any other public utility. Say, the water works. When I feel a need for water, I turn on the tap. When I don’t feel a need, it’s my prerogative not to turn it on. None of the school officials could ever grasp the flawless logic of the analogy and harassed me endlessly about my attendance record, or lack thereof. Nice of Dino to remind me.
Would there be no end to the picking at the scabs on my psyche?
Dino popped up on the screen again. “Are you bringing Darlene to the reunion?” No, there wouldn’t.
We all have our Appointment in Samarra when the final reconcilement will take place. Mine seems to be coming a little early.
I didn’t see this coming, but I got caught up in an uncharacteristic wave of nostalgia that seems to be emerging as I approach middle age. I define middle age as five years older than I am at any given time. It is a surprise to me that I’d consider the reunion worth the trouble of a 500-mile trek. In the aftermath, it’s always asked, how do these things happen?
In this case, the origin was an email from Lynda, one of my high school classmates. They were talking about organizing a reunion. It was already months past our graduation date anniversary; what’s the hurry? They said it wouldn’t be a party without me, so I had to come. If memory serves, they eked out any number of parties in high school without my presence. They must be record bored if they thought they needed me.
Each polite decline elicited a more determined effort. They would schedule the event around my calendar. Okay, I’ll go. I hadn’t been back to Philly in a few years and was suffering cheesesteak withdrawal. I’m not alluding to the ersatz, bland pretenders you find on every other chain menu. I mean the finely crafted collages of flavors and grease that play upon your taste buds like Ramsey Lewis works the ivories.
Decades ago, I had gone to our tenth. It was scheduled the same week I would be in Philadelphia on business, so why not? Also, two months after my wife’s reunion, through which I had suffered three days of designer logo shirts, pressed khakis, and polished Volvos. Not my style. Quid pro quo was in order.
That was not a sentimental journey. There were 1,100 in my graduation class, counting what were termed vocational arts students (the dawn of the age of euphemisms), and I spent most of that reunion running into people and inquiring, “Did we ever know each other?”
I asked Carol what she thought of the scruffy crowd. She pulled her chair closer to mine and shuddered. “These people look like they’re from West Side Story.”
“These people thought “West Side Story” was a comedy.” I smiled to myself. Mission accomplished.
The weeks wore on since my agreement to attend the fortieth. Lynda shot me an occasional email to keep me on the hook. She said they were having a little difficulty finding enough people with an interest in helping with the reunion. Bruno, another classmate, emailed me that the theme should be, “We didn’t give a damn about each other then; why the hell would we now?”
I’ve never been one to sit by idly, so I put together a class web board to generate a little communication and excitement. One by one, they straggled on. But, not one message was posted.
I decided to prime the pump with a trivia quiz on the site about the school, teachers, etc. that would evoke some warm memories. I even offered a prize. The winning response by default (it was the only post) was, “Who gives a rat’s ass?” All right! The tone was set.
Weeks passed and still no invitation. Finally, an email went out with the date. Waiting until the last minute, they could only find a hall open on a Friday night. That would deter out-of-town attendees, but Lynda assured me that many of the people I would want to see lived in the city, and weren’t permitted to leave it anyway. I didn’t ask why.
At last, a glimmer of enthusiasm. The committee decided the members of the championship football team should be presented commemorative jerseys. We were asked for our sizes. That’s more like it. A week later, a few of us received a follow-up email, saying we wouldn’t receive the honor because of when we had been “expunged” from the team.
The week before the “big game,” some of the rank seepage that comprised our rival had defaced our stadium. It was widely known who did it, but trite phrases like “innocent until proven guilty” and “lack of evidence” were bandied about, and justice was forsaken.
This aggression could not stand.
A small band of right-minded patriots rose to the occasion and exacted our due. Justice was served. For some reason, the authorities knew precisely whom to come see about it. They severely overreacted to our little prank. Probably because they substituted pejorative terms for “prank,” like “federal offense.” You say tomato, I say tomahto.
This was outrageous. No jersey? I was being Pete-Rosed! It’s been forty years for crying out loud. What’s the statute of limitations?
I’m not one to look back and dwell on stale laurels, thinking my finest achievements are yet to come. I didn’t care that much about the jersey, but this just sucked. However, I wasn’t going to let it dampen my spirit.
Then Lynda emailed. “You wouldn’t be bringing Darlene by any chance?”
Ouch. Another sore spot. At my tenth reunion, almost everyone I had introduced Carol to seemed to greet her, turn to me and inquire, “What happened with Darlene?” Carol just loved that. I heard about it for many years to come. I think it may have even come up at our divorce hearing. Nice of Lynda to remind me of this.
Carol is a very pretty and charming woman, and they didn’t mean to slight her. But my classmates had always been fascinated and puzzled by Darlene going with me. She was beautiful, talented and led her class academically. They wrote it off to the fact that she attended another school and didn’t know me like they did. I wasn’t quite the polished gentleman you see today.
I told Lynda that I didn’t know anyone I would inflict this on and would be coming stag. I had re-connected with Darlene a few years back, but that’s another story.
Lynda emailed that the only reason guys come to a reunion stag is to try to nail the girls that wouldn’t have anything to do with them back in the old days. I was aghast. I told her that was groundless, unwarranted and unjust. I wondered how she knew.
Another group email went out, assuring us that invitations would soon be in the mail. It’s three weeks away. What’s the rush?
But I noticed something in her message to buoy the spirits. The email address of Nick “No Nose” Del Vecchio.
“Hey, Nose,” I emailed, “what’s shaking?”
“You lousy bastard. Every time I’m in Seaside Heights I think of you. The second I see you, I’m gonna ram my hand up your butt, grab your tonsils and yank you inside out. I hate you with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns.”
“If you meet me at Alvino’s before the reunion, I’ll buy you a grappa.”
“Deal!” He always had a low resistance to free booze. Things were looking up.
He sent a follow-up message. “Hey, whatever happened to that Darlene broad?” Great.
The message icon re-appeared. Sue “Beach Bunny” Lesnak had cadged my address from Lynda’s group email. “You need gas money to get here?”
Ouch. The ugly past came swimming up in my mind. I had doubled with her and John Gutkowski one summer day for a jaunt down to the shore. My car was set up for drag racing and could barely wring eight miles from a gallon of gas. I needed to fill up as soon as we go there, which I hadn’t factored into the game plan.
We spent an idyllic day romping on the beach, but stomachs began to growl. I took Gut aside and asked him how much money he had on him. Not much, as usual. We decided to leave before the subject of food arose.
On the drive home, the girls started politely alluding to being hungry, but Gut and I claimed to still being stuffed from the small bag of peanuts we had all split at the beach. Or, I simply feigned that the roar of the lake pipes had obscured their pleas. We dropped off Sue, then Darlene. I pointed my hot rod Chevy toward McDonald’s and burned rubber.
Gut and I pooled our coins, calculated the maximum amount of bulk we could buy and placed the order. We sat in my car (McDonald’s had no “dining area” in those days) and greedily gorged ourselves. Saved.
Not quite. A long white Caddy pulled into the space beside us. It wasn’t a Cadillac neighborhood and Darlene’s mother had the only white one I knew of. We looked over and there were Darlene and Sue glaring at us. Wordlessly, they flounced up to the window and obtained victuals. I would hear about that for a while. In fact, I was hearing about it now, forty years later.
“One little thing, BB, get over it.”
“One thing? That’s close! What about Parfait’s party?”
“Are you going to spend the reunion bringing up every stupid thing Gut and I ever did in high school?”
“Did you ever do any other kind of thing?” No snappy comeback for that.
“Really look forward to seeing you again, BB.” Right.
Another email, from Bruce Immordino. Ah, an up note.
“Believe it or not, I work at the high school in administration.”
“That’s great, Dino. At least they have Kevlar vests now.”
“I thought about you last spring. We suspended a kid for cutting and he said he must have the record. I told him he wasn’t even close.”
I must digress here. I viewed public schools much like any other public utility. Say, the water works. When I feel a need for water, I turn on the tap. When I don’t feel a need, it’s my prerogative not to turn it on. None of the school officials could ever grasp the flawless logic of the analogy and harassed me endlessly about my attendance record, or lack thereof. Nice of Dino to remind me.
Would there be no end to the picking at the scabs on my psyche?
Dino popped up on the screen again. “Are you bringing Darlene to the reunion?” No, there wouldn’t.
We all have our Appointment in Samarra when the final reconcilement will take place. Mine seems to be coming a little early.
Warning
A few years ago, I received a pamphlet from the Ohio Dept. of Natural Resources, apparently mailed to all boat registrants. It concerned Lake Erie water snakes. I live a couple hundred miles from Lake Erie, so they employed no selectivity in the mailing. When it comes to taxpayer money, expense is no object.
The pamphlet contained a warning about the snakes’ tendency to slither into fishing boats. They are attracted by organic debris that results from people cleaning fish in their jon boats and similar craft. The warning said that if you find a snake on the bottom of your boat, do not shoot at it.
Do not fire a gun toward the bottom of my boat? Who am I, Elmer Fudd? The sad part is that you know they wouldn’t be publishing that unless someone had done it.
A couple of my favorite actual warning labels include those on a garden pet repellent and an electric massage chair. The bag of dried fox and wildcat urine (to scare away destructive pets) bears in bold red print, “Not for human consumption!” Who sits around the picnic table and says, “Hey Shania, pass me the dried urine for my fries.”
The label on the massage chair states, “Do not use without clothing.” Okay. Then, “Do not force body parts into backrest when rollers are in motion.” What?! Well that cuts the value in half.
I moderate a few chat boards on the web. Most of the participants are relatively lucid, but there’s a few…
One this week displayed a cranial density that would rival Vermont marble. It occurs to me that people, not products, should come with warning labels. To wit:
WARNING: This person has scored under 90 on the Wexler IQ Test. Conversation with said person can result in frustration, anger or befuddlement. Side effects can include screaming, crying and/or violence. Consult your psychiatrist before engaging.
The pamphlet contained a warning about the snakes’ tendency to slither into fishing boats. They are attracted by organic debris that results from people cleaning fish in their jon boats and similar craft. The warning said that if you find a snake on the bottom of your boat, do not shoot at it.
Do not fire a gun toward the bottom of my boat? Who am I, Elmer Fudd? The sad part is that you know they wouldn’t be publishing that unless someone had done it.
A couple of my favorite actual warning labels include those on a garden pet repellent and an electric massage chair. The bag of dried fox and wildcat urine (to scare away destructive pets) bears in bold red print, “Not for human consumption!” Who sits around the picnic table and says, “Hey Shania, pass me the dried urine for my fries.”
The label on the massage chair states, “Do not use without clothing.” Okay. Then, “Do not force body parts into backrest when rollers are in motion.” What?! Well that cuts the value in half.
