I was early for a lunch appointment today, so I browsed the old photographs on the wall of the restaurant. The owner was setting up tables.
One picture stirred a twinge. It was a teenage band. From the garb, I’d guess circa 1966-69. “Are you in this shot, Steve?”
Usually busy and taciturn during the lunch hour, Steve sprouted a rare grin. “Yep, that’s me on bass.” We exchanged a look that felt familiar.
In the mid-80s, I attended a convention in Indianapolis. I was in the hotel room, taking advantage of the cable TV, which was still somewhat a novelty. A movie came on and I caught snippets of it as I readied for the opening session of the meeting. Before long, I found myself transfixed. It was like a slice of my life. Fortunately, I glimpsed the clock radio and was just able to shrug on a suit in time to make the first meeting. I hastily checked the TV schedule before dashing to the elevator.
The meetings extended into the evening. A cocktail hour followed. I found myself engaged in conversation with Rich, who had a business similar to mine in Baltimore. He kept checking his watch. “Got a late date?”
“No. I was thinking of getting up early tomorrow.”
“Sessions don’t start until ten.”
“I know. This is going to sound dumb, but I got hooked on a movie in my room and I want to catch the end. I figure my only chance is when it repeats about four a.m.”
“Eddie and the Cruisers.”
“How did you know?” We exchanged a look and knew.
“I’m there, man. You played in a band.”
“Sure did. Your place or mine?” We enjoyed the movie and swapping tales of great gigs we had played.
I don’t remember exactly when I had hooked up with Sooz. Probably sixth grade. He was very intelligent, creative, and humorous, and didn’t feel compelled to knuckle under the iron fist of the school administration. In short, he was my mirror image (although not nearly as good-looking).
We started out collaborating on elaborate practical jokes, which often resulted in detentions and suspensions. This did little to deter us. An astute teacher decided to channel our creative energy, and had us write plays and skits for the drama club. This worked for a while, but spawned higher aspirations.
We co-authored, published and sold a newspaper of the future (some date in 2000) that featured articles projecting the fates of teachers, administrators and fellow students. It sold out almost immediately, with many appreciating the humor and satire. Not all did (principally the subjects of the articles) and we landed on the suspension list again.
But, the pen is mightier than the sword. We were hardly back in school when we conjured up the idea of a dating directory. It was a small matter of collecting juicy tidbits about the talents of the socially active among us. The first printing was quickly grabbed up and we were about to go back to press when the weight of authority landed heavily upon us. We had to turn over any and all documents, plus donate all the proceeds to the pep fund to avoid expulsion. Where was the ACLU when we needed it?
I might add that this was not the only toll exacted. Some of those listed, or friends thereof, had bones to pick with us. We had to watch each other’s back for a year. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.
And, don’t think our parents looked the other way in all of this. It was still the age of when you were in more trouble when you got home than you were at school.
We did draw three-day suspensions on that one. This gave us time to learn our lesson, which is to say, hatch our next plot. Sooz wanted to produce a movie and enter it in an amateur competition sponsored by a film company. I wanted to start a rock band. We compromised and did both.
I liked my idea a lot better (naturally). This is my blog, so if Sooz wants to extol his concept, he can put it in his. But, in all fairness, the film turned out very well and won Honorable Mention (should’ve placed first). So, it does deserve a little space, here.
Sooz’s idea was a spoof on “Goldfinger.” This sparked some enthusiasm in me, because I could easily picture myself in the James Bond role.
Not so the rest of our team. Their perception of me differed from mine. Over my strenuous objections, I was cast in the role of Oddjob, Goldfinger’s Korean muscle who cut people down with the flick of his steel-brimmed bowler. Except, this was a spoof, so he wasn’t Korean in our film. My character was a rabbi who flung a steel skull cap to dispatch adversaries.
We recouped expenses and a little more by renting out copies to various clubs and organizations. An article in the local newspaper generated publicity for us.
The band had tougher sledding. In Philadelphia, we were in the shadow of American Bandstand, and every greaser with a guitar pick had designs on becoming the next Frankie Avalon or Bobby Rydell to emerge from the neighborhood. Competition was stiff, to say the least. We played a number of gigs for no more compensation than the exposure.
