The test

In the myriad of holiday season parties, you find yourself bumping into many a ghost of Christmas past. Last week, it was Michelle.

It’s a pleasure to see her, but she invariably engages me the same way. Years ago, we met at a seminar for business owners. Part of the weekend was running through the Myers-Briggs test. Ever since then, Michelle always greets me by reminding me that we came out with the same profile.

I hadn’t thought about that in some time. This morning, I dug out an old file to see what that profile was. The file was like a time line in the evolution of profiling. I started business life with a Fortune 500 company, and you got run through a battery of testing every time you were up for a promotion. Then there was the DISC system that I encountered in a sales course. And, the Performance Index that I took when someone tried to sell me use of the system when I owned a company. A lot of sophisticated (and expensive) tools.

These tests are useful in flagging extremes. Outside of that, they are subject to variables, in my experience. They may nail the profile, but I don’t believe they necessarily predict performance. For instance, I had an applicant apply for a sales support position. His tested profile matched up with it.

But, I don’t rely upon that. I like to get people to talk about their lives to get a real sense of who they are. The path they took, the decisions they made, how they handled adversity, their outcomes, their attitudes, their relationships – everything draws a picture.

This guy felt like sales to me, not supporting it. He was goal-oriented, had something to prove and was a winner. I talked him into selling.

He became our star salesperson and was promoted to sales manager. The top salesperson is rarely a good candidate for sales manager, but his natural profile helped make him an excellent one. Now, he’s running a company. Some people can understand their profiles and outperform them by building on strengths and dealing directly with their weaker areas. The complex tests don’t always predict that aspect.

That’s why a couple tattered sheets of composition paper stood out in my file. I couldn’t help but grin. One of the most prosaic tests I ever took, and would use for potential key employees for many years. It spoke volumes.

The paper had nothing but handwritten rows of ones; the numeral. You are told to write as many ones as you can in two minutes. At the end of the writing, you are told to count how many you wrote. The score isn’t important.

Then, you are told that you will take the test again and are asked to estimate how many you will write. This is the key.

Most people guess they’ll do a little better. They understand there’s some learning involved in anything or think they have a gear in reserve. This tells you someone is in the middle of the bell curve. But, the extremes are more predictive of performance.

At one end of the spectrum, you have those who say they’ll do a lot better. Ask why. Are they figuring out a way to do better? Are their competitive juices piqued? Are they just telling you what they think you want to hear? The reason is as germane as the prediction.

Generally, you’re in good shape with this group. They aim for the stars and make the effort to reach them. They will take responsibility for their outcomes and succeed more times than not. The potential of falling short does not deter them. The positive expect to win and do not fear the alternative.

At the other end are the negative thinkers who forecast the same or worse performance. This is not an absolute measure, but is usually not a good sign. They will set their goals low to avoid the possibility of failure, and the performance often fulfills the prophecy. Defining a low or mediocre goal to one’s self as “success” is a red flag for all kinds of problems. You can expect these people to always have a rationalization for setting the bar low or for shifting responsibility for their poor performance to other people or factors. Not a good hiring risk.

It’s a simple (and cheap) test. But, I’ve seldom seen it fail to provide insight into future behavior.

In the Plimpton mode

George Plimpton symbolizes an interesting genre of writing. He ventured into arcane niches as the “average Joe” and took us along for the ride. Few have done it as well, but a recently published book may surpass George’s work
.
In “A year of Living Bibically,” A. J. Jacobs chronicles his odyssey in living by the law of the good book, or at least the Old Testament. Literally.

The first test is growing a beard; no small feat for a self-confessed borderline OCD who concerns himself with potential germ entrapment. He moves on to assiduously eschewing coveting, theft, lies, gossip, and the other more obvious failings.

But, he finds it’s more complex than simply shunning the despicable. He must avoid clothing of mixed fibers. He can’t sit upon furniture that was sat upon by a menstruating woman, which his wife deems sexist. Jacobs refers to days by their ordinal numbers to avoid uttering the names of pagan gods.

He does draw the line at illegal borders and refuses to kill magicians. But, he does stone a sinner, employing pebbles to avoid criminal charges. The size of the stones is unspecified in the Bible.

Along the way, the author visits a number of holy people and shrines of various stripe. This casts light upon the diversity of belief and ritual. This enriches an already fascinating and humorous account and makes it a book well worth your time.

How does he emerge from the experience? “A reverent agnostic,” which is swears is not oxymoronic.

Trans-Siberian Orchestra

Not a ticket I would’ve bought for myself. From the snippets of information I’d encountered over the years, I was under the impression it was mostly a light show. But, I was being taken last night, as part of a Christmas present.

It was one great present.

This concert sells out, so anticipate that for parking. We dined first and opted for parking up in town and walking. This is probably the best strategy.

While the name may sound a bit stuffy, it belies the eclectic nature of the performance. Classical? Rock? R&B? How about all of the above? An amalgam.

With a generous troupe, the range is boundless. The cast changes to create variety and impact you in many ways. As best as I could count, there were two keyboards, eight violins, three guitars, four lead singers, six backups and one kick-butt drummer.

You can’t exclude the special effects people from the performer category. The props, laser lights, strobes, flame throwers, fireworks, “snow,” smoke and other devices produce amazing effects, and are well coordinated with the music.

We were about twenty rows from the stage, and up five. If you’re closer, it’s too close. There’s a lot to take in.

Virtually impossible to categorize. The first half of this show was a James Earl Jones type telling a Christmas story. Each part was punctuated with a holiday number done in grand fashion, usually in a rock arrangement. Very good, but not world class. They know how to finish and save the best parts.

The “break” before the second half is the introduction of performers. Two of the vocalists, a keyboarder and the drummer were definitely star quality.

The second half commences with some covers of rock classics. Bold move, since they took on the best of the best. But, they brought it off. I like to see sights set high, but cringed a little when they started with “Proud Mary” in the Ike & Tina style. That’s gutsy to square off with I&T on that number. They rocked the house. Everyone was on their feet dancing, as was the case with several numbers. Great art evokes emotion, and this was great art.

This segment was followed by numbers that featured various solo performances. The two best were the dueling keyboards and the drummer. The latter rivaled “Wipeout” and brought down the house.

The diverse crowd reflected their broad appeal. It’s more like a first-rate Vegas show than a concert.

If you have the opportunity the next time around, go. Thoroughly enjoyable evening.

Regarding the Darlene Love post...

If this doesn't say Christmas...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOr7lpxmBnY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXVcrWO5FCg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aslKMBEDpdo&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o7AKSn9bjuk&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_F24Yk8tAI&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BxHNHBNYNK0&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mbzhrjz_gVc&feature=related

Strike not this

I'm an early to bed, early to rise person. And, I'm not much for television. So, neither the writers' strike nor hiatus of the "Late Show with David Letterman" garnered my attention.

Until now.

You want one of the most romantic nights of the year with a significant other? Then park it in front of the tube for Letterman the last show before Christmas each year. There's one act that repeats every year. Any when you see it, you won't have to ask why.

Darlene Love (former lead singer of The Crystals) performs "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)." If it doesn't send a shiver up your spine, you don't have a pulse.

Rambling thoughts

I was on the phone discussing New Years Eve plans, when I heard this noise. I looked outside and the snow was still coming down. My neighbor was spinning wheels of his new “crossover vehicle. “ Crossover. We used to call it a station wagon. Just like the rowhouses I grew up in. They’re “townhouses” now and sell for about a twenty times their previous value.

Something pings in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite get a handle on it. Like a dream you can’t quite remember. New Years. Snow. Spinning tires. Can’t put my finger on it.

He’s not making it up the driveway. I eye the parka on my coat rack. I should go out and help him. Ping. What is that?

I hung up, sighed and shrugged on the coat. I take one step outside and he’s going down the road. Whatever. I have a speech to write, anyway.

I sit down at the keyboard. Ping. I see snow and a black and white crossover spinning around. My neighbor’s is silver. Odd, but….. Okay, I got it now.

Gil was the oldest of my cousins and the first of us to make it out of the endless rowhouses that line the inner city of Philadelphia. He joined the Navy, worked his way up to an officer, came out and went to college on the GI bill. And, went to some more college. By the late 50s, he was a professor of accounting at UCLA.

He hung out with an engineering professor who was doing groundbreaking research in polymers. He and Gil left the university to start a little company based on his innovations. It turned into a big company that was bought out by a huge corporation. Gil was swimming in it and bought a house in the hills of Laguna Beach overlooking the ocean. He lived the life of a southern California playboy.

I was in high school and got a call from Gil. “Hammer, you got a spring break or something coming up?”

“Yeah, in a couple weeks. Why, inviting me out to the coast?”

“Not there. I’m in Miami Beach.”

“I could hitchhike down.”

“I’ve got a better deal for you. I drove to my mother’s house in Philly. Then, I got a call from this chick I know in Florida and flew down here. Looks like I’ll stay a while and I was wondering if you’d drive my car down here. I’ll pay your airfare back.”

My mind reeled. The last I heard, his fleet included a gull wing Mercedes, Jaguar XKE and Pontiac 2+2 convertible. I tried not to sound overanxious. “Okay, I could do that. Uh, which car?”

“The Jag. Is that okay?”

Is that okay? Gimme a break. “Yeah, that’s cool.”

“Just two things.” Uh oh. “You make it down here in two days. No screwing around. And, you come alone. None of your delinquent buddies or bimbos.”

“Didn’t even cross my mind.” How did he know?

“Okay, just let my mom know what day you’ll pick it up.”

Time slowed down to a glacial pace. Would the day never come?

But, then I got thinking. Something novel in that era. What was I so excited about, with all the restrictions? Drive two days, get on a plane and come home? That’s a break? That’s a win-win?

It was a sunny afternoon with the promise of spring. Ernie Forchetti and I were shooting rats at the dump. Our version of big game hunting.

“We get off next week.” Like I didn’t know that. “Ya wanna hit the Wood (Wildwood, NJ)?”

“Nah.”

“C’mon, Hammer. I don’t have a car. If I don’t get out, I’ll be spending the damn week with all my whipped relatives. That rots. Let’s do it.”

“Nah.”

“You gotta better idea?”