I moderate a few chat boards on the web. Most of the participants are relatively lucid, but there’s a few…
One this week displayed a cranial density that would rival Vermont marble. It occurs to me that people, not products, should come with warning labels. To wit:
WARNING: This person has scored under 90 on the Wexler IQ Test. Conversation with said person can result in frustration, anger or befuddlement. Side effects can include screaming, crying and/or violence. Consult your psychiatrist before engaging.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Now we're cooking
When Stacy (our paddling group’s “den mother”) couldn’t make the Hiwassee trip last spring, I stepped into the breach and prepared the Saturday night feast; a magnificent Boeff a la Capitan. I still have some in the fridge if you desire a sampling, and the container is only slightly bulged. It’s hard to destroy your own creation.
My fellow kayakers were surprised that I was skilled in the culinary arts (or maybe just that I had mastered fire). There’s a story behind it (or why have a blog?).
I enjoy learning diverse disciplines, but the derivation of this was when I got married. My bride was employed by a bank and had to work Saturdays. I worked for a Fortune 500 company and didn’t. In fact, the sum total of my responsibilities was shifting budget from other departments to ours, shifting blame from ours to other departments, and wearing wingtip shoes.
My Saturday routine had been hanging with the guys. My new wife felt that phase should conclude since their sole interests were playing ball, scouring the bars for promiscuous women and marinating their brains in beer, and I was better than that. Better is such a relative term.
We rented an apartment, so it’s not like I had yard work to consume my weekends. My first solitary Saturday, I got up and started on my to-do list. I got out of bed, walked to the couch, and took a nap.
I woke up, sat up and contemplated my next chore. That would be feeding me. I ambled into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. Nothing. Nothing except some cookbooks Carol had received as shower presents. An idea began to germinate.
I would pore through these tomes, bookmark some of the most succulent dishes and prepare them. My wife would return from a hard day at the office to an elegant multi-course meal. Oh what a good boy am I.
Not exactly. Carol’s preferences in food ran toward the bland, at least by my standards. Not a big problem when we had dined together a couple times a week at a restaurant. But now, she was in control of the menu. Maybe I could at least preserve Saturday nights.
I excitedly compiled my shopping list, hied it for the store and cooked up a storm.
Needless to say, she was pleasantly surprised. At least by the sumptuous meal. Less pleasantly by the havoc wreaked upon her kitchen. I had not deigned to master the art of pot scrubbing.
Ensuing Saturdays produced even grander efforts. And, all the cues weren’t coming from the books. When I was a child, my mother had made a decision to have her own source of income, her own car, etc., which meant her own job. Not par for the course back then. She’d deposit me with the next door neighbor when she went off to ply her trade.
Isabel DiFlavia was an elderly Italian immigrant who lived with her son and daughter-in-law. In the finest tradition, she awoke before dawn and began cooking and baking continuously until dusk, just in case the 101st Airborne dropped by. If not, she fed the neighborhood. She would sit me on a stool in the kitchen and provide a running narrative as she prepared all manner of exotic dishes.
I didn’t consciously internalize any of this. But now, in my mid-20s, in the heat of the kitchen, the lessons bubbled up from the depths of my mind.
My Saturday routine began to gel. A number of recipes required wine. But seldom more than a cup or so. I didn’t waste the rest. Creative cooking should be emotional. Music augmented the art and was synergistic with the wine. Four Tops for Italian. Chuck Berry for French. Santana for Mexican. I boogied around the kitchen. Carol asked how marinara sauce got on the ceiling. Did anyone ask Michelangelo how paint got on the floor of the chapel?
This tradition went about a year before Carol called a meeting. She said she appreciated the thought, but the cleanup of the debris from my creative process took longer than it would’ve taken her to make and straighten up after a dinner she made. I should skip the wine and post-creativity nap, and add a tidying mode.
I can’t work like this. I can’t. I won’t.
It would’ve appeared petty to curtail the tradition over that. So, I bought a house and used the chores as an excuse to abate the cooking. A little expensive, but perception is everything. I would’ve bought the Hearst Castle to avoid cleaning up after lasagna.
So that was that. But once in great while, the muse stirs me, I take spatula in hand, fire up a Stones CD and cook my brains out.
My fellow kayakers were surprised that I was skilled in the culinary arts (or maybe just that I had mastered fire). There’s a story behind it (or why have a blog?).
I enjoy learning diverse disciplines, but the derivation of this was when I got married. My bride was employed by a bank and had to work Saturdays. I worked for a Fortune 500 company and didn’t. In fact, the sum total of my responsibilities was shifting budget from other departments to ours, shifting blame from ours to other departments, and wearing wingtip shoes.
My Saturday routine had been hanging with the guys. My new wife felt that phase should conclude since their sole interests were playing ball, scouring the bars for promiscuous women and marinating their brains in beer, and I was better than that. Better is such a relative term.
We rented an apartment, so it’s not like I had yard work to consume my weekends. My first solitary Saturday, I got up and started on my to-do list. I got out of bed, walked to the couch, and took a nap.
I woke up, sat up and contemplated my next chore. That would be feeding me. I ambled into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. Nothing. Nothing except some cookbooks Carol had received as shower presents. An idea began to germinate.
I would pore through these tomes, bookmark some of the most succulent dishes and prepare them. My wife would return from a hard day at the office to an elegant multi-course meal. Oh what a good boy am I.
Not exactly. Carol’s preferences in food ran toward the bland, at least by my standards. Not a big problem when we had dined together a couple times a week at a restaurant. But now, she was in control of the menu. Maybe I could at least preserve Saturday nights.
I excitedly compiled my shopping list, hied it for the store and cooked up a storm.
Needless to say, she was pleasantly surprised. At least by the sumptuous meal. Less pleasantly by the havoc wreaked upon her kitchen. I had not deigned to master the art of pot scrubbing.
Ensuing Saturdays produced even grander efforts. And, all the cues weren’t coming from the books. When I was a child, my mother had made a decision to have her own source of income, her own car, etc., which meant her own job. Not par for the course back then. She’d deposit me with the next door neighbor when she went off to ply her trade.
Isabel DiFlavia was an elderly Italian immigrant who lived with her son and daughter-in-law. In the finest tradition, she awoke before dawn and began cooking and baking continuously until dusk, just in case the 101st Airborne dropped by. If not, she fed the neighborhood. She would sit me on a stool in the kitchen and provide a running narrative as she prepared all manner of exotic dishes.
I didn’t consciously internalize any of this. But now, in my mid-20s, in the heat of the kitchen, the lessons bubbled up from the depths of my mind.
My Saturday routine began to gel. A number of recipes required wine. But seldom more than a cup or so. I didn’t waste the rest. Creative cooking should be emotional. Music augmented the art and was synergistic with the wine. Four Tops for Italian. Chuck Berry for French. Santana for Mexican. I boogied around the kitchen. Carol asked how marinara sauce got on the ceiling. Did anyone ask Michelangelo how paint got on the floor of the chapel?
This tradition went about a year before Carol called a meeting. She said she appreciated the thought, but the cleanup of the debris from my creative process took longer than it would’ve taken her to make and straighten up after a dinner she made. I should skip the wine and post-creativity nap, and add a tidying mode.
I can’t work like this. I can’t. I won’t.
It would’ve appeared petty to curtail the tradition over that. So, I bought a house and used the chores as an excuse to abate the cooking. A little expensive, but perception is everything. I would’ve bought the Hearst Castle to avoid cleaning up after lasagna.
So that was that. But once in great while, the muse stirs me, I take spatula in hand, fire up a Stones CD and cook my brains out.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
I journey into darkest DC
One score and some years ago, our fathers brought forth in this county a new committee, conceived in optimism, and dedicated to the proposition that it could persuade Washington DC to support the business community here. Kind of like a snake seeking relief at a mongoose convention.
I was recruited to serve on the committee and make the pilgrimage east to represent our region. Yes, the mind does boggle.
A chartered jet whisked us to the capital and a limo to the office of one of Ohio’s duly elected Representatives. Bill was to be our guide and accompany us to appointments with various officials. But first, a tour of the building, with Congress being the centerpiece.
Wow.
It registered with me. I would be standing within the same walls that echoed some of the most momentous speeches and debates in history. Perhaps one would be raging today! Would it be a milestone in civil rights? A watershed of foreign policy? An economic coup? I would soon know.
Tingling with anticipation, I was the first to hop onto the elevator. I went to push the button that would loft us to the floor of action, but a hand pushed mine aside. “What floor, sir?” a uniformed attendant inquired. I was taken aback. It was an automated elevator. “What floor, sir?” Bill told him, as I was still dumbstruck. The man expertly pushed the button in our behalf.
We alit and made for the hallowed chamber. I sidled up to Bill and asked what gives.
He cleared his throat. “Kind of a hangover from the old days. No one wants to be the one who eliminates the positions.”
We entered at the top of the great hall. I didn’t expect to see throngs of powdered-wigged colonials. On the other hand, I didn’t anticipate seeing a half dozen pages napping on the carpeted aisle steps. One suited gentleman stood at the podium, reading from a voluminous manuscript about railroad subsidy in a perfect monotone.
I grabbed Bill by the elbow. “Where is everyone?”
“Well, we all have this piped into our offices.” I could barely imagine staying awake through this in person, let alone coming through some tinny speaker. I stared at Bill. “And, every office gets a copy of the Congressional Record.”
“And they read all this?”
“”Well, aides go through it and highlight the more significant parts. We all show up for the votes.” I didn’t say anything. “Well, most do.”
Next stop was the rotunda under the Capitol Dome. The apex of the dome is 300 feet above the floor and is dizzying (for me) to look up at.
Bill gave a summarized history of the construction. Someone asked if we could go to the top. I froze. I abhor heights. I don’t even like widths.
Bill said that, at one time, the public was allowed to ascend, but it was now closed to them. I felt orifices unpucker.
Bill continued. The regulation had changed to you could go up there only if accompanied by a Representative or Senator.
Uh oh.
Bill continued. Unfortunately, not many of them can make the climb.
Thank Christ!
Bill continued. But, we were fortunate enough to have one of the very few Representatives who could. Fortunate. Did we want to go? Everyone leaped at the chance. Save for one.
But, I was swept along in the tide and quickly found myself at the entry door. Well, at least I’d have the trip up to steel myself for the view. Wrong!
“Steel” was the operative word, because that’s what the steps appeared to be. I expected some kind of enclosed, carpeted stairway. What looked like scaffolding spiraled upward, winding around the outside of the inner dome. The steps were spare and the structure completely open. The first couple steps reminded me I had bought new leather-soled shoes for the trip.
There was no looking down or sideways. I riveted my eyes on the objective and slid my hands along the skinny pipe rail, never surrendering my grip. I hoped my sweat wasn’t dripping on the guy below me. It was cold.