But, I wouldn’t trade those good times for a record contract. We bought a dilapidated hearse to haul our gear, and gave it a full out custom job. So much for the meager profits. Also blew a few bucks on Dixie Peach pomade to hold the DAs (duck’s ass hairdo) in place under the hot lights. Kind of like Vaseline laced with cheap perfume.
Of course, you can’t have a band without creative differences. I found a lot of resonance with this in “Eddie and the Cruisers.” Sooz was enamored with “The British Invasion.” I was all-American, and totally into Dion and the Belmonts. I also wrote some songs and judged them to be excellent. There’s a shock. But, the market would dictate. Especially at the Jersey shore, where the Beach Boys and Jan & Dean held sway.
Our closing number at the shore was invariably “I Get Around.” Couldn’t do it without at least three encores demanded, and the accompaniment of a couple hundred rabid teens.
In addition to creative differences, we had girlfriend issues. Yoko Ono came as no surprise to me. Some of the girls advocated for their men to get more leads or solos. Others were more intent upon taking a truculent stance at the edge of the stage and staring off would-be groupies. That’s a buzz-killer.
But, we weathered it all till graduation and new lives. Net, net, we probably cleared about 49 cents. Hey, that was a couple gallons of gas back then.
We profited a great deal in other ways. Sooz returned to his first love, and took off for Hollywood. Many did that, but he screen wrote some of the top-selling films. Sheldon (“Call me Shellie”) was our reed man and business manager. In high school, he was sashaying around the halls in a herringbone sport coat, black turtleneck and wayfarer sunglasses, stabbing his finger at people and saying “We’ll do lunch; we’ll do a deal.” He wound up managing talent like Mel Tillis and The Oak Ridge Boys.
Even if the rest of us didn’t pursue entertainment careers, I can’t help but think we took lessons that served us well in life. I think we even turned out better than the guys in “Eddie and the Cruisers.”
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
B&Bs
Time to toss the latest crop of holiday cards. Half a table of them came from innkeepers who know it pays to keep in touch.
I like bed & breakfasts. Well, some of them. I don’t enjoy the kind that make you feel you’re staying with someone, and they’re always in the next room.
They all have unique character. Here are some of my favorites.
In Sedona (AZ), almost any on Hozoni will do more than nicely. They were designed and built to be B&Bs. I prefer the Alma. Great rooms, grounds and spectacular views of the red rocks. Extremely romantic setting. The snack area is fully provisioned with all manner of coffee, tea and wine. Not cheap, but in Sedona, what is?
Well, the sunset. Go up to the hill by the airport and watch it, but don’t expect to be alone. Everyone knows about Sedona sunsets. The Jeep tours of the red rocks are also worth a go.
Gravenhurst Castle presides over the Hocking Hills of central Ohio. Its creators toured Europe for design ideas. It’s secluded on a heavily wooded hilltop, surrounded by theme cottages.
I usually opt for the upper suites of the castle, with balcony views of the forested countryside. I know of others who prefer the dungeon or one of the cottages congruent with their favorite fantasies. It’s become known, so reserve well in advance.
The Murphin Ridge Inn (West Union, Ohio) is more of a BB&D, because you definitely want to do dinner there. Gourmet quality.
There’s a lodge, but I’d go the extra bucks for a cabin. The cabins are exquisite and have room-sized showers, for those who enjoy conserving water.
Close by are two large Amish stores, featuring furniture, cheese and baked goods. The furniture is high quality and not very expensive.
The heart of Ohio Amish country is north in Holmes County. There, you’ll want to stay at the Inn at Honey Run. There are four lodging options. Go for the Honeycombs. This is a handful of rooms embedded in the top of a hillside. Very secluded.
Not secluded, but completely delightful is the venerable Daniel Boone Inn in Berea, Kentucky. It’s staffed to the rafters by students from the college, so service level is high.
Berea is a center of Appalachian crafts. Stock up on unique gifts and dulcimers.