I hesitated. “Yes. Yes, I believe I do.”

I had Ernie wait around the corner when I picked up the Jag. My aunt reluctantly turned over the keys. She’d been hearing horror stories from her sister (my mother) for the past few years.

I went around to the alley and there she sat. Yellow body, black top and leather interior. I jumped in and fired that mother up. Oh yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

Ernie’s eyes about popped out of his head. I burned rubber onto Route 1 and we were heading south.

First diversion was Virginia Beach. Bunch of college kids there. A writer for “Car and Driver” anointed the XKE the “greatest crumpet collector of all time.” That’s an understatement. We hooked up with a couple girls from the University of Delaware and yadda yadda yadda.

Two days later we were scorching asphalt again. As far as Myrtle Beach. There, the coeds were from UNC. Go Tarheels!

After a brief dalliance in Jacksonville with some high school girls, we finally made it to Miami Beach. Gil was not pleased. Not entirely surprised, either.

That being the case, I was surprised a few years later. I was away at college and my mother called me early one morning, to catch me before I went to class.

“You still have a car, don’t you?”

“Yes.” In a manner of speaking. When I graduated high school, I had to sell my hot rod for college money. I was working my way through as a store detective for a department store. I could ride busses for that, but then I got my co-op job assignment and needed a car. I came upon a wheezing four -cylinder Tempest that could barely climb the hills of Cincinnati, “It’s still the same jalopy. Why?”

“Your cousin Gil dropped off a car for you.”

“What?!”

“He was in town and came by to visit. He asked how you were doing and I said you were hanging in there, working a couple jobs. He asked if you could use a car and I said you probably could. So, the next day he dropped one off and said to surprise you with it the next time you came home. I said you’d probably have to be told or you might drive home and have two cars here.”

“What is it?” I’d lost touch with Gil and could only imagine what treasures his garage housed now.

“Well, he did want it to be a surprise.”

“Just tell me!”

“Don’t take that tone with your mother. You’re not too big for me to take a belt to.” And she would.

“Okay, sorry. What is it?”

“It’s Gil surprise. I’ll leave it up to him. You can call him.”

“Okay, see ya.”

“Don’t call him now. It’s four in the morning out there.”

“I can wait.”

I could wait a little over two hours. Gil was understandably groggy. “Who did you say this was?”

“Hammer. Your cousin.”

“Oh, yeah. How ya doing?”

“Great. Mom said you wanted to tell me something.”

“Tell you something?”

“About a car. A car you left at her house.”

“The car? I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Trust me, it’s a surprise.”

“Did you need a car?”

“I need a car. Boy, do I need a car.” Visions of Jaguars danced in my head.

“You know my father died a few months ago.”

“Yes, I was in the middle of co-op training and couldn’t get way. Sorry to hear it.”

“Yes, I got your flowers. Poor guy busted his hump all his life.”

True enough. My uncle Al was a paper hanger. “That’s a fact.”

“Remember the Rambler?’

Al used an old Rambler station wagon in his trade. Over the years, the interior acquired a layer of wallpaper paste and scraps of paper. “Yes.”

“Well, it’s yours.” Surprise!

I thanked Gil. I could wait to get home and see it.

I wouldn’t get a chance to get home until Christmas break. Bill, my roommate made a proposal. He would drive if I’d take him up to Times Square for New Years Eve. He grew up in Cincinnati and had only seen it on television. Deal.

We got into Philly around Christmas. I took Bill on the rounds. Lots of parties in the old neighborhood. His anticipation built.

Then, it began to snow. And snow. And snow. Even though the plan was to grab a train up to New York, by the afternoon of the 31st, that was clearly out of the question.

So, New Years Eve, we were sitting around sipping overly sweet wine with my mother. Bill was enjoying her tales of my misspent youth, but I wasn’t. I suggested we go for a walk in the winter wonderland. We bundled up and went outside.

Up the street and down the alley. I caught site of the garage. I hadn’t even thought about the Rambler. With some effort, we were able to clear a drift and open the door. There she sat, in all her black and white glory. I got in. The keys were on the visor. She turned over with a shudder.

I fishtailed it out of the garage and down the alley. We went across the street to a school parking lot and did spinouts and doughnuts for hours. What did I have to lose with the Rambler? It was a blast. I suppose the wine helped.

I get up from the keyboard, pour a glass of wine and look out the window. The snow is still falling on the cul-de-sac. Maybe I should get the Jeep out.

Maybe not.

Niantic

I was driving a remote stretch of interstate, late the other night. Snow started to fall. Nothing but snowflakes and the inky darkness. A memory sprang to mind, emerging from almost three decades of dormancy. A memory of Niantic.

I was publishing “Writer’s Digest,” the magazine for aspiring writers. We held an annual writing contest and mailed out award plaques to the winners of the various categories. There was also a grand prize winner.

One year, I got the idea that we could generate some additional goodwill and publicity by personally presenting the award to the grand prize winner. I would make the presentation at the venue of the winner’s choice. That person could pick their writer’s club meeting, family gathering, city council meeting or whatever.

The award would be presented in January. My editor, John, headed the judging committee. “Pick a winner in a southern climate,” I said kiddingly. Okay, half kiddingly.

The day came and he dropped a note in the middle of my desk blotter. It had only the name and phone number. The area code didn’t ring a bell. “Where does he live?”

John grinned. “Niantic, Connecticut.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Not my problem.” Few things were. Editors.

It was far out on Long Island Sound. That should be balmy this time of year.

I called the winner, mustering up all the enthusiasm I could in my voice.

“That’s nice, “he said, as though I had just offered to sell him an insurance policy. “Put it in the mail.”

“I don’t think you understand, Mr. Blansky, I said I’ll come out and make the presentation in front of any group you want. You’re the grand prize winner. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Yeah, thanks. Put it in the mail.” The line went dead.

I stared at the handset a bit before hanging up. Something didn’t compute. I had read his short story and it was rich with emotion and imagery. I pulled the file, skipping over the manuscript and focusing on the accompanying bio.

John walked back into my office. “So, is he stoked?”

I didn’t look up from the bio. “Not the word I’d choose.”

“What word would you use?”

“I don’t know. Unmoved. Apathetic. Maybe, comatose. He said to just mail it in.”

John leaned over to see what was holding my attention. “But, you’re not going to let it go.”

“I’m not going to let it go.”

In his bio, it said that he was a member of a small writing club. We maintained a directory of clubs, so I looked it up. I called Al, the president, and related my conversation with Mr. Blansky.”

“Yeah, that would be Pete,” he chuckled. “That’s really a shame. He’s a great guy and it would be really neat to do that. He’s just not the type to call attention to himself. I wish he had gone along with it.”

“Well, I’m a creative guy, I’m guessing you’re a creative guy, can we come up with something?”

Al was creative. Possibly a tad too much. We hatched a plot, but it was mostly his.

The club met monthly for dinner at a local pub , on a weekday night. I would show up and take an adjoining table, acting as a character from Pete’s short story. Fine, but that role was that of an obnoxious, disheveled wino. I would impose myself on their table. At the point Pete caught on, I would make the presentation. Assuming he wouldn’t stab me with a salad fork first.

What could go wrong? Or, what could go right?

As long as I was headed that way, I scheduled some sales calls in New Haven. I’d always wanted to see Yale, anyway.

I flew into New York and rented a car. Outside of the metro area, it was a dark night with light snow. I checked into the hotel and decided to go for a jog. It would be interesting to see the town.

A little over a mile into it, I perceived the flashing of a red light and noticed a patrol car had pulled up to the curb. The officer rolled down his window and motioned me over. “What are you doing, sir?”

Several clever answers occurred to me, but I wisely opted to tell him that I was staying at a hotel and had decided to go for a run before settling in for the evening. “You could get settled in for life. This is a very high crime area.”

“New Haven?”

“Yes, get in. I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”

I got in. If it was dangerous, he would know.

I did my calls the next day and walked around Yale. It did not disappoint.

Then, I was off to Niantic on a grey, dismal winter day. Niantic matched the day. Somewhat of a waterside resort in the summer, it was barely inhabited in the depths of winter. The motel was stark and seedy. No inside corridors. I was on the second level. Half expected to find Anthony Perkins in the shower.

Not much to do until dinner, so I laced on the running shoes. I work up pretty good steam within a mile, so got through winter with shorts just fine. That was in Ohio. The wind came off the Sound here, slicing right through me. Visions of soaking in hot water danced in my head.

I got the water running as soon as I got back to the room. Digging through my luggage, I found my paperback and eased into the tub. Ahhhh.

The phone started ringing. Crap. I was tempted to let it go, but it could be the wife about something important at home. Reluctantly, I climbed out of the tub and padded across the cruddy shag.

Without responding to my “hello,” a male voice said, ”State police. Exit your room immediately and go left to the staircase, moving quickly and don’t stop for any reason.”

“What?”

“Go down the staircase and run across the lot, taking a position behind the police cars. Stay low.”

“Very funny, John.”

“This is the state police. Do it now and do it fast. Do not stop. There are armed bank robbers holed up two doors down from you. Move!”

I pulled on my running shorts and my shoes. I cracked the door and looked down the balcony. Nothing, but I did catch sight of the phalanx of police vehicles in the parking lot. This might be for real.

I burst out of the room and sprinted down the balcony at flank speed. Right before the staircase, a figure stepped out from behind the Coke machine.

My reaction was reflex. Without breaking stride, I lowered my shoulders and drove through him.

Reflex is faster than thought. A fraction of a second after blasting into him, the image of the uniform registered. Very few bank robbers wear uniforms. At least, to the best of my knowledge.

Too late. He was airborne. I kept going. Down the steps and serpentining out to the cars.

I crouched down and looked back toward my room. The officer had resumed his position behind the Coke machine.

I sensed the weight of stares and turned. All the police and some of my fellow guests were gaping at me. I was wet, dressed in shorts and exuding steam into the frigid air. All attention returned to the balcony.

The officer tiptoed around the Coke machine and edged along the wall. Men around me brought long guns up to their cheeks. He tentatively reached a hand out and rapped on a door, jumping back and yelling words that the wind swept away before they could reach us. The air crackled with tension.