We emerged at the top of the inner dome. The “safety fence” appeared to have been made from George Washington’s wooden dentures and came up to my knees. Or so it seemed.
Our group eagerly leaned over to peer down into the rotunda. I plastered myself against the wall, a good two feet or so from the precipice.
“Hey, Henry, you’ve got to see this,” exclaimed Paul. I shook my head, but not too much. Didn’t want to lose my balance. He tugged on my sleeve. “C’mon.”
“Just let go and I will.” I leaned by millimeters. The floor was a black & white checkerboard pattern, and created an optical illusion that seemed to be sucking me downward. I snapped back, banging my head on the arching wall. Pain was the least of my problems now.
C’mon, c’mon! How long can you look at a floor? Mercifully, Bill finally spoke. Bill, my man!
“Would you like to go – that’s right, Bill, we would like to go down right this second – outside?”
What?!!! Was he completely insane?
Given the narrow balcony, I had little choice but to go with the flow. We stepped through a narrow doorway and a howling torrent of wind of about 200 mph, by my reckoning, tried to launch us into oblivion. I would’ve pressed myself closer against the dome, but a layer of paint was in the way.
“Henry, you’re missing a spectacular view.” I made my decision right there. If Paul grabbed me again, he had to go over the side.
With so many sights, this could not possibly be a brief dalliance. Did Bill point out the Washington Monument six times or was I just paranoid?
The steep, shingle-sized steps downward made me wonder why I had been so anxious to begin the descent. Once on terra firma, I sucked in a deep breath. Perhaps my first in the past ninety minutes.
From there, it was a skein of meetings about our issues. One pre-fab smile after another. I will certainly take this under advisement. I will surely look into that. I will give this my full attention. Yadda yadda yadda.
One bureaucrat broke ranks and acknowledged my growing skepticism. “I assure you, I have a real interest in this matter.”
“I’m not here for interest. I want commitment.”
“Same thing. That’s what I said.”
I shook my head. “It’s like n a bacon and egg breakfast. The chicken showed an interest, but the pig made a commitment.” He frowned, but I knew he’d use that in his next speech.
Epilogue. I followed up vociferously, but received little more than platitudes for my efforts.
I did publish an account of the trip in the newspaper, which elicited an irate phone call from a Congressman. “You’re misleading and inciting people with that stuff about the elevator operator. That’s peanuts. There’s only sixteen of them.”
“Paid with taxpayer money, Tom. If there’s only one of them, it’s one too many.”
But, that’s the way they think.
I was recruited to serve on the committee and make the pilgrimage east to represent our region. Yes, the mind does boggle.
A chartered jet whisked us to the capital and a limo to the office of one of Ohio’s duly elected Representatives. Bill was to be our guide and accompany us to appointments with various officials. But first, a tour of the building, with Congress being the centerpiece.
Wow.
It registered with me. I would be standing within the same walls that echoed some of the most momentous speeches and debates in history. Perhaps one would be raging today! Would it be a milestone in civil rights? A watershed of foreign policy? An economic coup? I would soon know.
Tingling with anticipation, I was the first to hop onto the elevator. I went to push the button that would loft us to the floor of action, but a hand pushed mine aside. “What floor, sir?” a uniformed attendant inquired. I was taken aback. It was an automated elevator. “What floor, sir?” Bill told him, as I was still dumbstruck. The man expertly pushed the button in our behalf.
We alit and made for the hallowed chamber. I sidled up to Bill and asked what gives.
He cleared his throat. “Kind of a hangover from the old days. No one wants to be the one who eliminates the positions.”
We entered at the top of the great hall. I didn’t expect to see throngs of powdered-wigged colonials. On the other hand, I didn’t anticipate seeing a half dozen pages napping on the carpeted aisle steps. One suited gentleman stood at the podium, reading from a voluminous manuscript about railroad subsidy in a perfect monotone.
I grabbed Bill by the elbow. “Where is everyone?”
“Well, we all have this piped into our offices.” I could barely imagine staying awake through this in person, let alone coming through some tinny speaker. I stared at Bill. “And, every office gets a copy of the Congressional Record.”
“And they read all this?”
“”Well, aides go through it and highlight the more significant parts. We all show up for the votes.” I didn’t say anything. “Well, most do.”
Next stop was the rotunda under the Capitol Dome. The apex of the dome is 300 feet above the floor and is dizzying (for me) to look up at.
Bill gave a summarized history of the construction. Someone asked if we could go to the top. I froze. I abhor heights. I don’t even like widths.
Bill said that, at one time, the public was allowed to ascend, but it was now closed to them. I felt orifices unpucker.
Bill continued. The regulation had changed to you could go up there only if accompanied by a Representative or Senator.
Uh oh.
Bill continued. Unfortunately, not many of them can make the climb.
Thank Christ!
Bill continued. But, we were fortunate enough to have one of the very few Representatives who could. Fortunate. Did we want to go? Everyone leaped at the chance. Save for one.
But, I was swept along in the tide and quickly found myself at the entry door. Well, at least I’d have the trip up to steel myself for the view. Wrong!
“Steel” was the operative word, because that’s what the steps appeared to be. I expected some kind of enclosed, carpeted stairway. What looked like scaffolding spiraled upward, winding around the outside of the inner dome. The steps were spare and the structure completely open. The first couple steps reminded me I had bought new leather-soled shoes for the trip.
There was no looking down or sideways. I riveted my eyes on the objective and slid my hands along the skinny pipe rail, never surrendering my grip. I hoped my sweat wasn’t dripping on the guy below me. It was cold.
We emerged at the top of the inner dome. The “safety fence” appeared to have been made from George Washington’s wooden dentures and came up to my knees. Or so it seemed.
Our group eagerly leaned over to peer down into the rotunda. I plastered myself against the wall, a good two feet or so from the precipice.
“Hey, Henry, you’ve got to see this,” exclaimed Paul. I shook my head, but not too much. Didn’t want to lose my balance. He tugged on my sleeve. “C’mon.”
“Just let go and I will.” I leaned by millimeters. The floor was a black & white checkerboard pattern, and created an optical illusion that seemed to be sucking me downward. I snapped back, banging my head on the arching wall. Pain was the least of my problems now.
C’mon, c’mon! How long can you look at a floor? Mercifully, Bill finally spoke. Bill, my man!
“Would you like to go – that’s right, Bill, we would like to go down right this second – outside?”
What?!!! Was he completely insane?
Given the narrow balcony, I had little choice but to go with the flow. We stepped through a narrow doorway and a howling torrent of wind of about 200 mph, by my reckoning, tried to launch us into oblivion. I would’ve pressed myself closer against the dome, but a layer of paint was in the way.
“Henry, you’re missing a spectacular view.” I made my decision right there. If Paul grabbed me again, he had to go over the side.
With so many sights, this could not possibly be a brief dalliance. Did Bill point out the Washington Monument six times or was I just paranoid?
The steep, shingle-sized steps downward made me wonder why I had been so anxious to begin the descent. Once on terra firma, I sucked in a deep breath. Perhaps my first in the past ninety minutes.
From there, it was a skein of meetings about our issues. One pre-fab smile after another. I will certainly take this under advisement. I will surely look into that. I will give this my full attention. Yadda yadda yadda.
One bureaucrat broke ranks and acknowledged my growing skepticism. “I assure you, I have a real interest in this matter.”
“I’m not here for interest. I want commitment.”
“Same thing. That’s what I said.”
I shook my head. “It’s like n a bacon and egg breakfast. The chicken showed an interest, but the pig made a commitment.” He frowned, but I knew he’d use that in his next speech.
Epilogue. I followed up vociferously, but received little more than platitudes for my efforts.
I did publish an account of the trip in the newspaper, which elicited an irate phone call from a Congressman. “You’re misleading and inciting people with that stuff about the elevator operator. That’s peanuts. There’s only sixteen of them.”
“Paid with taxpayer money, Tom. If there’s only one of them, it’s one too many.”
But, that’s the way they think.
A Moo-ving Story
My daughter had unearthed a treasure trove of ancient photos while cleaning out the attic. She was enjoying (far too much) silly shots of her "old man" in his feckless youth. One was a group of bleary-eyed, twenty-somethings around a campfire, grinning and toasting the photographer with beer cans aloft. Aluminium rental canoes in the background reflected the setting sun.
She picked me out and asked why I had a bandage over one eye. After a couple decades of preaching responsible behavior to her, I wasn't about to confess the indiscretions of a reckless youth. "Just a bump on the head, hon. Just a bump on the head."
She wandered off and I smiled as the memories flooded back. We had just graduated college and still had much more education than sense. In celebration, we planned a "float trip" on the Hocking River, which flows through the Hocking Hills of central Ohio. It wasn't long after launch that the inevitable splash fights and capsizing broke out. Two canoes conspired in a tactic to draw my attention to one side and miss the covert attack from the other. It was especially effective. This affront could not stand.
I commanded my partner to put some back into her paddle so we could race ahead, lie in ambush and exact the vengence that was our due. A few hundred yards downstream, we encountered a sharp left turn behind a boulder. A perfect place to spring the trap. I was about to instruct her to maintain silence when she let out a shriek. She was pointing at a half-submerged object in the shallows near the bow. A severed cow's head. Perfect!
I slipped out of the canoe, found a handhold on the prize and waded out into the channel to listen for the unsuspecting prey. I heard paddle splashes nearing the turn and ducked under the water. Running through a rock bed, the river was clear enough for me to discern the silver hull swinging with the turn. As the bow drew next to me, I thrust the cow head upward and emitted a blood-chilling screech.
Imagine my surprise when the bow occupant was an elderly woman who returned my screech, dropped her paddle and started to slump over backwards. I dropped the head and grabbed for her with both hands. I had to release one hand to fend off the paddle her husband was swatting me with (hence, the bandage in the photo). As I recall, it was a wooden beavertail and quite nice.
Profuse apologies were offered and icily declined. Our group, having paused for a bathroom break upstream, caught up with us at this point and observed the animated yelling and paddle brandishing. They weren't certain what had transpired, but they were obviously quite sure they enjoyed my predicament.
Happy to say I went on to develop a much greater sense of paddling safety and courtesy, and that stands as the dumbest thing I ever did on the water.
She picked me out and asked why I had a bandage over one eye. After a couple decades of preaching responsible behavior to her, I wasn't about to confess the indiscretions of a reckless youth. "Just a bump on the head, hon. Just a bump on the head."
She wandered off and I smiled as the memories flooded back. We had just graduated college and still had much more education than sense. In celebration, we planned a "float trip" on the Hocking River, which flows through the Hocking Hills of central Ohio. It wasn't long after launch that the inevitable splash fights and capsizing broke out. Two canoes conspired in a tactic to draw my attention to one side and miss the covert attack from the other. It was especially effective. This affront could not stand.