I could recommend others in Franklin Furnace, Ohio, Vevay, Indiana, the Indiana Dunes and other locations, but half the fun is finding out for yourself. Enjoy.
I like bed & breakfasts. Well, some of them. I don’t enjoy the kind that make you feel you’re staying with someone, and they’re always in the next room.
They all have unique character. Here are some of my favorites.
In Sedona (AZ), almost any on Hozoni will do more than nicely. They were designed and built to be B&Bs. I prefer the Alma. Great rooms, grounds and spectacular views of the red rocks. Extremely romantic setting. The snack area is fully provisioned with all manner of coffee, tea and wine. Not cheap, but in Sedona, what is?
Well, the sunset. Go up to the hill by the airport and watch it, but don’t expect to be alone. Everyone knows about Sedona sunsets. The Jeep tours of the red rocks are also worth a go.
Gravenhurst Castle presides over the Hocking Hills of central Ohio. Its creators toured Europe for design ideas. It’s secluded on a heavily wooded hilltop, surrounded by theme cottages.
I usually opt for the upper suites of the castle, with balcony views of the forested countryside. I know of others who prefer the dungeon or one of the cottages congruent with their favorite fantasies. It’s become known, so reserve well in advance.
The Murphin Ridge Inn (West Union, Ohio) is more of a BB&D, because you definitely want to do dinner there. Gourmet quality.
There’s a lodge, but I’d go the extra bucks for a cabin. The cabins are exquisite and have room-sized showers, for those who enjoy conserving water.
Close by are two large Amish stores, featuring furniture, cheese and baked goods. The furniture is high quality and not very expensive.
The heart of Ohio Amish country is north in Holmes County. There, you’ll want to stay at the Inn at Honey Run. There are four lodging options. Go for the Honeycombs. This is a handful of rooms embedded in the top of a hillside. Very secluded.
Not secluded, but completely delightful is the venerable Daniel Boone Inn in Berea, Kentucky. It’s staffed to the rafters by students from the college, so service level is high.
Berea is a center of Appalachian crafts. Stock up on unique gifts and dulcimers.
I could recommend others in Franklin Furnace, Ohio, Vevay, Indiana, the Indiana Dunes and other locations, but half the fun is finding out for yourself. Enjoy.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Anticipation
I open my email and there’s over a dozen feverish group messages from my fellow kayakers. It’s been like this for a month. You’d think we’d be used to it.
“It” being our impending annual spring expedition to the Deep South. We’ve done this before, so why is everyone frenetic? Maybe the flame of excitement is fanned by the winter winds that blow outside. But, the promise of warm climes doesn’t begin to explain the boiling anticipation.
It wasn’t always like this. At first, signing up paddlers for the spring event almost seemed like a sales job. I didn’t understand it. This was a unique adventure. Something few people they knew would even contemplate, much less experience. You only go through life once (Shirley MacLaine withstanding). What were they waiting for? Why squander your entire life in your own limited warren when there’s a vast world of sights and experiences waiting to be savored? And, we were making it so easy to do so. Sign-up was tentative. I didn’t get it.
The first trip was three years ago to South Carolina. Two days on the Edisto River, including an overnight in a wonderful oversized treehouse, and a day kayaking off Charleston Harbor. The Edisto was a lot of fun and the night in the treehouse was like a giant sleepover. It was still good to move on from there to our hotel on Shem Creek, and make ample use of the cabana bar.
The next day, we headed out into big water. The waves were augmented by towering wakes of passing container ships. Had some fine rides that day. Of course, the longer we sat around the cabana bar that night, the more towering the wakes got.
The next year the adventure was even more ambitious. A good experience brought people back from the previous year and excellent word-of-mouth added to the troops. We paddled into the center of the legendary Okefenokee Swamp and camped on what was little more than a wooden deck. Wall-to-wall alligators. Never felt more in the heart of wilderness. Absolutely fabulous.
From there, we went to a luxury condo on Jekyll Island and once again did some big water paddling. Storm clouds did nothing to dampen the fun. We simply motored up to St. Simons and depleted the inventory of a paddling outfitter and took advantage of the exquisite entertainment there. The speculation was that we would never be able to top that trip.