“Hey, does anyone have a spare coat or something?”

“Shhhhh!”

“I’m officially freezing here.”

“Shutup!”

“You said to come right out. I didn’t take time to…”

“Sir, if you say another word, I will shoot you three times in the head.” Didn’t sound like the Miranda warning to me.

Fortunately, the bad guys gave up quickly and without a fight. They had hit a bank in Fall River and fled to here, according to plan. But, one of them had been captured at the bank and had ratted them out. As soon as they were secured, I ran back to the room, refilled the tub and tried to regain body heat.

After the shivers finally ceased, I unpacked my costume. The centerpiece was a loud yellow sports coat that my wife never let me wear. I had packed it in a ball for effect. A plaid sports shirt and yellow paisley tie went with that. I stuffed a handful of cheap cigars in the breast pocket. I skipped shaving that morning.

Not sure I would be able to easily find the place, I left early. Mind you, I always leave early. Even in a town that’s about ten square blocks.

I found a parking spot in front of the pub. Twenty minutes to kill. I noticed a store across the street and an idea occurred to me. I bought a pint of very cheap wine, went back to the car and sloshed some of it on like cologne. I sat there with the engine running to ward off the cold, very pleased with myself about thinking of this finishing touch.

There was no traffic, so it was impossible for me not to notice the patrol car that passed by a couple times. Also, for him not to notice me.

He stopped on his third pass, got out, tapped on the window and motioned me to roll it down. “May I see your license and registration?” I dug for my wallet and a look passed over his face. “Sir, would you step out of the car?” Yes, that finishing touch was a terrific idea.

“I can explain.”

“Sir, please step out of the car. Now.” He was fingering the strap on his holster. I got out.

I rapidly explained. Not a flicker of reaction. “Look, the plaque is wrapped up in my overcoat, right there on the seat.”

He looked and arched his eyebrows. “Okay, here’s the deal. We go inside and talk to Al.” Apparently, everyone knew everyone in this town. “If he backs you up, you walk.”

“Can’t do that. It’ll screw up the surprise.”

“Or, I can just throw you in jail.”

“Can do that.”

We walked into the pub and were greeted by Tony, who I took to be the proprietor. He and the officer exchanged some pleasantries. A thought occurred.

“Tony, did Al happen to tell you what’s going on tonight?”

“What’s going on tonight?”

Oh, great. “With Pete? The award?”

“Yeah, yeah. The award. That writing thing.”

“That’s me. I’m the guy doing it. Tell your friend, here.”

“Pete’s getting some kind of writing thing tonight.” Thanks, Tony.

But, it was enough. The officer departed and Tony seated me next to the group after describing which were Al and Pete. I ordered and went into my act.

I eavesdropped until I heard my cue from Al. I stood up, staggered over to the table and intruded on their conversation. Pete said nothing, as predicted. I worked around the table to him, put my hand on his shoulder and started provoking him, per our script.

I was warming to the role when a voice rang out from the next table, “Hey, I know you.” I ignored it. He couldn’t have been talking to me.

A guy who looked like a heavier Ned Beatty stood up and came over to me. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

Had Al done a rewrite without telling me? I looked at him and he gave a shrug.

"I'm not whoever you think I am, pal. You don't know me."

“Sure I do. You’re that guy from that writing magazine. I saw you when you spoke at Malone College last year. “

Pete’s eyes bored into mine. I dropped the drunken slur. “Hi, Pete. I’m Henry. We spoke on the phone.” I smiled. He didn’t.

All’s well that ends well. His writing friends whooped it up and people from other tables came over to congratulate him. Pete eventually got into the spirit.

After the day I had, I really got into the spirits. I was lucky not to encounter my new law enforcement friend on the way home.

I was not well in the morning. I wasn’t thinking well either because I was glad that I had booked a commuter flight out of New London instead of having to drive back to Kennedy in my condition.

It was a blustery day, so the walk across the tarmac was a head-down trek. So, it wasn’t until I arrived at the plane did I notice it was about the size of a bar of soap.

We were soon not that high over the glacial waters of Long Island Sound, getting severely buffeted by a winter storm. I looked for something in the seatback pocket to distract me. There was a brochure. This was Pilgrim Airlines and I was bouncing along in a DHC Otter.

Pilgrims weren’t renowned as aviators and otters are happiest in cold water, like that beneath our wings. You think things like that with a hangover.

Miraculously, we survived. I was back at my desk the next morning.

John sauntered in with too big of a grin for my taste. “So, enjoy Niantic and your grand ruse?”

“We’re not doing a presentation next year.”

“Oh, come on. Details. I need details.”

“Any further conversation revolves around the possibility of your continued employment.”

“I think we’re done here.”

Christmas comes early

I received an official notice that I am part of a class action settlement. It seems that some credit card companies were making improper charges on foreign transactions. Wow. What are the odds of credit card companies sticking it to customers?

This isn't the first time I benefited from someone else's vigilance and initiative. A couple years ago, I received a similar notice, concerning a bank that was doing some slight-of-hand with mortgage clients. Again, I'm shocked. Someone discovered it, had the initiative to take it to court and I got a new kayak out of it.

It's no small effort or expense to mount a class action suit, so my hat is off to these people. I can think of two instances when I contemplated it.

One was when I was being jerked around on a product rebate. Researching it, I discovered this was not uncommon. There are rebate companies. They approach manufacturers of products and offer to conduct rebate campaigns. The sales hook is more than a spike in product sales. The rebate company will collect vital data on the buyer in the application process, and feed the marketing intelligence back to the manufacturer. Yeah, and sell it to whom else?

The fees weren't enough for some of the greedier and seedier. Instead of collecting the rebate pool from the manufacturer and making prompt payments to the buyers, they would delay payment and invest the money, collecting dividends and interest off that. This wasn't their money to invest. It belonged to the customers. And, they were jeopardizing the goodwill between the manufacturer and their customers by delaying payment.

It was a fuzzy line. But, some of the rebate companies simply didn't pay off. Or, didn't until they received a certain amount of complaints from someone.

The other situation involved a car lease. I went with the deal that offered the lowest interest rate. This might be a red flag, but it came from a major bank. I thought it had to be legitimate. Doh! I had enough business experience that I should've known better.

The marketing of the lease had contrasted it with the aspects of buying a car. You don't have to run the gauntlet of selling when you're through with the car. Simply turn it in.

It was anything but simple. Toward the end of the lease, I received a notice that I had to make two appointments at two different locations. the first was for inspection. The second, to drop off. I'll take the weight for this since I didn't ask enough questions up front.

The inspection was to ascertain if there were any damages that exceeded the "normal wear & tear" clause. I did understand that up front and had no problem with paying for a missing mirror or whatever.

the inspector went over the car, making notations on a clipboard. He gave me my copy. The amount I owed was $1,800. Excuse me?

Among the items was a paint job because the paint on the front edge of the hood was chipped. You drive a car three years/45,000 miles and it's abnormal to get a few stone chips from road debris? I don't think so.

Then, there was a new set of tires because of excess wear. Bovine excrement! The manufacturer didn't guarantee them for even close to this mileage. I had already bought these tires in the price of the lease. I wasn't buying a set for the next owner.

The remaining items were equally ludicrous. I did some nosing around and found that this bank had gone to leasing companies all over town. They tried to get their business by promising to increase their profits through increased back end charges. I did some additional research and found this to be prevalent across the country.

I called the bank and asked for an appointment to discuss the issue on my lease and a reasonable resolution. The department manager (who sounded about 13 years old) informed me they didn't tolerate or negotiate with deadbeats. Either pay within 48 hours or they'd sue.

I ascertained who the department reported to and called that vice president. I related my conversation with his department head. He said that while he didn't think the tone had been appropriate, he stood behind the policies of the bank.

I told him not to wait 48 hours. Sue me now and I'll subpoena all their lease records for the past three years. Charges for "normal" wear & tear should be occurring in much less than 50% of the contracts or something abnormal is going on. If I found that to be the case, there were federal statutes dealt with this much better than a small claims court. He said I owed them nothing.

Why didn't I go class action? In both cases, I found that these illicit practices were not only widespread, but widely known. The state attorney general offices of a number of states had already filed some suits in behalf of their constituents (not my state, of course).

So, my reasoning was that if there were grounds for class action, it would've been done already. Might've been mistaken.

Rosetta Stone of American Culture

The late, great Jean Shepherd wrote a tongue-in-cheek article positing that the Johnson Smith catalog was the Rosetta Stone of American culture for its era. Launched in 1914, it dealt heavily in wax lips, pepper-spiked chewing gum, itching powders, rubber spiders and other “novelties.”
Choosing this as a reflection of the norm seems to indicate that it was a golden age of the fake dog poop level of wit. Presumably, buffoons roamed the land with their bags of prop gags, cracking up audiences of like intellect.

What catalog would represent today’s society? One candidate would be Hammacher Schlemmer. It’s been around for over 150 years, but has certainly kept pace with the times. Here are some selections from the latest.

Of course, you remember the hoary piggy bank for kids. Maybe even that cash register looking thing that totaled your savings and refused to open until you hit ten bucks. Make way for the Children’s Touchscreen ATM Bank, courtesy of HS. It handles deposits up to $999.99. That’s inflation.

Then, there’s the Ropeless Jump Rope. This reminds me of the time I led a paddling trip and had an irritating participant who fired questions at me nonstop. I pointed out the world’s only topless covered bridge to occupy his mind for a while. The jump rope consists of two handles. One is computerized to provide data and feedback.
If you like virtual rope jumping, you’ll love the electronic Jellyfish Aquarium. No food, no mess, no real animals. Just the illusion.

And, if you enjoy the depths, you’ll definitely want to order the Uncrushable 3,000-foot Depth Watch. You’ll be a crepe at about 500 feet, but have the comfort of knowing that your watch will survive the rest of the descent.

If that thought concerns you, check out the electronic Biofeedback Stress Relief Coach. How did you maintain your vitals before this? When the readings come out on the high side, just strap the Stress Relieving Wristband onto the other arm.

All that stress could induce some excessive sleep habits. For that, you’ll need the Runaway Alarm Clock. Hit the snooze button and it takes off and hides from you, continuing to emit beeps and flashes.