I commanded my partner to put some back into her paddle so we could race ahead, lie in ambush and exact the vengence that was our due. A few hundred yards downstream, we encountered a sharp left turn behind a boulder. A perfect place to spring the trap. I was about to instruct her to maintain silence when she let out a shriek. She was pointing at a half-submerged object in the shallows near the bow. A severed cow's head. Perfect!
I slipped out of the canoe, found a handhold on the prize and waded out into the channel to listen for the unsuspecting prey. I heard paddle splashes nearing the turn and ducked under the water. Running through a rock bed, the river was clear enough for me to discern the silver hull swinging with the turn. As the bow drew next to me, I thrust the cow head upward and emitted a blood-chilling screech.
Imagine my surprise when the bow occupant was an elderly woman who returned my screech, dropped her paddle and started to slump over backwards. I dropped the head and grabbed for her with both hands. I had to release one hand to fend off the paddle her husband was swatting me with (hence, the bandage in the photo). As I recall, it was a wooden beavertail and quite nice.
Profuse apologies were offered and icily declined. Our group, having paused for a bathroom break upstream, caught up with us at this point and observed the animated yelling and paddle brandishing. They weren't certain what had transpired, but they were obviously quite sure they enjoyed my predicament.
Happy to say I went on to develop a much greater sense of paddling safety and courtesy, and that stands as the dumbest thing I ever did on the water.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Motivating your audience
A tenet of good advertising copy and selling technique is don’t talk about your company, your product and other things important to you. Talk about your prospects and what they’re interested in if you want to hook their attention and motivate them. I didn’t have to wait until college to learn this.
We were playing for the regional high school football championship. Half the sports writers were picking us to lose. The other half was picking us to die.
It was rumored that our opponent’s linemen were bred for gargantuan size in the deep forests of the state, and force-fed raw beaver a dozen times a day. This, combined with a strict regimen of rock quarrying, produced behemoths long on muscle and short of temper. I was a bit dubious about this, but it was hard to argue with the results.
Fall Friday afternoons usually culminated with a raucous pep rally. However, on this particular afternoon, the bleachers were strangely subdued. Our classmates could barely meet our eyes. I don’t think they expected to see us again.
Even the locker room was uncharacteristically quiet. Just before we took the field, the coach addressed us. “Men, you face one of the greatest hurdles you’ll ever come up against.” Now that’s a confidence builder.
“But, when you’re out there, I want you to think of the honor of our school and all that it has meant to you.” We loathed that dump.
“I want you to think of the pride of your classmates.” That didn’t sweeten the deal.
“And, I want you to think of me, the man who has taught you so much.” If there was one thing we detested more than the school, it was him.
Fortunately, the referees called him out into the hall before he propelled us into a deep state of clinical depression. Bobby Hart stood up in front of us.
Bobby was our young defensive coach. He had been a starting guard for a Division I college at a meager 202 pounds. 202 pounds of determined gristle.
Bobby stuck his head out into the hall to ensure no one was within earshot. Then, he turned to meet our eyes.
“Boys, I wish I could tell you how to beat Bishop Egan, but I just don’t know. What I do know is that if somehow, some way you figure it out, there won’t be a girl in all of Philadelphia that you can’t date.” (I cleaned that up a little.)
We roared out of that locker room and ripped Egan 41-0.
The lesson learned was to know your audience (in this case, teenage males) and what’s important to them.
Oh yes, the promised results? I later ran into Bobby and said that we hadn’t found his prediction to come entirely to fruition. He laughed. “Hey, I can’t coach you guys at everything.”
We were playing for the regional high school football championship. Half the sports writers were picking us to lose. The other half was picking us to die.
It was rumored that our opponent’s linemen were bred for gargantuan size in the deep forests of the state, and force-fed raw beaver a dozen times a day. This, combined with a strict regimen of rock quarrying, produced behemoths long on muscle and short of temper. I was a bit dubious about this, but it was hard to argue with the results.
Fall Friday afternoons usually culminated with a raucous pep rally. However, on this particular afternoon, the bleachers were strangely subdued. Our classmates could barely meet our eyes. I don’t think they expected to see us again.
Even the locker room was uncharacteristically quiet. Just before we took the field, the coach addressed us. “Men, you face one of the greatest hurdles you’ll ever come up against.” Now that’s a confidence builder.
“But, when you’re out there, I want you to think of the honor of our school and all that it has meant to you.” We loathed that dump.
“I want you to think of the pride of your classmates.” That didn’t sweeten the deal.
“And, I want you to think of me, the man who has taught you so much.” If there was one thing we detested more than the school, it was him.
Fortunately, the referees called him out into the hall before he propelled us into a deep state of clinical depression. Bobby Hart stood up in front of us.
Bobby was our young defensive coach. He had been a starting guard for a Division I college at a meager 202 pounds. 202 pounds of determined gristle.
Bobby stuck his head out into the hall to ensure no one was within earshot. Then, he turned to meet our eyes.
“Boys, I wish I could tell you how to beat Bishop Egan, but I just don’t know. What I do know is that if somehow, some way you figure it out, there won’t be a girl in all of Philadelphia that you can’t date.” (I cleaned that up a little.)
We roared out of that locker room and ripped Egan 41-0.
The lesson learned was to know your audience (in this case, teenage males) and what’s important to them.
Oh yes, the promised results? I later ran into Bobby and said that we hadn’t found his prediction to come entirely to fruition. He laughed. “Hey, I can’t coach you guys at everything.”
The Roach
Where I spawned decades ago, the school athletic officials wearied of the larger public schools whipping up on their stunted brethren. So, they created a league called The Big Six to pit the heavyweights against each other statewide. In typical bureaucratic fashion, the logic defied understanding, since there were more than six schools in the league.
We didn’t care. It meant road trips deep into the state, with unlimited meal privileges at a Howard Johnson’s on the turnpike.
That is, we didn’t care until we were matched up against Altoona. The skinny was that they were all inbred, Jethro Boudine-sized farm boys who weren’t even enrolled in grade school until they shaved. In all fairness, I later learned that they had been told we were South Philly gang members, with rap sheets longer than our switchblades.
Nonetheless, we approached the clash with some degree of trepidation. This was not us.
As we pulled on our pads, the adrenaline started to pump and boastful shouts echoed off the metal lockers. This was us. Then, it abruptly fell silent.
Three towering pillars stood before us in Altoona colors, impaling us with malignant stares. The silence wore on. Okay, this was the psych-out. Who did these goobers think they were trifling with? We returned the glares.
Without taking their eyes off us, each produced from behind his back a live chicken. At least, that’s what we thought they were. We were city boys.
Okay, so you got birds. What of it?
The stillness was broken only by fitful clucks and wing flaps. Then, on cue, they each twisted off a bird’s head. Then, a leg. Then, a wing. Then, they spiked the bloody remains at our feet.
Okay, now you’ve got our attention. Eyes widened and I could sense my teammates rock back on their heels. Literally.
Everyone except Roach, who strode forward and defiantly stood in front of the largest invader. He was 180 pounds of chiseled sinew, generously upholstered with black, curly hair.
I don’t think I grew up with anyone who didn’t acquire a nickname along the way. In Bob’s case, the sobriquet was dubbed in Mr. Nick’s biology class. Mr. Nick was telling us how all creatures evolved, with the exception of the cockroach, which hadn’t evolved an iota in millions of years. We turned in unison to look at Bob. From that point forward, he was known only as Roach. He seemed to enjoy it.
The colossus in front of roach smirked. Bob looked around the room until his eyes fell upon the urinals. He strode over to one and extracted the soggy deodorant wafer from the bowl. Returning to his post in front of the ogre, he re-established the eye lock. Without breaking it, he inserted the wafer in his mouth and chewed fervently.
Now the wide eyes were on the other face. They beat a hasty retreat. Roach threw up and we went out to thrash Altoona 27-6.
No, I don’t see a lesson in this. But sometimes, when I’m standing in front of a porcelain edifice and notice the wafer in the bottom of the bowl, I fondly muse that Roach is out there somewhere, rising to the occasion. I just hope it’s somewhere far away.
Yes, another moldy high school saga. My excuse is that I have a reunion creeping up and the nostalgia is enveloping me. I appreciate the understanding of those readers who can relate. To the rest, the back of my hand.
We didn’t care. It meant road trips deep into the state, with unlimited meal privileges at a Howard Johnson’s on the turnpike.
That is, we didn’t care until we were matched up against Altoona. The skinny was that they were all inbred, Jethro Boudine-sized farm boys who weren’t even enrolled in grade school until they shaved. In all fairness, I later learned that they had been told we were South Philly gang members, with rap sheets longer than our switchblades.
Nonetheless, we approached the clash with some degree of trepidation. This was not us.
As we pulled on our pads, the adrenaline started to pump and boastful shouts echoed off the metal lockers. This was us. Then, it abruptly fell silent.
Three towering pillars stood before us in Altoona colors, impaling us with malignant stares. The silence wore on. Okay, this was the psych-out. Who did these goobers think they were trifling with? We returned the glares.
Without taking their eyes off us, each produced from behind his back a live chicken. At least, that’s what we thought they were. We were city boys.
Okay, so you got birds. What of it?
The stillness was broken only by fitful clucks and wing flaps. Then, on cue, they each twisted off a bird’s head. Then, a leg. Then, a wing. Then, they spiked the bloody remains at our feet.
Okay, now you’ve got our attention. Eyes widened and I could sense my teammates rock back on their heels. Literally.
Everyone except Roach, who strode forward and defiantly stood in front of the largest invader. He was 180 pounds of chiseled sinew, generously upholstered with black, curly hair.
I don’t think I grew up with anyone who didn’t acquire a nickname along the way. In Bob’s case, the sobriquet was dubbed in Mr. Nick’s biology class. Mr. Nick was telling us how all creatures evolved, with the exception of the cockroach, which hadn’t evolved an iota in millions of years. We turned in unison to look at Bob. From that point forward, he was known only as Roach. He seemed to enjoy it.
The colossus in front of roach smirked. Bob looked around the room until his eyes fell upon the urinals. He strode over to one and extracted the soggy deodorant wafer from the bowl. Returning to his post in front of the ogre, he re-established the eye lock. Without breaking it, he inserted the wafer in his mouth and chewed fervently.
Now the wide eyes were on the other face. They beat a hasty retreat. Roach threw up and we went out to thrash Altoona 27-6.
No, I don’t see a lesson in this. But sometimes, when I’m standing in front of a porcelain edifice and notice the wafer in the bottom of the bowl, I fondly muse that Roach is out there somewhere, rising to the occasion. I just hope it’s somewhere far away.