Nice novelties, you say, but has anyone brought the advances in technology to bear upon anything of critical importance? Fear not, for there is the 14 MPH Cooler. Picture an amalgam of an ice chest and a motorized scooter for the handicapped. It includes a beverage holder because you wouldn’t want to be driving without a cold one at hand.

I’ll end here because you just can’t top that.

Gimme that ol' time Rock n' Roll

A pharmaceutical rep leaned around the doorsill of my office. “Seasons greetings!”

“Thanks. Bring some doughnuts?”

“Better.” He checked down the hall, as though about to do something unseemly. Satisfied, he walked up to my desk and put a sample packet on my blotter. They were erection-producing pills. “You can’t have Christmas without the North Pole, can ya?”

I shoved them back toward them. “I have the Righteous Brothers.”

He looked puzzled. “Don’t know the firm. They out of Europe?” Kids.

The party season has begun. Unfortunately, Tom & Luann and Cheri & David kicked it off early. Tom spares no expense and Cheri, a gourmet chef, no effort. I say “unfortunately” because after their all-out productions, it’ll be downhill from here.

Tom had gone the extra mile by hiring an excellent DJ who targeted the audience well. Two prime evokers of memories are aromas and music. And, there are few better memories than those associated with the slow dances of yore. Or, as my old friend Auggie Passanante used to refer to it, “belly rubbin’ music.”

As we danced, I started compiling a list of the best:

In the Still of the Night – The Five Satins
A Thousand Stars – Kathy Young
Unchained Melody – The Righteous Brothers
For Your Precious Love – Jerry Butler
I Only Have Eyes for You – the Flamingos

And then, there are the fast dances that get your blood pumping:

Gimme Some Lovin – Spencer Davis Group
Old Time Rock and Roll – Bob Seger
Ain’t Too Proud to Beg - Temptations
Peppermint Twist – Joey Dee and the Starlighters
Mustang Sally – Wilson Pickett

Not the very top shelf, but still get the job done:

Let’s Spend the Night Together – Rolling Stones
Come on up – The Young Rascals
Proud Mary – Credence Clearwater Revival
Money – The Kingsmen
The Twelfth of Never – Johnny Mathis
Since I don’t Have You – The Skyliners
Barbara Ann – The Beach Boys
Mony Mony – Tommy James and the Shondells
Devil with the Blue Dress on – Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels
Just One Look – Doris Troy
Stand by Me – Ben E. King
There’s a Moon out Tonight – The Capris
Duke of Earl – Gene Chandler
You are so Beautiful – Joe Cocker
Fever – Little Willie John
My Prayer – The Platters
Tell Me – Rolling Stones
My Girl – Temptations
Then He Kissed Me – The Crystals

Keep the pills. Just give me a driving backbeat, a hot rockin’ momma and get outta my way.

Wisdom

One of my younger employees came to me for some help with a problem she was grappling with. “It’s a real Catch-22.”

“Are you just saying that or did you read the book?”

“There’s a book?”

Yeah, there’s a book. I told her that, with the Bible, that would tell her just about everything she needs to know about life. Read them twice.

“The Bible? That’s just a bunch of stories about people killing, cheating and begetting, and getting punished for it. It was written to control people.”

“I guess it’s what you take from it. There’s a lot of wisdom there.”

“Like what?”

Like what, indeed. I turned to my computer. Why compile wisdom when there’s someone out there to do it for you? I quickly found a zealot’s site of Bibical quotes and sat her down in front of it. It was quite lengthy, but here’s some of the more sagacious:

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves. Proverbs 31: 8
He who gives to the poor will lack nothing. Proverbs 28:27
Hard work means prosperity. 12:11
Don’t envy those who do wrong. Psalms 37:1
Don’t waste your breath on fools. 23:9
Keep on growing in your knowledge and understanding. Philippians 1:9
You can tell what they are by what they do. Matthew 7:16
Doing wrong is fun for a fool. 10:23
Gossip is spread by wicked people. Proverbs 16:28
I will reap whatever I sow. Galatians 6:7-8
Look out for one another’s interests, not just your own. Philippians 2:4
Troublemakers listen to troublemakers. Proverbs 17:4
Let us encourage one another. Hebrews 10:25
Each one should use whatever gifts he has received to serve others. Peter 4:10
For love covers a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4:8
Take delight in honoring each other. Ro 12:10 TLB
Your life is shaped by your thoughts. Pr 4:23 TEV
You must give an account for every idle word you speak. Mt 12:36 TLB
All that is secret will be made public. Mt 10:26 NLT
Let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Hebrews 12:1 NIV
Think about the things that are good and worthy of praise. Philippians 4:8 NCV
Above all and before all, do this- get wisdom! Pr 4:7 TM
Successful people are finishers. Neh 6:15
Get all the advice and instruction you can. Proverbs 19:20 NLT
Don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen. Matthew 6:34 TM
Don’t worry about anything. Philippians 4:6 NLT
The truth will set you free. John 8:32 NLT
Plan carefully and you will have plenty. Proverbs 21:5 LB
Give generously, for your gifts will return to you later. Eccl. 11:1 LB

I did omit those that admonish against begetting. No one’s right about everything.

Cracking the code

Last night, I walked in the door and the phone was ringing. Or bleating or beeping or whatever the hell it is they do these days. It was Cat, a friend of mine. “Glad you called. I’m busting. Just had one of those in-the-zone times. Finding that sweet spot.”

“If you only could’ve waited until Saturday…” Always the comedienne.

I was kayaking with some friends. Water conditions had imbued one of our favorite surfing sites with some very unfriendly traits. Usually, it’s a breeze. But, tonight it was downright hostile. I watched my fellow kayakers struggle to get up into the wave, only to be unceremoniously spit out.

My turn came and I casually crossed the eddyline with a single stroke. I felt the forces assault the hull and subtlety adjusted my balance and lean of the boat to turn them to my advantage. I just had that feel tonight. My kayak moved effortlessly up into the wave and stayed poised there. There was an eerie, pleasant equilibrium. John came to mind.

I thought back to when I took up whitewater kayaking and had the sense to sign up for a course. It required a kayak.

I shopped the web, reading and comparing in great detail. I even compiled a database of statistics and features to facilitate comparison. Most of the data came from the manufacturers of the products. I was not familiar with them, so assigned equal credibility. Should’ve known better.

One kayak stood out for my size and what traits were important to me. I bought it.

I did have the judgment to take it to a lake to put in some seat time before showing up at the course. Good thing. It meandered all over and constantly tried to slice an end down and capsize. This wasn’t fun. Had to be a trick or two I was missing.

John was teaching the course. He was older than me by a number of years, but was whipcord lean and tough. He was also a consummate paddler, if a bit old school in technique and equipment.

I walked up to him, kayak slung on my shoulder, and extended my hand. “Hi, John. I’m one of your students.”

He ignored my hand and glared at my boat. “What the hell is that supposed to be?”

“It’s supposed to be a state-of-the-art kayak.”

“It’s one of those new pieces of crap. They’ll never replace the long boats.” He was wrong about that. “Damn it. I’ll be fishing your sorry butt out fifty times today.” He was wrong about that, too. By about three times. He wasn’t far off about this kayak. Years later, I would see it made a top ten list in a poll. Top ten worst whitewater kayaks ever made.

We went over the basics on land. John skimmed through techniques for peelouts, eddy turns and draws, like they were as natural as breathing. We stared at him like dogs that had just been shown a card trick.

Then, it was onto the river. He has selected a chute suitable for s-turns. That is, a ribbon of fast moving water flanked by still eddys. You shot out of the upstream side of one eddy (peeled out), turned downstream and punched into the eddy on the other side of the river. Or, that was the theory.

John demonstrated, making it look ridiculously easy, if not downright boring. It was our turn. Within minutes, the site was afloat with paddles, water bottles and other assorted flotsam and jetsam. Looked like the Titanic had gone down.

As we emptied out our kayaks and shook off the river water, John zipped through a rehash of techniques at a speed you’d need a Pentium chip to download. We tried it again, with similar results.

After numerous repetitions, about half the class was starting to get it. The other half was spooked by his screaming or by floating upside down in an oxygen-free environment, and they bolted.

With the survivors, John decided it was time to head downstream. About a mile passed, with him directing us in and out of eddys. Not too much carnage. Then, he gathered us in one large one.

“That is a good surf wave.” There was a deep crease across the current, fringed with boiling foam. Seemed like a good place to avoid. “We’re going to surf it.” Great.

John edged out into the current. But, instead of pivoting downstream, he moved across the river. He barely seemed to paddle, yet wasn’t swept away by the current. It was as though he simply willed the kayak to go where he wanted. His absolute calm stood in stark contrast to our wild flailing and struggling.

As he approached the frothy trough, I experienced a feeling akin to that I had felt watching old horror movies. “Don’t open that door!” And yet, he slid his kayak right into the maw of the maelstrom, and he stopped paddling.

Whitewater thrashed all around him, but he and the boat stood stock still. He sat in complete repose, looking like the Buddha. Several jaws dropped.

After a minute, he turned toward us and said those dreaded words. “Your turn.”

I wasn’t about to volunteer, and pretended to take an intense interest in something upstream. But, my classmates were smarter. They backed up, leaving me alone at the eddyline. “C’mon, Henry, you’re burning daylight. Ferry your damn butt over here.”

Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. I poked my bow through the eddyline and attempted to vector laterally, as John had done. No dice. The current grabbed me, turned me and whipped me downstream. As I struggled to remain upright, I heard John boom, “Next!”

One by one, my fellow students emulated my frantic paddle movements to fight the driving current. All, with the same outcome.

John was disgusted. “Just watch me.” He glided ghost-like out of the eddy into the current. His moved effortlessly across the river, seeming impervious to the force of the current. As though drawn by a line, he moved directly into the wave and serenely perched there.

Now, I was mad. He didn’t have to draft a volunteer this time. I was already moving.

I hit the eddyline with all the speed I could muster and added a directional correction stroke to prevent the current from spinning me downstream. That barely worked, but I didn’t wait to see and was already digging furiously. I wasn’t going to rely on telekinesis or whatever he was using to move his boat. I was going at it full bore with my paddle, the only card I had to play.

It was an epic struggle, but I was remaining even with the wave as I inched across the stream to it. If I could only maintain the frenetic stroke rate long enough to get there.

I did. Ah, now the easy part. Just stick it in there and sit. What was I thinking?

The wave not only accepted me, it sucked me in with alarming urgency. I froze. It chomped down on the bow, catapulting me up in the air. Then, there was a violent twist to the side. I had a brief glimpse of sky before the translucent greenish-brown.

I exited my boat and bobbed to the surface. “You leaned the wrong way, idiot!” I didn’t recall leaning at all, or exercising any control whatsoever for that matter.

We stayed there and cycled through, over and over. A third of the class never made it out to the wave. They may have been the lucky ones. The rest of us swam repeatedly.

Not entirely accurate. I learned a little bit each time and enjoyed a few brief moments of stasis on the wave before it ate my boat. But, clearly, I was missing a whole lot of John’s Zen.

When he tired of the boat swamping exercise, John shook his head in disgust. “Just watch me,” he intoned very slowly, as though addressing some foreign tourists. Once again, he seemingly floated on air and hovered almost above the wave. I had no idea how he was doing it, but vowed to myself right there that I would figure it out.

I did, a couple years ago. But, last night was just one of those rare times it felt completely dialed in. Probably because the wave usually facilitates surfing and this time, it had to be all me, and I just happened to have it on this occasion.

I don’t kid myself that I’ve even approached John’s level. But it feels good when you’ve finally cracked the code of something.

Get out of the rain

You're waiting for a bus. A couple people are standing under the shelter, but you choose not to. It starts to rain.

Do you step under the shelter? Or, do you stand outside and rail about the advantages the other people have?

Obvious to anyone? Maybe not. I was at a cocktail party and was introduced to someone who immediately launched into how the government, media and local football team were all being mismanaged. It was all canned stuff he parroted off some radio show or web site.

Predictably, he got around to how "big oil" was gouging us and still unfairly receiving government aid in all kinds of ways. Fine. If you know that to be the case, go buy energy stock and make the choice of benefiting from it instead of bleating about it.

Step out of the rain.

Okay, I hear you

You're more interested in future market picks than past. I don't want to be responsible for anyone else's outcomes, so I give tips out about as readily as I recommend restaurants or set up blind dates.

But, I have read the entrails and placed my next big bet. Things are contantly shifting and the trick is to detect that window of opportunity before the market corrects.

Look for an industry where there is a key ratio - make that a basic ratio - upside down. That's as much as I'll say.

Not so tiny bubbles

Let’s see, the stock market was tanking, mutual fund managers were moving investment offshore and there’s an election year around the corner. Gentleman, place your bets. If there was ever a time to get bullish, this was it.

Of course, I was relying upon the Fed to do the equivalent of shooting a hole in the bottom of a leaky boat to let the water out. When it appeared they might actually do something that resembled long term strategic thinking, Greenspan’s in-your-face book came out and nudged them over the edge. Thank you and excuse me while I cash in my chips.

While the bet paid off even better than I imagined, I just can’t get all that giddy about it. I see this as more of a political move than sound fiscal policy for the country. Isn’t this how we created the bubble?

If Deion Sanders was Prime Time,” then Alan Greenspan must be “Subprime Time.” His recent statement that he didn’t see the danger of the subprime mortgage loan bubble coming down the road is like Timothy McVeigh claiming surprise at the destruction of the Murrah Federal Building. A band aid for the construction and financial lobbyists is going to create even bigger bubbles for the future. Better to bite the bullet now and deal with the fact that we’re a nation in debt, publicly and privately.

That aside, we often focus on the hit taken and overlook everything else. Mortgages are the tip of the iceberg. Credit card debt and vehicle financing are part of the house of cards we’re resuming construction on.

Greenspan’s suppressed interest rates were the miracle pill for a vehicle industry desperate to move iron. Mortgaging their future, the manufacturers stoked the subprime boiler. Where 20% down was once the floor, single-digit became common. Or, just use “your discount” as the phantom down payment, essentially eliminating any requirements or screening.

Instead of marketing based upon the price of a vehicle, it became a matter of monthly payment figures; deceptively palatable numbers. Those could be made tantalizingly low by stretching the term of the loan up to and beyond five years. This is dangerous territory, because the value of the vehicle would decline below the loan balance, leaving the borrower “upside down.” And, to make matters worse, borrowers were offered the option of rolling their lethal unpaid balances into a new loan if they would buy newer vehicles. A discounted interest rate also helped skirt some of the emerging restraints on repossession.

And then there came the big push of the lease, which not only took the monthly payment perception tack, but also made the disguised repo virtually automatic. Lenders could recoup the interest rate discount on the back end with questionable charges for “excessive wear and tear.”

While mortgages get the press as the bubble, they are just the first domino. Subprime borrowers will let their housing and credit cards go before their wheels. A significant number have multiple evictions in a year. So, the burst of the mortgage bubble is not the end, but a harbinger.

Subprime borrowers will also skip a mortgage or rent payment (same thing, since the landlord needs the rent to make the loan payment on the property) before their cell phone bills. Ironically, that’s how lenders are skip-tracing them – cell phone billing addresses.

No one knows for sure. But, I’d take the profits now and gird for the downhill when the chickens come home to roost.

Coincidence

Doctor J sat across from me, looking at the photographs of kayaks on my wall. Not the basketball player, but a psychiatrist who works for me and was waiting for me to complete a phone call. I hung up.

“That silver boat is pretty.”

“Yes, but the main reason for buying it is that it does a lot of things pretty good and doesn’t get damaged easily.”

“Sounds like the reasoning for selecting your number two (associate director).”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“You may use the same yardsticks for picking your employees or friends as you do your kayaks.”

“That would be for you to say.”

She smiled and shrugged. “No, for you.”

We completed our business and she headed back into the fray. I turned and contemplated the pictures.

There was the Yukon, the boat that merits the longest tenure in a fleet that I continuously tweak. It’ll carry a load under all kinds of conditions and remains pretty steady. Hmmm. I could think of a paddling friend like that. She willingly helps shoulder all our burdens and is the rock of the group.

Then, there’s the Night Hawk. Extremely high quality, but also gorgeous, sleek and sexy. The image of a woman I know sprang to mind.

The Fun is aptly named. Bouncy, adventurous and just a whole lot of fun bundled in a smaller package. Just makes you smile. Another paddler I know.

The Tourer has many good qualities and is very predictable. My ex.

The Pyranha is another fun kayak, but puts me in the mood to try things I probably shouldn’t. I can think of several guys like that.

With the Ricochet, everything is about setting and achieving high goals. One of my best friends incarnate

Probably just coincidence..

There's gold in them thar hills

The media pundits are wringing their hands about how the recent mortage crisis is costing jobs and money, and what the government needs to do about it. I'm having deja vu and am salivating. This is looking something like the Resolution Trust Corporation (RTC) of a few decades ago. Major banking screwup and government solution (disguising a banking bail-out); it's an incompetence fest, begging for shrewd entrepreneurs to capitalize.

I've set a different course for myself at this stage of life, but can't help but noodle out the possibilities. Huge. Pick the less obvious niches and strategies, so you're not fighting over the carcass with the jackels, and count your bucks.

RTC was the government owned asset management company, mandated to liquidate the assets of financial institutions during the crisis of that time, primarily real estate and mortgage loans. Nothing could go wrong here.

It appeared custom made to generate some fortunes. I analyzed the metrics and an amazing stat jumped out at me. Banks now owned more hotels than investors and operators. This was due to massive foreclosures.

The too obvious move was to buy hotels cheap from the banks. The better move was to wait for the RTC to intervene in a deal, and muck it up, and buy the properties from them even cheaper. I did some of that, but it still leaves you investing money and having to operate hotels; no small feat.

The really lucrative opportunity appeared to be property management, and this turned out to be the case. The strategy was to approach banks stuck with all these properties they didn't know how to operate. The pitch was that they couldn't sell them in their current operating condition, so you would manage the properties for them, managing them into salable shape. Of course, you'd use management from your current hotel ops to do this, so you were essentially adding revenue stream without much incremental cost. Almost pure profit.

Some would jump into this market and go one step better. Or worse, depending upon your moral compass. They would hire management for the hotel properties on the bank's dime, but use them for their own properties. Free personnel.

Economic crisis doesn't mean no one will make money. It means the clever ones will make more.

I beg to differ

My doctor is a very bright guy and we have some enjoyable conversations during our sporadic meetings. Unfortunately, his foray into light conversation is his way of relaxing you, and is the harbinger of the digital exam. Digital sounds so high tech for something that is most definitely manual.

We were discussing recent comments by an office holder we both have confidence in. He agreed with them, but I thought he was falling prey to the halo effect. I disagreed by the stance taken in this instance. Mental note: don’t debate with someone who has you in a compromising position.

I first heard of the halo effect in reference to employee performance reviews. Don’t fall into the trap of viewing a good employee as doing everything as good as it should be done, and vice versa. But, it applies across a much broader spectrum, including people I look to for wisdom.

Ben Franklin – “Genius without education is like silver in the mine.” Too sweeping for my taste. True genius will out, with or without education. Education is valuable, but it’s generally just the rules of the game, not how to win. There’s a whole lot of people out there with degrees, but relatively few making breakthroughs or setting records.

Lee Iaccoca - “Management is nothing more than motivating people.” Management is analysis, planning, execution and post-analysis. Motivation is a small part of that and is mainly positive reinforcement of those who are already motivated. If someone isn’t self-motivated to excel at what they’ve accepted the job to do, that’s their nature. There’s nothing you can do about it.

Kay Henry (entrepreneur) – “Women are better at building teams.” While Kay is right on with many things, this doesn’t wash. Teamwork is scripted at an early age, usually in sports, and most girls didn’t participate until fairly recently. You learned to savagely compete for a starting position, and then to turn around and mentor those who wanted to win it back from you. You were taught to be a wedge-buster, hurtling yourself into the phalanx of blockers on a kickoff, so a teammate could slip through and get credit for the tackle. You were coached to hit that sacrifice fly, so a runner could advance. “Taking one for the team” was reiterated to you then, so you recognized it later when it was part of business. Most girls of my era, and for a long time subsequently, were scripted to compete individually. That’s changed and there’s been much progress with the help of mentoring. But, with a relatively short history of team scripting, it isn’t valid to say they’re ahead of the game.