Yes, another moldy high school saga. My excuse is that I have a reunion creeping up and the nostalgia is enveloping me. I appreciate the understanding of those readers who can relate. To the rest, the back of my hand.
Craig
Sometimes, when I’m trying to prod a recalcitrant employee into a semblance of action, I think of Craig and smile. I know he’s out there somewhere, leaving a maelstrom of dust and sales orders in his wake.
I have owned and run several companies. Early on, I was fortunate enough to learn that bricks, mortar and equipment are one thing, but what makes or breaks you is your people. Everyone pays lip service to that, but how many put their principal efforts into recruiting, training and retaining top talent?
Every position has a role and is important, or should be. But, nothing moves until the sale is made. So, primo salespeople are the key.
One of my most productive hires was Craig, to sell in the upper Midwest territory of a company I ran. He immediately caused ripples in our conservative Cincinnati office. Craig was a bit of a wildman, but he had what I consider a vital trait for such a position; something to prove. Having grown up in the crucible of east coast cities, I didn’t find his brash style to be over the top, but that wasn’t the case with most of our staff. They didn’t think he’d last a month. Our product was very high ticket, and competition was cutthroat. Mary Poppins wouldn’t prevail in this market.
I went to Chicago to train Craig for a week. As I left him, I said that there were two major prospects in St. Louis we hadn’t even been able to get an appointment with. In three months, I wanted to meet him there for sales calls with both. It was on his shoulders. He didn’t flinch or protest. A good sign.
Six weeks later, he called and said to meet him in St. Louis. We had a long lunch with executives of one of the targeted companies and it was as if they were Craig’s old fraternity brothers. It was apparent that he had taken them golfing, drinking and maybe a couple other things I didn’t want to know about. A contract was imminent.
We made a few other minor sales calls as a prelude to dinner with the other big prospect. In each case, Craig was welcomed like Lindbergh landing in Paris. Then, for the main event, we motored out to a posh restaurant to join the president of the company and his wife.
This was like a family reunion. Craig hugged both of them and lightly bussed the elegantly attired wife on the cheek. He asked for updates on their children, tennis games and vacation home under construction in South Carolina. The couple was originally from northern California, and bore the taste for wine common to the breed. Craig held forth on the subject with authority and ordered various vintages for sampling. The alcohol kicked in and they were soon loudly gabbling away about Marin County.
Food was eventually ordered, but the flow of grape didn’t slacken. I noticed the wife starting to withdraw. She sat there with an unfocused stare and hiccupped. Then, she clutched the linen napkin to her mouth and wretched. That attended to, she slouched in a stupor. Without losing a beat in his patter with the husband, Craig dabbed at her lips with his napkin and closed her slack fingers around it. “Here, you might need this,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth before seamlessly resuming the joke he had been telling to the husband.
We walked them to the valet station (supporting the lady on either side) and exchanged embraces when their car arrived. The prospect instructed Craig to send him a contract proposal. They sped away and I extended my hand in congratulation. “Great work, really great. We’ll rough out a contract at breakfast.”
Craig shook my hand. “Thanks, boss, but we’ll celebrate now.”
Huh? It was pushing eleven and I was feeling the wine. “I think that’s enough for one evening.”
“Not a chance.’ Craig handed his claim check to the valet and winked at me.
He made a beeline for what could best be described as a singles bar. I noted he was completely familiar with the location. We wedged into two stools at the crowded bar and Craig ordered martinis. Swell. I was telling Craig what an outstanding job he had done, but he was preoccupied scanning the bar like a hawk looking for field mice.
I was facing Craig and couldn’t help but notice the couple behind him. He was a well-maintained 50 with carefully barbered hair, a cashmere sweater and Italian loafers that equated to one of my monthly house payments.
She was under thirty, brassy blond and subscribed to the Sherwin Williams school of makeup. I might not have paid them any attention, but his tongue was in her ear about halfway to her brain, and he was ambidextrously administering mammary and pelvic exams. Not your basic Norman Rockwell portrait. Her face was turned heavenward, eyes closed in ecstasy and tongue lolled out. Classy! If they weren’t technically engaged in “the act,” it was a reasonable facsimile.
Craig remained oblivious, until she jerked an elbow in reaction to an especially artful manipulation. He swiveled around to detect the source of the jostling and stared at her unblinkingly.
“Craig,” I whispered when he didn’t curtail his close range scrutiny. “Craig!”
She must’ve felt the weight of his stare because her eyes opened and met his. They narrowed in irritation when he didn’t break off.
Craig smiled affably. “You doin’ anything later tonight?” A good salesperson never shies away from asking for the order.
She tried to hop off her stool, but was still enmeshed with her beau. With a fierce effort, she broke free, nearly losing some undergarments in the process, and flounced off. The boyfriend looked at Craig, who just shrugged. He took off after his girlfriend.
Craig turned to me and grinned. “Craig, you have to try to come out of your shell.”
I finally persuaded him to leave. He started the car and I tilted my head back. “Home, James.”
“Home? I’m hungry.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” He wasn’t.
At that time of the morning, what’s open? Craig seemed to know. It wasn’t long before we were skidding into the parking lot of a Steak n’ Shake.
Craig marched up to the counter and plopped himself down. I followed suit.
An acne-plagued teen of indeterminate gender lounged behind the counter in a badly wrinkled shirt and eyed us with irritation. When it became apparent that we weren’t leaving, he (I think) slunk over to us and growled, “Whadda you want?’
I gave Craig the “let’s go” look, but he pretended not to notice. “Steakburgers, my good man, what else?”
“We got all kinds of burgers. Whadda ya want?”
Craig craned his neck. “Are you going to prepare them on THAT grill?”
“Nah, buddy, I’m gonna build a campfire in the friggin’ parking lot.”
Craig reached into his coat pocket and flipped open his business card case. “Harriman, Steak n’ Shake quality control. You’re busted!”
The lethargic teen leaned over to inspect credentials, but Craig quickly snapped the case shut and sliced it into his pocket. “Now get back there and clean that grill. I want to be able to look in it and count my nose hairs.”
The boy ambled over to the grill and started going through the motions. “Craig,” I murmured through clenched lips, “what are you doing?”
“Getting us a decent snack. You there, Zippy the Wonderslug. Put some back into it!”
“Craig.” But, it was too late. He whipped around the counter, grabbed the tool from the kid and vigorously stroked away, using one hand for downward force. “Like that! Do it like your job’s on the line.”
At that point, a door swung open and a bespectacled man lumbered out, face reddened with anger. Uh oh. He was rotund enough to cause his tie to terminate about five inches north of his trousers. “What the hell’s going on out here?” he bellowed.
“Craig, let’s bail.”
But Craig ate guys like this for breakfast. “Who the hell is this, Humphrey Pennyworth?” He fairly leapt across the room and got right in his face. “You the manager here? I mean, up until now.”
“Err, yeah.”
“Harriman, quality control. This place is a freakin’ sty. Worst I’ve seen in four states. The floor is filthy, the grill cruddy and your shirt looks like the front row of a Gallagher show. Get in there and change it while I do your managing for you. And I mean right now!”
The manager backpedaled from Craig at a good clip. “And Humphrey, while you’re at it, why don’t you throw a party so your tie can meet your belt.” I doubted he got it, but he wasn’t about to stop. He darted into his office like a prairie dog dives into a burrow.
Craig closely supervised the cleaning of the grill and the preparation of our food. Leaving, he shouted threats over his shoulder, in the event we ever returned and found less-than-perfect conditions.
We cruised down a boulevard, with gardens dividing the lanes. “You didn’t even offer to pay.”
“Pay them? Hell, they should pay me. I did them a favor.”
“We are going back to the hotel now, aren’t we?”
“Heck yeah, I’m bushed. What else would we do at three in the morning?”
What else indeed. “Just checking.”
We closed distance with a large piece of street cleaning equipment. Craig blinked the headlights impatiently. “Craig, I don’t think that’s going to help.” He pounded the horn. “He has nowhere to pull over.”
Craig blew out a long sigh and then looked left. He jerked the wheel and accelerated. Before I could say anything, we were up on the median at speed, plowing up shrubs and trellises. Once around the cleaner, we bumped back down to the street. “Where there’s a will…,’ intoned Craig, without looking at me.
We pulled into the hotel’s parking garage and Craig tried to hand the keys to the attendant. But, the elderly man was fixated on the front of our rental car, which was now bristling with roses and stick work. Craig poked him. “I say, old man, we seem to have gotten separated from the Rose Bowl parade. Can you tell me which way they went?”
We mapped out a contract proposal the next morning. I didn’t bring up the previous evening. What would I say?
I was back in the office by mid-afternoon. Roberta, my assistant, was aware my desk was buried, but couldn’t restrain herself. She leaned through the doorway. “Make any progress?”
“Sure did. I’m guessing two huge contracts by the end of next month.”
She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Then Craig is everything you expected?”
“And more, Roberta. And more.”
I have owned and run several companies. Early on, I was fortunate enough to learn that bricks, mortar and equipment are one thing, but what makes or breaks you is your people. Everyone pays lip service to that, but how many put their principal efforts into recruiting, training and retaining top talent?
Every position has a role and is important, or should be. But, nothing moves until the sale is made. So, primo salespeople are the key.
One of my most productive hires was Craig, to sell in the upper Midwest territory of a company I ran. He immediately caused ripples in our conservative Cincinnati office. Craig was a bit of a wildman, but he had what I consider a vital trait for such a position; something to prove. Having grown up in the crucible of east coast cities, I didn’t find his brash style to be over the top, but that wasn’t the case with most of our staff. They didn’t think he’d last a month. Our product was very high ticket, and competition was cutthroat. Mary Poppins wouldn’t prevail in this market.
I went to Chicago to train Craig for a week. As I left him, I said that there were two major prospects in St. Louis we hadn’t even been able to get an appointment with. In three months, I wanted to meet him there for sales calls with both. It was on his shoulders. He didn’t flinch or protest. A good sign.
Six weeks later, he called and said to meet him in St. Louis. We had a long lunch with executives of one of the targeted companies and it was as if they were Craig’s old fraternity brothers. It was apparent that he had taken them golfing, drinking and maybe a couple other things I didn’t want to know about. A contract was imminent.
We made a few other minor sales calls as a prelude to dinner with the other big prospect. In each case, Craig was welcomed like Lindbergh landing in Paris. Then, for the main event, we motored out to a posh restaurant to join the president of the company and his wife.
This was like a family reunion. Craig hugged both of them and lightly bussed the elegantly attired wife on the cheek. He asked for updates on their children, tennis games and vacation home under construction in South Carolina. The couple was originally from northern California, and bore the taste for wine common to the breed. Craig held forth on the subject with authority and ordered various vintages for sampling. The alcohol kicked in and they were soon loudly gabbling away about Marin County.