Lewis Black (comedian/social commentator) – “Success is becoming what we hate.” If aspiring writers hated published authors, why would they strive to join the ranks? If you thought it was shallow to be wealthy, would you strive to make big money? I suppose some reasons could be posited, but none are especially rational. Besides, hate is not a primary trait of successful people.

Winston Churchill – “It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time.” Even Winnie contradicts this, urging us to look farther into the past so we can see further into the future. The first to foresee are the first to plan and act.

Prediction

Prediction: Ellwood Bartlett will make millions. True, he recently cleared about $32 million in the Maryland lottery, but that’s just the beginning.

Ellwood teaches Wicca and Reiki, and was smart enough (I’m giving him credit, here) to declare that his favor with the pagan gods caused his win. How many people do you think will be signing up for his courses, not to mention his soon-to-be-released (I’m guessing) books and DVDs? He’ll clean up.

Is this a great country or what?

Checkpoint

I was driving home last night and there it was a sobriety checkpoint. Yeah, like I needed this. I was exhausted and just wanted to get home. It was a holiday weekend.

I waited my turn and an officer approached my car. After the customary exchange of pleasantries, he asked if I had anything to drink.

“One glass of wine, about three hours ago.”

He shined his flashlight at me and I flinched at the glare. “Your eyes seem to be bloodshot.”

“I’ve been in a hot tub. You know, chlorine.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Look officer, I spent the morning at a family breakfast at my ex’s where she just had to trot out my offenses dating back thirty years. The afternoon was a date, but at the girl’s parents, who make Gomez and Morticia Addams look like the Cleavers. Then, I got dragged through a shopping mall, where we missed maybe two stores. She insisted upon dinner at a sushi bar, which was more of a bait shop to me. I think I’m about due.”

“Have a nice evening, sir.”

The wire

Just when your kids start to become interesting, they get their own lives. My son (30) and daughter (27) have a myriad of things going on everyday, so we have to schedule ahead to do things together.

My daughter and I had arranged to take today (a late summer Friday) off to go paddling and it worked out perfectly. It was sunny and warm, and we had the lake just about to ourselves.

When my children were young, I intentionally planned camping trips, canoe outings, and other activities that got them away from the computer and VCR, and left them little choice but to relate to their parents. That worked well in their younger, formative years, and the proof is in the pudding. They were less enthusiastic in the teen years, naturally, but could still be enticed with more exotic adventures.

The college years? Forget about it. The same was true with the immediate post-college era, as they spread their wings.

But, we managed to strengthen the connection after that. It helps if you can get out of the parent mode.

When they’re young, you wonder if they have any sense, forgetting your own lapses at that age. As they mature, it doesn’t always become apparent to you that they’ve developed any. It takes a conscious effort on my part to hold the advice, unless asked.

My ex and I have had this conversation several times. A lovely woman, she can’t stop being mom. It often grates on the kids, who take it as criticism.

With my daughter, it’s been especially hard for me to butt out. She has a razor sharp mind and was a National Merit Scholar in high school. But, she chose a major in college that I saw little value in, and thought it a waste of her intelligence. We had a few heated discussions about that.

I recalled having a similar discussion with my father. He threw up his hands and went out to the yard to plant a sapling. I stomped around the house a little bit and then went out back to make amends. I stood in silence, trying to compose my words, as he pounded a stake into the ground beside the tree and proceeded to wrap a thick, insulated wire around it and the tree to provide support.

“You know, I’m not a kid anymore.” A lot of sixteen year olds have probably said that.

“Do you know what I’m doing here?”

“Yeah, you’re bracing that tree.”

“That’s right. It helps to keep it growing up straight. Every year, I come out here and unwrap the wires to see how well the trees stand on their own. If they look like they’ll lean or get damaged the first time they’re tested, I rewrap the wire. But, a day comes when they show they’ll stay straight on their own, and I throw away the wire. Until then, I keep the wire.”

After graduating college, my daughter pursued her chosen field. I kept my grumbling to myself. After a couple years, she got bored. What do fathers know?

Not sure what she wanted to do, she took an entry level job with a large company. I thought it was more to finance her avocations than to plot a career path, she didn’t ask me.

She was promoted before the year was up, but still didn’t seem challenged. Another department recognized her abilities and lured her away with a promotion. Things were looking up.

So, we’re paddling and enjoying the day. We’re having a great time and I ask how her vacation day reserve is because we should do this a few more times before it gets cold.

“Bad news and good new, dad. Bad news is that I’m going to be slammed for time after Labor Day. Good news is that I’m getting promoted into strategic planning.”

Time to throw away the wire.

Hotels

I was in car with someone who had a local station on the radio. They were interviewing someone who had started a web site on hotel bed jumping. People send in pics of themselves jumping on the beds. I said a prayer of thanks for satellite radio.

Years ago, I was in the hotel business, partnering in mid to low price range properties, east of the Mississippi. I came to define a hotel room as a place people go to do things they wouldn’t even consider doing in their own homes. If you haven’t been in the business, you probably have little idea what people will do. There were times when I questioned if the damages were created by humans.

The worst business was softball tournaments. There’s something hardwired in the mentality that demands getting drunk and trashing everything in sight.

The most distasteful business, from my perspective, was “Maggos.” This was the staff’s term. I referred to them as slavers.

The ads begin running in the job classifieds in the spring, targeting adolescents. They promise a summer of free travel and fun. The companies running them are magazine subscription sales agencies of a somewhat smarmy ilk.

These agencies sell door-to-door, quoting prices on a weekly or monthly basis to keep the cost perception low and load up the buyer. They zero in on less educated consumers in lower class neighborhoods.

Once the unwary teens are recruited, they are packed into a van driven by their handler. They will be taken cross-country, spending a few days in each town. The teens are stuffed to capacity into cheap hotel rooms. They are awoken early in the morning, driven to a street corner in a bad neighborhood and dropped there for the day with a sales quota and threats for not making it. They spend the rest of the day wearing off shoe leather in the summer heat and are picked up on the corner much later in the day. The lesser producers are chastised and ridiculed in front of their colleagues. Their handler provides meals, which consist of small portions of fast food or deli lunchmeat.

Stuffing a room with browbeaten adolescents does not wear well on the fixtures. They take out their frustration and homesickness on the facility.

I encountered a Maggo handler who adorned himself in mirrored sunglasses, ten gallon hat and six-foot iguana draped across his shoulders. After witnessing him whipsawing a young girl into tears, I considered feeding his iguana to him. Wouldn’t be fair to the reptile. Maybe the other way around.

Rich kids were another problem. They couldn’t hold their unfettered parties at the regal homes of their parents, so they rented rooms. It wasn’t just the property damage that was the problem. Most of them did not think the laws of society applied to them.

One of our two-story properties was on the east coast of Florida. A young male, with a last name you would recognize, rented a string of second floor rooms with balconies. He and his toadies trolled the bars with their Porsches for young, unwary girls, and brought their catch back to the hotel. When one of them was uncooperative, the host tossed her off the balcony. Fortunately, some foliage broke her fall and she wasn’t fatally injured. The prominent family bought their way out of trouble and publicity, a scenario I would see oft-repeated.

Some of the business you might think to be bad wasn’t that bad at all. The “hot sheet” trade was rooms rented for a couple hours, often during the day or right after work. Properties consisting of several elongated buildings with parking at the door and out of sight from the road were popular for this. Surreptitious couples did not like hotels where you park out in front of the lobby, where someone might recognize a vehicle.

Then, there was the high end strippers, who worked toney “gentlemen’s clubs,” especially in Florida and Texas. They usually were on tour and needed a place for two or three months. The clubs like to keep fresh inventory.

These women were very pretty and trained in choreography. They came in quietly in the wee hours of the morning, got up at noon and sunned themselves by the pool until they went to work (not a bad draw for some other business). They were professionals and no trouble at all.

Partners tend to settle into roles. One of mine loved to negotiate a “steal” and wasn’t especially interested in ascertaining if it was a viable property. My role was to take whatever cats and dogs he brought in and make them work.

My partner bought a hotel on I-95 near Quantico, VA. I went over to assess the damage. I walked the property and then met with the manager. My message was succinct. The clientele was half drug dealers and half cheap hookers. Clean it up or we’ll never get any volume of legitimate trade.

His reply was equally terse. “Throw out dealers, for what I get paid?” Good point. He suggested I might want to do it, so he could see how. I wasn’t paying myself enough for that.

I had some contacts over at the Quantico training facility from the old days. Many people think they train just Marines, but the FBI and DEA also have their academies there.

I went over to the base and passed out free trial coupons they could use to house people in for training and other things. They sometimes had overflow. I returned to the hotel and told the manager to expect a flood of law enforcement trainees and a subsequent reduction in criminals. I had a hard time concealing pride in this creative solution.

A couple weeks later, I saw the influx of the coupons on reports and called the manager to see how it was working out with all the federal agents running around. “The dealers moved out, but we have more hookers than ever.” Your tax dollars at work.

While frustrating, the hotel business never fell short of interesting. It provided some pithy insights into human nature, especially among those who used this segment of lodging. We catered to young families, seniors, constructions crews and salespeople. Road warriors (traveling salespeople) look out for each other. Next time you stay at an inexpensive hotel, check under the mattress and you’ll probably see what I mean.

Diebold voting machine controversy

This morning, I'm listening to the radio and an "expert" is ranting on the alleged conspiracy and security dangers of Diebold voting machines. He claims intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the company, pronouncing it "die-bold." Call me a skeptic, but if you possess inside knowledge, shouldn't you know how to pronounce the name? ("dee-bold")

But, I believe there is a more pertinent question. For decades, Diebold has been a worldwide leader in ATMs and other banking equipment. They own over 60% of the U.S. banking market. I heard no significant outcry about trusting their equipment with hundreds of millions of our account numbers, passwords, etc. over these decades, with many billions of dollars at stake. Why think security and ethics will be different with votes?

Somewhere, she races on

I was leaning on my car in the parking lot of an ice cream stand, enjoying one of the better examples of their fare, when a vehicle pulled into the next slot. The youthful driver took his place in line, leaving me to examine his ride.

It would be difficult to not be first drawn to the hue, kind of iridescent phlegm green. The eye then moved to the spoiler, about half again the size of the body, suitable for generating down force at speeds exceeding mach three. Ground clearance was about four sheets of 20-pound paper stock.

The driver returned and caught me eyeballing the car. “Sweet, huh? I’ve got her all tricked out.”

“What does she run?”

“Please?” A native Cincinnatian.

“What does she turn in the quarter mile?’

“I dunno. I got an extractor on her, though.” I believe that’s similar to what we called a glass pack muffler, except about ten times the price.

“Anything else?”

“Nah, but she roars.” Lions roar and moose bellow to delineate their territories. The American male unleashes his exhaust system. With the animals, it’s understandable. “Oh, yeah, I put in a high performance chip.”

“What all does that do? Advance the timing? Change the shift points?”

“No, man, it changes the computer.” Oh.

We talked cars a bit, but were at opposite ends of form vs. function. He finally mounted his steed and roared off. Roared? More reminiscent of Briggs and Stratton.

As I mined a rich vein of hot fudge from the plastic cup, my thoughts wandered off to another time. My first car.

From an early age, I knew three or four things I wanted to accomplish for sure. Much to my parents’ dismay, none of them had to do with career.

One goal started with reading “Hot Rod” magazine and building model cars. The latter soon grew boring and I yearned for the real thing. A little ambitious for a thirteen-year-old.

I started working at an auto parts store; one that catered to drag and stock car racers. This not only provided supplemental income to my paper route, lawn mowing and snow shoveling, but also access to tools and employee discounts. Now, all I needed was a car.

I bought a 1952 Chevrolet for the princely sum of nineteen dollars. The engine was froze up, but that was of little consequence. The anemic 235 ci six banger did not figure into my plans.

The first step was primarily sweat equity. I stripped the car down to the body, and the paint and chrome would come off of that. This was months of labor. I had time.

I haunted the junk yards until I struck paydirt. A totaled ’56 Chevy. What I wanted out of it was the 265 ci V8. What I really desired was the 283 that came out a model year later, but there was a premium on them. I had amassed cash, but was not rolling in it.

It’s not like you can stage in serious modifications. One begets another in a chain reaction. Dual quad carburetors require a high capacity manifold. And, increasing air and fuel supply does not optimize unless you help the engine breathe with bigger, cooled valves and a high lift camshaft. It goes on and on. Fortunately, I did not have to drive the car (nor could I, legally), so I was able to stage the development somewhat.

The block was bored and stroked to increase displacement. Then, there were carburetors, manifolds, heads, pistons, valves, camshaft, ignition and other components to accommodate each other. While not into flash, I did succumb and go the chrome route under the hood.

One does not simply plunk this down in the engine compartment. There was significant engineering that had to be done to cage the beast. Also, the suspension, brakes, and drive train had to be beefed up.

Then, there was the voltage issue. In going from ’52 to ’56, I crossed over from six to twelve volts. The whole car had to be rewired.

The interior had already been gutted of the torn and moldering cloth. Fortunately, one of my workmates was an artist in these matters. With his guidance, it was soon plush with rolled and pleated silver leather.

Another stroke of luck: a neighbor worked for a paint company. They performed field tests of their products. He qualified my car for such a test of the “candy apple” process, so the paint job would be free. The undercoats were sparkly silver. The top coats, translucent candy apple red. Naturally.

I worked feverishly to complete it by my sixteenth birthday and acquisition of driving privileges. I did, but all was not peaches and cream. A “normal” four barrel carburetor was a bear to get into and maintain proper adjustment. Dual quads were a 5x5x5 Rubik’s Cube. Clearance for the street slicks was also an issue that had to be dealt with.

But, all came together and it was time to hunt. My plan was to hone my racing skills on the streets before taking on the drag strips.

Aside from the tubular grill, I left the exterior pretty much unadorned. I went the sleeper route. Everyone knew when the bets were placed that there were no representations made, but there was little sense in tipping my hand. Likewise, I went with fairly conservative mufflers. When the money was down, I could reach under the dash, pull the cable handle, and reroute the exhaust through the straight pipes. Cutout kits were not unheard of, so this wasn’t dealing off the bottom of the deck.

Roosevelt Boulevard was the minor leagues. Everyone cruised up and down there on weekends and thought their old man’s Buick Wildcat or Plymouth Fury was hot stuff. The odd Pontiac 2+2 would be trouble, as it stacked three deuces on top of a 421. Good thing I started out there. I blew a clutch and snapped a driveshaft before learning how to harness the power. But, once under control, I had little trouble dispatching the smaller fry.

From there, it was on to I-95. It was being built at the time, but after midnight, the serious dragsters skirted the construction blockades and went head-to-head for big bucks. Tuition was dear, but the education was worth it.

We were ready for Atco, Vineland and other major drag venues. I was eliminated in the second heat of my first outing. I lasted until the fourth the next weekend, but came close to setting a class record in my second heat when I slipped the clutch just about perfectly.

I was getting my number wiped after being eliminated when I was approached by a slick guy and his entourage. Wayfarer sunglasses, Italian shirt open to the navel and pencil mustache. Heavy duty. I said hi. He responded with an offer for the car.

I was taken aback. It was at least double what I had in the car, which was no small amount. But, I declined.

He kept going up and I kept declining. He offered the equivalent to over four times my investment and said that was final. That was also a heck of a lot of money to me.

I said I’d think about it. He said I’d better think fast because the offer was good for 30 seconds.

I took it.

He pulled out the biggest wad of cash I’d ever seen and fanned McKinleys and Franklins. I managed not to swoon and signed over the title.

What now? Go out and buy a GTO or Charger? No, too pre-fab for me.

Do another ground-up screamer? My attentions had diffused to many other interests. But, I gave it a token whack.

I came upon a bank repo that had been sugared (sugar in the gas tank, ruining the engine) by the sore loser. It was a ’62 Fairlane, the midsize Ford. It housed the 221 ci V8, making it at least partially set up for something hotter. I already had that something in mind.

The genius of Iacocca’s Mustang was the low development and production costs. It was essentially assembled from the Falcon parts bin. When they started dropping in the 289, it was only a matter of time before Walter Mittys would exceed the severe limitations of the brakes and suspension.

I found my treasure in a North Jersey junkyard. Someone had done an excellent job of rolling a high performance 289. It bolted right in with little modification.

It was hot. No question about it. But, it just didn’t have the blood, sweat and tears in it my Chevy had engendered. I didn’t have much trouble parting with it later, when I needed the money for college.

That would pretty much be the end of it. Except, many a late night studying, my thoughts would drift to the old Chevy. And, when I returned to Philadelphia a few years later, I went out bumming around with some friends from high school days.

We pulled into one of the old hangouts, and there she sat. The paint had gone unwaxed and dents unrepaired. Soot on the rear bumper told me that the tuning had been neglected. Damn those dual quads, anyway. It was sad. Like seeing an old girlfriend gone to seed.

I’m sure it wasn’t long after that she returned to a junkyard. This time, for good. No more scorching the asphalt aisle for her. Just slowly sinking into the topsoil and getting picked over until her date with the crusher.

Except, in the dim recesses of my mind, she races on.

Okay, you have a point

In my work, we treat a lot of court remands of violent offenders and substance abusers. We're a condition of their paroles.

Even though the treatment is required, it isn't all that effective if they just walk through it. They have to buy in.

With the abusers I have contact with, I ask them to list the things in their life that are worse since they started using. They usually come up with about a half dozen issues.

Then, I ask what's better. I usually just get a shrug. Until today. The guy looked up at me and replied, "Well, I finally learned the metric system."

Neil's Dream House

Neil is an original. I know that term is applied, or misapplied, to numerous people, but in this case, it is truly merited.

I recognized this shortly after meeting him. But, if anyone harbored doubts, they were dispelled shortly after Neil’s business took off and he built his dream house.

Neil was on his way to siring a large brood and they were in his thoughts as he set out to design his new abode. As a boy, Neil had been fascinated by haunted house movies. He mentioned to me that this was to come into play, but would divulge no more. I would have to await the completion of his house and ensuing reception.

The evening finally arrived. From the outside, the design was that of a very large colonial brick. The foyer was big, featuring gothic columns. A bit incongruous with the exterior, but vintage Neil. The décor also made me wonder about the haunted house theme.

I asked Neil about that, but he said I’d have to wait until that part of the tour. Getting the punchline out of Neil without suffering through the entire preamble was like trying to get aspirin out of the bottle without removing the cotton wad.

We wended our way through the immense structure without a hint of jangling chains or mysterious drafts. I was beginning to lose hope. I was still fascinated by the dizzying mélange of gothic, early American and modern Wal-Mart touches.

Then, we descended into the basement and I caught Neil glancing at me. Could it be a dungeon?

No such luck. It was luxuriously finished and equipped with the best in audio visual gear.

Neil led us through the rooms, which held nothing more exotic than a few bizarre turns in decoration. We returned to the stairs and I thought I had been had. But, Neil paused beside the enclosed steps and slid a hidden panel. He got down on his knees and instructed us to crawl after him.

Twenty feet and a few bends later, we emerged in a closet. It was a secret passage. Neil’s fantasy and gift to his children.

That was years ago. Today, I ran into Neil and got caught up. Driving home, I was recalling the secret passage. Yes, it was a stroke. But, if I were approaching this without limitation, as he had stated, I might take it further.

Mind you, I’ve never believed in tying up too much capital in housing. But, if I did and I took Neil’s approach (I’d more likely go with a mountain lodge theme), it might go something like this.

The approach sets the stage, which I think demands a moat and drawbridge. I’ve always wanted a moat anyway. Never knew anyone who had one. There would be old tombstones in the yard. No remains under them (yuk), just the stones surrounded by a low, dilapidated picket fence.

Concealed somewhere would be a fog machine. A timer would be set for dawn and dusk.