Food was eventually ordered, but the flow of grape didn’t slacken. I noticed the wife starting to withdraw. She sat there with an unfocused stare and hiccupped. Then, she clutched the linen napkin to her mouth and wretched. That attended to, she slouched in a stupor. Without losing a beat in his patter with the husband, Craig dabbed at her lips with his napkin and closed her slack fingers around it. “Here, you might need this,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth before seamlessly resuming the joke he had been telling to the husband.
We walked them to the valet station (supporting the lady on either side) and exchanged embraces when their car arrived. The prospect instructed Craig to send him a contract proposal. They sped away and I extended my hand in congratulation. “Great work, really great. We’ll rough out a contract at breakfast.”
Craig shook my hand. “Thanks, boss, but we’ll celebrate now.”
Huh? It was pushing eleven and I was feeling the wine. “I think that’s enough for one evening.”
“Not a chance.’ Craig handed his claim check to the valet and winked at me.
He made a beeline for what could best be described as a singles bar. I noted he was completely familiar with the location. We wedged into two stools at the crowded bar and Craig ordered martinis. Swell. I was telling Craig what an outstanding job he had done, but he was preoccupied scanning the bar like a hawk looking for field mice.
I was facing Craig and couldn’t help but notice the couple behind him. He was a well-maintained 50 with carefully barbered hair, a cashmere sweater and Italian loafers that equated to one of my monthly house payments.
She was under thirty, brassy blond and subscribed to the Sherwin Williams school of makeup. I might not have paid them any attention, but his tongue was in her ear about halfway to her brain, and he was ambidextrously administering mammary and pelvic exams. Not your basic Norman Rockwell portrait. Her face was turned heavenward, eyes closed in ecstasy and tongue lolled out. Classy! If they weren’t technically engaged in “the act,” it was a reasonable facsimile.
Craig remained oblivious, until she jerked an elbow in reaction to an especially artful manipulation. He swiveled around to detect the source of the jostling and stared at her unblinkingly.
“Craig,” I whispered when he didn’t curtail his close range scrutiny. “Craig!”
She must’ve felt the weight of his stare because her eyes opened and met his. They narrowed in irritation when he didn’t break off.
Craig smiled affably. “You doin’ anything later tonight?” A good salesperson never shies away from asking for the order.
She tried to hop off her stool, but was still enmeshed with her beau. With a fierce effort, she broke free, nearly losing some undergarments in the process, and flounced off. The boyfriend looked at Craig, who just shrugged. He took off after his girlfriend.
Craig turned to me and grinned. “Craig, you have to try to come out of your shell.”
I finally persuaded him to leave. He started the car and I tilted my head back. “Home, James.”
“Home? I’m hungry.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” He wasn’t.
At that time of the morning, what’s open? Craig seemed to know. It wasn’t long before we were skidding into the parking lot of a Steak n’ Shake.
Craig marched up to the counter and plopped himself down. I followed suit.
An acne-plagued teen of indeterminate gender lounged behind the counter in a badly wrinkled shirt and eyed us with irritation. When it became apparent that we weren’t leaving, he (I think) slunk over to us and growled, “Whadda you want?’
I gave Craig the “let’s go” look, but he pretended not to notice. “Steakburgers, my good man, what else?”
“We got all kinds of burgers. Whadda ya want?”
Craig craned his neck. “Are you going to prepare them on THAT grill?”
“Nah, buddy, I’m gonna build a campfire in the friggin’ parking lot.”
Craig reached into his coat pocket and flipped open his business card case. “Harriman, Steak n’ Shake quality control. You’re busted!”
The lethargic teen leaned over to inspect credentials, but Craig quickly snapped the case shut and sliced it into his pocket. “Now get back there and clean that grill. I want to be able to look in it and count my nose hairs.”
The boy ambled over to the grill and started going through the motions. “Craig,” I murmured through clenched lips, “what are you doing?”
“Getting us a decent snack. You there, Zippy the Wonderslug. Put some back into it!”
“Craig.” But, it was too late. He whipped around the counter, grabbed the tool from the kid and vigorously stroked away, using one hand for downward force. “Like that! Do it like your job’s on the line.”
At that point, a door swung open and a bespectacled man lumbered out, face reddened with anger. Uh oh. He was rotund enough to cause his tie to terminate about five inches north of his trousers. “What the hell’s going on out here?” he bellowed.
“Craig, let’s bail.”
But Craig ate guys like this for breakfast. “Who the hell is this, Humphrey Pennyworth?” He fairly leapt across the room and got right in his face. “You the manager here? I mean, up until now.”
“Err, yeah.”
“Harriman, quality control. This place is a freakin’ sty. Worst I’ve seen in four states. The floor is filthy, the grill cruddy and your shirt looks like the front row of a Gallagher show. Get in there and change it while I do your managing for you. And I mean right now!”
The manager backpedaled from Craig at a good clip. “And Humphrey, while you’re at it, why don’t you throw a party so your tie can meet your belt.” I doubted he got it, but he wasn’t about to stop. He darted into his office like a prairie dog dives into a burrow.
Craig closely supervised the cleaning of the grill and the preparation of our food. Leaving, he shouted threats over his shoulder, in the event we ever returned and found less-than-perfect conditions.
We cruised down a boulevard, with gardens dividing the lanes. “You didn’t even offer to pay.”
“Pay them? Hell, they should pay me. I did them a favor.”
“We are going back to the hotel now, aren’t we?”
“Heck yeah, I’m bushed. What else would we do at three in the morning?”
What else indeed. “Just checking.”
We closed distance with a large piece of street cleaning equipment. Craig blinked the headlights impatiently. “Craig, I don’t think that’s going to help.” He pounded the horn. “He has nowhere to pull over.”
Craig blew out a long sigh and then looked left. He jerked the wheel and accelerated. Before I could say anything, we were up on the median at speed, plowing up shrubs and trellises. Once around the cleaner, we bumped back down to the street. “Where there’s a will…,’ intoned Craig, without looking at me.
We pulled into the hotel’s parking garage and Craig tried to hand the keys to the attendant. But, the elderly man was fixated on the front of our rental car, which was now bristling with roses and stick work. Craig poked him. “I say, old man, we seem to have gotten separated from the Rose Bowl parade. Can you tell me which way they went?”
We mapped out a contract proposal the next morning. I didn’t bring up the previous evening. What would I say?
I was back in the office by mid-afternoon. Roberta, my assistant, was aware my desk was buried, but couldn’t restrain herself. She leaned through the doorway. “Make any progress?”
“Sure did. I’m guessing two huge contracts by the end of next month.”
She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Then Craig is everything you expected?”
“And more, Roberta. And more.”
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Jesus Wept
A recent wire story reported that someone had altered copies of Paris Hilton's debut CD, and disappointed fans were seeing them pulled from music stores. The article failed to explain why Paris Hilton would have a CD (or fans).
It has been announced that in 2007, Donald Trump will receive a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It is in recognition of his contributions to the entertainment industry (or the selection committee?).
And yet, Soupy Sales remains largely unheralded.
It has been announced that in 2007, Donald Trump will receive a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It is in recognition of his contributions to the entertainment industry (or the selection committee?).
And yet, Soupy Sales remains largely unheralded.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Tony the Lizard
When my son was about ten, talk turned to pets. I had always had them, so I sided with him against his mother. She was adamant, as she saw them as only another producer of her sworn enemy, mess.
However, she finally agreed to a “low impact” pet, providing Aaron hit academic goals that she set somewhere in the stratosphere. Aaron set out with tongue-jutting determination and exceeded them.
Pet store day. Aaron ran from aisle to aisle, wanting one of each. His mother consulted the clerk about which animals threw off the least byproduct and odor. We settled on a basilisk lizard. I bought a terrarium and asked for a box of lizard food that would last a month. I didn’t want to make a lot of trips.
The acne-plagued clerk grinned. “You can’t get a month’s worth of food,” he said, as though surprised to find an idiot in the room. “They eat live crickets.”
Oh c’mon. You’re locked up in a glass box and you can afford to be picky about food? You wouldn’t eat anything that drops to the floor of the terrarium? Apparently not. Lizards are stalwart gourmets.
So, we get everything home, including a carton of crawling bugs. We set it up and begin flipping through a book about pet lizards. I start to tell Aaron how frequently he’d have to feed his charge and clean the abode. But, his mother interjects that he will do neither. She’s not risking crickets and/or the lizard making an escape. I wanted this, so it was my job. So there.
Aaron christened the lizard Tony. I had had a fraternity brother from Brooklyn named Tony. Yeah, I could see it.
The first night was an eye-opener. Literally. Lizards are quiet, but what do crickets do on warm summer nights? They chirp! Why didn’t I think of that?
Feeding consisted of whipping off the top screen, dumping the carton of crickets and slamming down the top before anything could escape. Not too bad.
Cleaning was another story, and the book stressed the importance of it. It involved capturing Tony, securing him in a shoe box, and then returning him after the process. Easier said then done. You would think Tony would be grateful for all the services he received. But, you would not be a lizard.
The little bastard would sink his sharp, little teeth into my flesh at every opportunity. And, he was fast, so there were plenty of opportunities.
The months wore on, with Tony enjoying teething on me and the crickets serenading nightly. But, it was all for my son.
One day, he came to me and said something was wrong with Tony. He was listless. A listless lizard? How could you tell? It wasn’t like he was constantly cartwheeling around the terrarium. But, Aaron knew.
We went to Aaron’s room. Tony was motionless and even I could tell he didn’t look like his usual nasty self. Aaron looked up to me with pleading eyes. “Dad, you can fix him, can’t you?” Not too many options there.
I called the vet. He said that by the time you could tell a lizard was sick, it was probably too late. I said that he had to come up with something. My son was depending on me. He said the lizard probably had what could best be described as a severe and fatal case of constipation.
Okay. How about some Mexican food? He described one possible solution that involved Tony’s anus and something I wouldn’t even do with Julia Roberts.
I asked for an alternative. He said I could fill a pan with warm water and try soaking Tony in it. That sounded doable.
I put some water in a pan and we all went upstairs. Tony looked even more droopy, so I was a little careless grabbing him. Don’t you know the son of a bitch could summon up the energy to suddenly clamp his jaws onto my thumb? I screamed and pulled back my arm, momentarily contemplating slinging him up against the wall. My eyes met with Aaron’s. I mustered a grim smile.
I set him down in the pan. Aaron protested. “Don’t, Dad. He’ll drown!”
“No, his nose is above water.”
Aaron began crying. “Please don’t, Dad.”
Tony squirmed a little and produced a small stool sample. “See, Aaron, that’s what’s supposed to happen.”
Tony gave three quick, body-wrenching jerks and went stiff. We looked at him for a few seconds. I prodded him. Nothing. I put my thumb, his favorite treat, right in front of his mouth. Nothing.
“You killed Tony!,” wailed Aaron and buried his face in his mother’s thighs. She glared at me.
Few things in life are more difficult than failing your children. Not even the elaborate funeral I orchestrated helped much. Children are resilient, and Aaron recovered and appeared to forgive me. But, I made every effort to never let down my kids again. Ever.
However, she finally agreed to a “low impact” pet, providing Aaron hit academic goals that she set somewhere in the stratosphere. Aaron set out with tongue-jutting determination and exceeded them.
Pet store day. Aaron ran from aisle to aisle, wanting one of each. His mother consulted the clerk about which animals threw off the least byproduct and odor. We settled on a basilisk lizard. I bought a terrarium and asked for a box of lizard food that would last a month. I didn’t want to make a lot of trips.
The acne-plagued clerk grinned. “You can’t get a month’s worth of food,” he said, as though surprised to find an idiot in the room. “They eat live crickets.”
Oh c’mon. You’re locked up in a glass box and you can afford to be picky about food? You wouldn’t eat anything that drops to the floor of the terrarium? Apparently not. Lizards are stalwart gourmets.
So, we get everything home, including a carton of crawling bugs. We set it up and begin flipping through a book about pet lizards. I start to tell Aaron how frequently he’d have to feed his charge and clean the abode. But, his mother interjects that he will do neither. She’s not risking crickets and/or the lizard making an escape. I wanted this, so it was my job. So there.
Aaron christened the lizard Tony. I had had a fraternity brother from Brooklyn named Tony. Yeah, I could see it.
The first night was an eye-opener. Literally. Lizards are quiet, but what do crickets do on warm summer nights? They chirp! Why didn’t I think of that?
Feeding consisted of whipping off the top screen, dumping the carton of crickets and slamming down the top before anything could escape. Not too bad.
Cleaning was another story, and the book stressed the importance of it. It involved capturing Tony, securing him in a shoe box, and then returning him after the process. Easier said then done. You would think Tony would be grateful for all the services he received. But, you would not be a lizard.
The little bastard would sink his sharp, little teeth into my flesh at every opportunity. And, he was fast, so there were plenty of opportunities.
The months wore on, with Tony enjoying teething on me and the crickets serenading nightly. But, it was all for my son.
One day, he came to me and said something was wrong with Tony. He was listless. A listless lizard? How could you tell? It wasn’t like he was constantly cartwheeling around the terrarium. But, Aaron knew.
We went to Aaron’s room. Tony was motionless and even I could tell he didn’t look like his usual nasty self. Aaron looked up to me with pleading eyes. “Dad, you can fix him, can’t you?” Not too many options there.
I called the vet. He said that by the time you could tell a lizard was sick, it was probably too late. I said that he had to come up with something. My son was depending on me. He said the lizard probably had what could best be described as a severe and fatal case of constipation.
Okay. How about some Mexican food? He described one possible solution that involved Tony’s anus and something I wouldn’t even do with Julia Roberts.
I asked for an alternative. He said I could fill a pan with warm water and try soaking Tony in it. That sounded doable.
I put some water in a pan and we all went upstairs. Tony looked even more droopy, so I was a little careless grabbing him. Don’t you know the son of a bitch could summon up the energy to suddenly clamp his jaws onto my thumb? I screamed and pulled back my arm, momentarily contemplating slinging him up against the wall. My eyes met with Aaron’s. I mustered a grim smile.
I set him down in the pan. Aaron protested. “Don’t, Dad. He’ll drown!”
“No, his nose is above water.”
Aaron began crying. “Please don’t, Dad.”
Tony squirmed a little and produced a small stool sample. “See, Aaron, that’s what’s supposed to happen.”
Tony gave three quick, body-wrenching jerks and went stiff. We looked at him for a few seconds. I prodded him. Nothing. I put my thumb, his favorite treat, right in front of his mouth. Nothing.
“You killed Tony!,” wailed Aaron and buried his face in his mother’s thighs. She glared at me.
Few things in life are more difficult than failing your children. Not even the elaborate funeral I orchestrated helped much. Children are resilient, and Aaron recovered and appeared to forgive me. But, I made every effort to never let down my kids again. Ever.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Rudy's
For a few years, every February, I would rent a sailboat in a different part of the Caribbean and island hop with “the guys.” The deal was we shared responsibilities for planning and running the trip. Their idea of sharing was that they drank, ate and napped in the sun, and I did the rest. We avoided the tourist towns, but sometimes put ashore at a village to soak up local color. Or rum, which was cheaper than water.
One year, we did the Virgin Islands. I had an itinerary in mind, with a backup plan. While I checked out the boat, the guys walked around the dock and chatted with locals. They returned and excitedly said that the following evening, we must go to Rudy’s on Jost Van Dyke. I replied it wasn’t on our course, but they said that EVERYONE goes to Rudy’s and one simply must get a Rudy’s t-shirt. I told them I’d keep it in mind for the next trip.
We set sail, found a remote beach, anchored, snorkeled and then spent the evening toasting to various stars and whatever other excuse there was for drinking duty-free alcohol.
The next morning, they were at it again with the Rudy’s thing. I put my foot down and told them I was the captain of the ship and that was that.
So, we’re sailing for Jost Van Dyke. It was a very small island that appeared to be populated principally by goats. A “mountain” rose above a “jungle.” I saw no other boats in the cove. So much for everyone going to Rudy’s.
A small motor launch brought Albert to our boat for customs. Albert was a rotund, jolly black man of about 40. I had done this kind of thing enough that I “knew” Albert. I could spend two hours of him putting me through the hoops, or I could offer him a case of Elephant Lager and some sandwiches. He was soon buzzsawing into the sandwiches. “You name Henry. My middle name Henry. We be like brothers,” he grinned around a large mouthful of salami.” Great.
The guys joined Albert in a beer and salami orgy. I heard Albert say, “You name Pat? My middle name Pat. We be like brothers!”
Still no boats around. I asked if anyone would like to go ashore and climb the mountain. They looked at me like I had sprouted antlers. I rowed to the beach and spotted a worn path into the foliage. It led me to a clearing with a large shack, festooned with Japanese lanterns. Outside, a man turn a pig on a spit over hot coals.
“Are you Rudy,” I asked.
He eyed me suspiciously. “What you want with Rudy, mon?”
“Nothing. Just a t-shirt.”
“You don’t want no t-shirt. You a cop, mon. What you want with Rudy?”
“I just want to buy a shirt.”
“No, you a cop. You got cops eyes.”
We looked at each other for a bit and I asked if there was a trail to the top of the mountain. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder without taking his eyes off me. I shrugged and took off.
Hills are always deceiving. I had this one pegged for maybe a half hour climb. Wrong! A little over three times that, I was standing at the peak, panting and sweating profusely. I looked down in our cove and we were still the only boat. Everyone goes to Rudy’s.
The other side of the hill looked entirely primitive and inviting, so I headed down. About halfway, it dawned on me that the return trip would be all uphill, and I was already exuding enough rum fumes in my sweat to stun half the insect population. I turned around and made for the peak.
Gasping for air at the crest, I again noted that our vessel bobbed alone in the cove. Albert’s launch was gone, so I guessed we had run out of food. I stumbled down the rest of the way and rowed out to the boat. The guys were strewn about on deck pads in the hot afternoon sun, snoring loudly. I unrolled a pad and stretched out on the foredeck.
The next thing I remember was reverberating to the sounds of the Stones belting out “Satisfaction.” I slowly surfaced into the realm of consciousness, sat up and looked in the direction of the music. A huge ketch was anchored next to us, flying South African colors. On top of the cabin was a large air mattress. I might not have noticed it, except it bore two naked women soaking up the waning rays of the sun. Unlike most naked people I’ve seen in the Caribbean, these two unquestionably should’ve been au natural. Hello.
After a few minutes of unselfishly ascertaining that they were not getting too much sun, I managed to avert my eyes and note that the cove was filled with merrily bobbing sailboats of all descriptions. Maybe everyone does go to Rudy’s.
Pat, Ed and Hersch were already waking themselves up with some rum punch. We boarded the dingy and pointed to the beach. In front of the shack stood Albert and the man I had encountered before. Albert introduced us to his brother, Rudy.
“Albert says you A-one. I sell you the t-shirt, now.”
“I thought you wouldn’t sell to a cop.”
“I got special discount for cops.” Whatever.
The joint was already jumping with people of every ilk. It looked like the bar scene from Star Wars. Everything from very wealthy looking Europeans and South Americans to American hippy dropouts left over from the sixties. Rudy had fired up a generator and a band was fumbling its way through rock n’ roll songs, as they imagined they might sound if they had ever heard them.
Didn’t matter. The booze was flowing like Victoria Falls and people hopped from table to table, introducing themselves over the din. The roasting pig now reclined in a pan of barbeque sauce on the end of the bar and you need only rip off a dripping hunk to enjoy his sacrifice in our behalf.
After a couple hours of unfettered reveling, there was an abrupt decline in the noise level and some people were casting cautious looks toward the doorway, which was substantially filled by a man a little smaller than Rhode Island.
He was several inches north of six foot and probably passed four hundred pounds several years ago without looking back. He appeared toothless and a jagged red scar ran from the top of his bare pate to the corner of his mouth. His shaved head featured foil stars glued at regular intervals, but it didn’t seem likely that anyone would question him about that.
He surveyed the room with nasty piggy eyes, spotted an empty table in a remote corner and made way for it. Patrons in his path parted like the Red Sea. I was transfixed.
Pat put a restraining hand on my arm. “Don’t even think about it.”
“That guy just has to have the greatest story ever told.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
I was a little touched by Pat’s rare show of concern. “None of the rest of us knows how to sail the tub, so just keep your seat.” Oh.
The behemoth sat with his back to the wall and just downed rum punch and casually took in the festivities, which had resumed full throttle. I would shoot furtive glances in his direction occasionally, but Pat was watching me and would tap my shoulder and shake his head.
I stood up and Pat grabbed my wrist authoritatively. Pat wasn’t exactly tiny, either. “Just sit down.”
“I have to go to the head.”
“Don’t play me.”
“Don’t you think I have any common sense?”
“I don’t think you even know what it is.”
“Would you rather I peed down your leg?”
Pat loosened his grip. “I’m watching you.”
I walked directly to the john, feeling Pat’s stare boring into my back. I entered, counted to twenty and zipped back out to the bar. I got a beer and a rum punch, walked quickly over to the corner table, slammed the punch down in front of the monster and declared, “You have to have one of the greatest stories ever told and I’m not leaving until I hear it.” He looked at me for a few seconds and then pointed to the extra chair.