Then, a large oaken door with substantial iron knocker. It would be flanked by flickering gas lights, naturally. The hinges would creak, as would all those in the house.

The entrance hall would have an immense chandelier (candled) and suit of armor. Spider webs would festoon the chandelier and other strategic places. They would be of the spray-on variety; no spiders, thank you. To the right would be a cavernous parlor with a stone fireplace of sufficient size to roast a moose. I cannot foresee the circumstances under which I would be roasting a moose, but I like to keep my options open.

Over the fireplace would be a portrait of a stern ancestor. My recollection of my progenitors leads me to believe that it would not be a challenge to find such an image. Naturally, the eyes would be removable, so I could peer into the room from one of the many secret passages honeycombing the building. They would be cramped and dank. Carpeted, well-lit secret passages just don’t cut it. Access would be via tipping books on a shelf, twisting andiron toppers, tilting picture frames, etc.

The HVAC system is a bit complex. It has to create random drafts and temperature differences. Lots of candles about, to emphasize the drafts.

Somewhere in the house would be a player organ. Got to have organ music. Rhythm would be supplied by a loud grandfather clock. And, scattered about the house will be concealed, programmable hologram projectors. You need a few scary images of skeletons, ghouls or ex-wives.

There will be a remote control. trapdoor on the first floor. Guests tend to wear out their welcome.

At least one of the upstairs rooms would be a turret. Not sure how to decorate a round room, but I’ll give it a whack. Down below is the laboratory. Lots of bubbling beakers, specimen jars and electric arcs. No shackles here. Save that for the master bedroom.


That’s the framework. It still needs to be fleshed out with some nuances, like a slavering Great Dane named Lars.

I haven’t priced it out, but it can’t be cheap. Actually, I’ve done the economy version of this by checking into Ravenswood Castle near Logan, Ohio. Not quite as detailed, but the cost differential makes it attractive.

The origin of "Captain Hank"

I’ve been asked enough times about the sobriquet “Captain Hank” that I feel compelled to divulge the origin. Some have postulated that its roots are in the paddling board I moderate, but it predates that by a good many years.

I learned sailing as a youth on and near the Atlantic Ocean. Some years after relocating in Cincinnati, I bought a sailboat. Given what I was accustomed to, sailing Midwestern lakes felt like playing soccer in a phone booth.

The sailboat was replaced by a 25 ft. cabin cruiser, docked on the Ohio River. A better match, but not quite there. The “starter boat” yielded to a 34 ft. cruiser, coinciding with the wild & crazy apex of my bachelor life. I would be out partying several nights of the week, in addition to weekends.

A vessel and plan of these proportions require a crew. Not a problem. Having a boat is like owning a pickup truck. You have one, you have friends. Shecky, Spock, Gerbil, Special K, Gobbler, et al would show up unbidden and soon knew their responsibilities for provisioning, casting off and docking.

While all hale fellows well met, they didn’t constitute a party quorum. That would require members of the distaff side. Again, not a problem.

Having been a dock rat at an early age, I knew how it worked. While you were peeling the canvas off the cockpit in preparation to launch, a small covey of women would approach. The alpha girl would take the lead.

“Are you Jim?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, is this Jim’s boat?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Hmmmm. One of the girls met Jim at a bar and he invited us out tonight. This is the dock number he gave.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, we got all ready for this, so it’s quite a disappointment for all the girls.”

“(sigh) You’re welcome to come out with us if you want.”

After the first few repetitions, we learned to save time.

“Are you Jim?”

“Just get on the boat.”

The routine was we motored upstream from the Four Seasons marina to the Kentucky shore, opposite Coney Island, and dropped anchor. It was quite private and there was no reason to go any further. Seven hundred horsepower slurps up a lot of gas. There, we swam and partied till the wee hours, and then idled back to the dock. A few hours sleep on the boat and off to the office.

A reputation was unavoidable. I was not surprised that people started “lobbying” for invitations to join the crew.

But, Jan caught me off guard. I knew her through business and my impression was that she was a bit “stuffy.” When she invited me to lunch, I didn’t anticipate anything but our usual business talk. I didn’t expect her to broach anything personal.

“Last year, we did a girls trip to Florida.”

I raised my eyebrows at this unfamiliar tack. “Oh. Was it fun?”

“Best time of our lives. We really cut loose.”

“Cutting loose can be good.”

“Anyway, the anniversary of the trip is coming up and we’d like to celebrate it. We want to recreate that spirit of abandon and I’d like your help.”

“You have my attention.”

“The funniest thing that happened on the trip was a harbor cruise. I found a brochure in my hotel room and it looked like a hoot. A boat ride, landing on a sandy key for a picnic and unlimited champagne. Captain Hank’s Pleasure Cruise.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Oh, that’s not the half of it. Hank and his crew were a bunch of young, hard body cabana boys.”

“How tedious for you.”

“From the second we got on, they were bumping into, leaning on and pinching us. When I sat on the deck, one of the buggers even slid his toes down the back of my bikini bottom.”

“Sounds ghastly.”

“It was great!”

“So, I fit into this how?”

“Well, I’ve heard about your boat parties. I was wondering if you could find some guys who would recreate the cruise for us as our anniversary celebration.”

“Let me see if I’m reading you. You want to know if I can find some guys who will take you and your girlfriends out on the boat, get you drunk and fondle you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

“If you want, I can meet with them ahead of time and tell them how the crew acted.”

“I think they can improvise.”

So, we took them out and I was “Captain Hank” all night. And, ever since.

New Age wedding?

Somewhere along the path of life, you start missing forks in the road. It doesn’t occur to you at first. The first clue is probably when the Grammy, Emmy or Oscar awards come out one year and you don’t recognize half the names.

Fran calls me up and says she came across a recipe for a salsa cheesecake and is going to make it for me. I know the labor that goes into a cheesecake and can imagine the size of the string attached. I don’t have a clue what it is, but I steel myself for a kidney punch.

She finally gets around to it. “Diane’s daughter is getting married.” I let out an involuntary groan. “What was that?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well she is one of my best friends. Stop making those noises.”

I can’t help it. Being invited to go to a wedding is on a par with being asked to help someone move, pet sit or apply an ointment. It’s a biggie. Lots of points, but not always worth it. I do some foot dragging to see if she’ll back off, but she doesn’t.

I’ve been to a few “adult weddings” in the past decade, but I haven’t been to any kiddie events in a while. They’re a little heavier than I care for. Or, so I thought.

The wedding was at Xavier University’s chapel. We’re seated and there’s a singer. The “Wedding Song.” Novel. Some things don’t change. The chapel has the acoustics of a locker room shower. I notice the crowd’s attire ranges from suits to t-shirt and jeans. I might expect the latter from youngsters, but very mature adults? I missed the fork, somewhere.

The deacon appears and calls the event to order. He’s in a white Friar Tuck robe and is a little thinner than John Pinet. He explains the difference between a deacon and a priest, tells us the story of his life and assures us about twenty-seven times that nothing really bad has happened at any of his weddings. I’ve never gone to one apprehensive about something “really bad” happening, but I’m beginning to wonder.

I’m waiting for pairs of ushers and bridesmaids to start the aisle walk, but players are generally milling around until they come to rest somewhere proximate to the altar. Like one of those hand games where you roll around the tiny silver balls until you get them to seat in the indentations. This aberration in protocol is someone offset by the program, which is reminiscent of a sporting event. It not only lists the players, but also their affiliation (friend of bride, cousin of groom, etc.). Saves a lot of whispered questions. Now this is progress. The couple lists their 18-month old daughter as a flower girl. The times they are a changin’.

There is a recognizable bridal walk, so we seem back on track. Except, the deacon lards the proceedings with a lot of bad jokes and stories that lack punchlines and relevance. He says his wife is there to keep him from getting too far off track and introduces her in the audience. She stands and takes a bow. Bizarre. He doesn’t conduct a mass, but his ramblings take us the far side of an hour. People file out willy nilly, as opposed to the ushers peeling off one row at a time. We head for the reception.

There is no reception line. Instead, after most have populated the room, there’s an announcement of the arrival of the bridal party. The DJ plays the theme from “Top Gun” and the party dances in as couples, all with Tom Cruise sunglasses. If there is a significance, no one seems to know what it is.

There’s a buffet dinner. We sit with friends of Fran’s, their offspring and their offspring’s dates. Looks like a Goth convention. The DJ launches into an odd mix of disco and archaic country. Donna Summer, meet Buck Owens.

Fran and her friend decide to wander around and find other acquaintances. She tells me I should feel free to stay put. In other words, sit there and don’t bother anyone. Not likely. This crowd has too much potential.

It doesn’t take long to ferret out Ray, who looks like a short Wilford Brimley and is brimming with mischief. He owns the FBN Construction Company, which is primarily him. FBN stands for Fly-By-Night. Yes, I have the right guy. I grab a pitcher of beer and we retreat to a corner where Ray entertains with some great stories.

Somewhere along the line, Shawna joins us. She’s a strapping lass who’s well into her cups and is having some trouble wearing her dress. Ray seems to be making an effort to overlook this. I’m more inclined to look.

Ray excuses himself to go to the rest room with one of the more banal explanations, but Shawna has some interesting stories of her own. Someone taps me on the shoulder, but I’m rapt. “They’re cutting the cake,” I hear Fran say.

“Fine, get me a piece.”

“I thought that’s what you were trying to do.” Uh oh.

I’m towed over to the cake table. It would be too much to expect that one of the newly wedded wouldn’t try the mooshing the cake in the face trick. Why wouldn’t I think it would go beyond that? It almost turned into a variation of mud wrestling. Classy.

Faces are wiped and the DJ launches into “Rocky Top” and “The Chicken Dance.” Some traditions should die. Fran says it’s all in good fun and tries to goad me onto the dance floor. Not a chance. She joins her friends.

I find Ray. We grab a couple pitchers of beer, climb up to a balcony and do some prime people watching. When people are searching a room, they seldom look up. So, I figure I’m pretty safe up here. I figure wrong.

“What are you doing?” I answer her. “What?” I answer again. “Let some of the air out of your tongue and try that again. Better yet, give me the car keys.”

It had been a while since I’d been lured to a wedding. It’ll be a while before it happens again.