It didn’t take much to prime his pump. His name was Alphonse (Pinky, to his friends) and he was an art director with an ad agency in New York and once a year, he sticks his toupee and dentures in the drawer and heads down to the Caribbean just to get silly. And my, didn’t I have a nice, broad set of shoulders.
Holy crap. He began firing off questions about me, which I responded to somewhat monosyllabically. I was planning a tactful escape when he asked me if I fast danced.
“I have to go to the bathroom!,” I blurted out. I darted away before he could register belief or disbelief.
I took a circuitous route back to our table and managed to sit down without Pat even looking my way. I had pulled it off.
He took a long swallow of beer. “You just couldn’t help yourself could you?” he finally said, studying his glass.
“Hey, the guy just had to have a great story.”
“Pretty bad dude, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Dope dealer?”
“Nah.”
“Gun runner?”
“No. Look, let’s just leave this for later and party now.”
“Sure.” Pat took a sip of beer and turned to me. “Gay as a tangerine, isn’t he?”
I was caught off guard. “How did you know?”
“Rudy came over and asked what Henry was doing with the fancy boy. I damn near choked on my brew, laughing.”
I wish I could say that was the end of it, but it seemed like every island we stopped at for the rest of the trip, I’d hear “Oh Henry!” over my shoulder, and there would be Pinky waving. It provided endless entertainment to the guys for the duration of our voyage, and many years after, for that matter.
A few months later, I wrote a column about the trip in my newspaper. I deemed the “Pinky incident” irrelevant, and excluded it.
There is an epilogue. Al, a local restaurateur, called me and asked for details. He was going down to St, Thomas in a couple weeks and wanted to try to get out to Jost Van Dyke.
I was in his restaurant a couple months later and asked him how his trip was. “Damnest thing,” he said. “I clipped your article and took it with me. I found someone who would sail me to Jost Van Dyke. It looked like nothing and I wondered if you had been joking. I hiked through the jungle and found this shack. I walked inside and found Rudy. I told him I was from far away and had something for him of interest. I unfolded the article on the bar. He glanced at it and pointed to the wall. There was a framed copy. I felt like Dr. Livingston carrying a portable radio into darkest Africa to present to the natives, only to find they already had cable.”
Al stayed on for the evening’s festivities and said it was quite a good time. He didn’t mention anyone named Pinky and I didn’t ask.
One year, we did the Virgin Islands. I had an itinerary in mind, with a backup plan. While I checked out the boat, the guys walked around the dock and chatted with locals. They returned and excitedly said that the following evening, we must go to Rudy’s on Jost Van Dyke. I replied it wasn’t on our course, but they said that EVERYONE goes to Rudy’s and one simply must get a Rudy’s t-shirt. I told them I’d keep it in mind for the next trip.
We set sail, found a remote beach, anchored, snorkeled and then spent the evening toasting to various stars and whatever other excuse there was for drinking duty-free alcohol.
The next morning, they were at it again with the Rudy’s thing. I put my foot down and told them I was the captain of the ship and that was that.
So, we’re sailing for Jost Van Dyke. It was a very small island that appeared to be populated principally by goats. A “mountain” rose above a “jungle.” I saw no other boats in the cove. So much for everyone going to Rudy’s.
A small motor launch brought Albert to our boat for customs. Albert was a rotund, jolly black man of about 40. I had done this kind of thing enough that I “knew” Albert. I could spend two hours of him putting me through the hoops, or I could offer him a case of Elephant Lager and some sandwiches. He was soon buzzsawing into the sandwiches. “You name Henry. My middle name Henry. We be like brothers,” he grinned around a large mouthful of salami.” Great.
The guys joined Albert in a beer and salami orgy. I heard Albert say, “You name Pat? My middle name Pat. We be like brothers!”
Still no boats around. I asked if anyone would like to go ashore and climb the mountain. They looked at me like I had sprouted antlers. I rowed to the beach and spotted a worn path into the foliage. It led me to a clearing with a large shack, festooned with Japanese lanterns. Outside, a man turn a pig on a spit over hot coals.
“Are you Rudy,” I asked.
He eyed me suspiciously. “What you want with Rudy, mon?”
“Nothing. Just a t-shirt.”
“You don’t want no t-shirt. You a cop, mon. What you want with Rudy?”
“I just want to buy a shirt.”
“No, you a cop. You got cops eyes.”
We looked at each other for a bit and I asked if there was a trail to the top of the mountain. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder without taking his eyes off me. I shrugged and took off.
Hills are always deceiving. I had this one pegged for maybe a half hour climb. Wrong! A little over three times that, I was standing at the peak, panting and sweating profusely. I looked down in our cove and we were still the only boat. Everyone goes to Rudy’s.
The other side of the hill looked entirely primitive and inviting, so I headed down. About halfway, it dawned on me that the return trip would be all uphill, and I was already exuding enough rum fumes in my sweat to stun half the insect population. I turned around and made for the peak.
Gasping for air at the crest, I again noted that our vessel bobbed alone in the cove. Albert’s launch was gone, so I guessed we had run out of food. I stumbled down the rest of the way and rowed out to the boat. The guys were strewn about on deck pads in the hot afternoon sun, snoring loudly. I unrolled a pad and stretched out on the foredeck.
The next thing I remember was reverberating to the sounds of the Stones belting out “Satisfaction.” I slowly surfaced into the realm of consciousness, sat up and looked in the direction of the music. A huge ketch was anchored next to us, flying South African colors. On top of the cabin was a large air mattress. I might not have noticed it, except it bore two naked women soaking up the waning rays of the sun. Unlike most naked people I’ve seen in the Caribbean, these two unquestionably should’ve been au natural. Hello.
After a few minutes of unselfishly ascertaining that they were not getting too much sun, I managed to avert my eyes and note that the cove was filled with merrily bobbing sailboats of all descriptions. Maybe everyone does go to Rudy’s.
Pat, Ed and Hersch were already waking themselves up with some rum punch. We boarded the dingy and pointed to the beach. In front of the shack stood Albert and the man I had encountered before. Albert introduced us to his brother, Rudy.
“Albert says you A-one. I sell you the t-shirt, now.”
“I thought you wouldn’t sell to a cop.”
“I got special discount for cops.” Whatever.
The joint was already jumping with people of every ilk. It looked like the bar scene from Star Wars. Everything from very wealthy looking Europeans and South Americans to American hippy dropouts left over from the sixties. Rudy had fired up a generator and a band was fumbling its way through rock n’ roll songs, as they imagined they might sound if they had ever heard them.
Didn’t matter. The booze was flowing like Victoria Falls and people hopped from table to table, introducing themselves over the din. The roasting pig now reclined in a pan of barbeque sauce on the end of the bar and you need only rip off a dripping hunk to enjoy his sacrifice in our behalf.
After a couple hours of unfettered reveling, there was an abrupt decline in the noise level and some people were casting cautious looks toward the doorway, which was substantially filled by a man a little smaller than Rhode Island.
He was several inches north of six foot and probably passed four hundred pounds several years ago without looking back. He appeared toothless and a jagged red scar ran from the top of his bare pate to the corner of his mouth. His shaved head featured foil stars glued at regular intervals, but it didn’t seem likely that anyone would question him about that.
He surveyed the room with nasty piggy eyes, spotted an empty table in a remote corner and made way for it. Patrons in his path parted like the Red Sea. I was transfixed.
Pat put a restraining hand on my arm. “Don’t even think about it.”
“That guy just has to have the greatest story ever told.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
I was a little touched by Pat’s rare show of concern. “None of the rest of us knows how to sail the tub, so just keep your seat.” Oh.
The behemoth sat with his back to the wall and just downed rum punch and casually took in the festivities, which had resumed full throttle. I would shoot furtive glances in his direction occasionally, but Pat was watching me and would tap my shoulder and shake his head.
I stood up and Pat grabbed my wrist authoritatively. Pat wasn’t exactly tiny, either. “Just sit down.”
“I have to go to the head.”
“Don’t play me.”
“Don’t you think I have any common sense?”
“I don’t think you even know what it is.”
“Would you rather I peed down your leg?”
Pat loosened his grip. “I’m watching you.”
I walked directly to the john, feeling Pat’s stare boring into my back. I entered, counted to twenty and zipped back out to the bar. I got a beer and a rum punch, walked quickly over to the corner table, slammed the punch down in front of the monster and declared, “You have to have one of the greatest stories ever told and I’m not leaving until I hear it.” He looked at me for a few seconds and then pointed to the extra chair.
It didn’t take much to prime his pump. His name was Alphonse (Pinky, to his friends) and he was an art director with an ad agency in New York and once a year, he sticks his toupee and dentures in the drawer and heads down to the Caribbean just to get silly. And my, didn’t I have a nice, broad set of shoulders.
Holy crap. He began firing off questions about me, which I responded to somewhat monosyllabically. I was planning a tactful escape when he asked me if I fast danced.
“I have to go to the bathroom!,” I blurted out. I darted away before he could register belief or disbelief.
I took a circuitous route back to our table and managed to sit down without Pat even looking my way. I had pulled it off.
He took a long swallow of beer. “You just couldn’t help yourself could you?” he finally said, studying his glass.
“Hey, the guy just had to have a great story.”
“Pretty bad dude, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Dope dealer?”
“Nah.”
“Gun runner?”
“No. Look, let’s just leave this for later and party now.”
“Sure.” Pat took a sip of beer and turned to me. “Gay as a tangerine, isn’t he?”
I was caught off guard. “How did you know?”
“Rudy came over and asked what Henry was doing with the fancy boy. I damn near choked on my brew, laughing.”
I wish I could say that was the end of it, but it seemed like every island we stopped at for the rest of the trip, I’d hear “Oh Henry!” over my shoulder, and there would be Pinky waving. It provided endless entertainment to the guys for the duration of our voyage, and many years after, for that matter.
A few months later, I wrote a column about the trip in my newspaper. I deemed the “Pinky incident” irrelevant, and excluded it.
There is an epilogue. Al, a local restaurateur, called me and asked for details. He was going down to St, Thomas in a couple weeks and wanted to try to get out to Jost Van Dyke.
I was in his restaurant a couple months later and asked him how his trip was. “Damnest thing,” he said. “I clipped your article and took it with me. I found someone who would sail me to Jost Van Dyke. It looked like nothing and I wondered if you had been joking. I hiked through the jungle and found this shack. I walked inside and found Rudy. I told him I was from far away and had something for him of interest. I unfolded the article on the bar. He glanced at it and pointed to the wall. There was a framed copy. I felt like Dr. Livingston carrying a portable radio into darkest Africa to present to the natives, only to find they already had cable.”
Al stayed on for the evening’s festivities and said it was quite a good time. He didn’t mention anyone named Pinky and I didn’t ask.
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