But top it we did. Last year, 20 of us caravanned to Cedar Key, in the Big Bend of Florida. Word was out. These trips were a blast.
Cedar Key is a little bohemian community, and is about as enjoyable as we could stand. Days, we island hopped deep into the Gulf, paddling the aqua waters with dolphin escorts. Nights, we partied in our string of contiguous, beachside condos.
It was about 40 miles south to our “compound” on the Homosassa River, a matter of paddle strokes from the Gulf. We had nine “standard” rooms and one large suite (”party central”) in a motel/marina complex. Just off the river bank was Monkey Island. Local Good Samaritans maintained a colony of primates, who never failed to entertain. You could watch their antics from the balcony bar, or paddle out to the island. Paddling was preferable, as you could catch sight of manatees swimming by, along with the endless variety of waterfowl. A nature preserve burgeoning with wildlife was just upstream.
This was also our base for paddling and snorkeling Crystal River and The Chaz. Crystal River had the densest manatee population and we immensely enjoyed snorkeling with the massive, but gentle creatures. What an experience! The crystal-clear Chaz threaded through dense “jungle” and featured “swimming-pool-colored” springs, teeming with fish of all descriptions. We rolled out of our boats and took pleasure in them.
Now, we approach a return trip to Georgia; wilderness camping and ocean paddling. The trip “sold out” almost immediately. That’s more like it.
Warm breezes, aqua waters, manatees, alligators, monkeys, dolphins and once-in-a-lifetime adventures. Were memories of this what had mature adults giddy with anticipation?
Surprisingly (or not), that’s not what the flurry of emails is about. There’s little mention of wildlife or waves. Most of the banter is about the laughs, interchanges, practical jokes, mishaps, and other “incidental” things that occurred in the course of past trips. They’re about the fun of experiencing whatever the trip holds, together. Good, bad or ugly, whatever transpires, we’ll enjoy it together.
I still think the principal attraction is to spend a week enriching our lives with unique experiences. But, as long as everyone has a great time…
“It” being our impending annual spring expedition to the Deep South. We’ve done this before, so why is everyone frenetic? Maybe the flame of excitement is fanned by the winter winds that blow outside. But, the promise of warm climes doesn’t begin to explain the boiling anticipation.
It wasn’t always like this. At first, signing up paddlers for the spring event almost seemed like a sales job. I didn’t understand it. This was a unique adventure. Something few people they knew would even contemplate, much less experience. You only go through life once (Shirley MacLaine withstanding). What were they waiting for? Why squander your entire life in your own limited warren when there’s a vast world of sights and experiences waiting to be savored? And, we were making it so easy to do so. Sign-up was tentative. I didn’t get it.
The first trip was three years ago to South Carolina. Two days on the Edisto River, including an overnight in a wonderful oversized treehouse, and a day kayaking off Charleston Harbor. The Edisto was a lot of fun and the night in the treehouse was like a giant sleepover. It was still good to move on from there to our hotel on Shem Creek, and make ample use of the cabana bar.
The next day, we headed out into big water. The waves were augmented by towering wakes of passing container ships. Had some fine rides that day. Of course, the longer we sat around the cabana bar that night, the more towering the wakes got.
The next year the adventure was even more ambitious. A good experience brought people back from the previous year and excellent word-of-mouth added to the troops. We paddled into the center of the legendary Okefenokee Swamp and camped on what was little more than a wooden deck. Wall-to-wall alligators. Never felt more in the heart of wilderness. Absolutely fabulous.
From there, we went to a luxury condo on Jekyll Island and once again did some big water paddling. Storm clouds did nothing to dampen the fun. We simply motored up to St. Simons and depleted the inventory of a paddling outfitter and took advantage of the exquisite entertainment there. The speculation was that we would never be able to top that trip.
But top it we did. Last year, 20 of us caravanned to Cedar Key, in the Big Bend of Florida. Word was out. These trips were a blast.
Cedar Key is a little bohemian community, and is about as enjoyable as we could stand. Days, we island hopped deep into the Gulf, paddling the aqua waters with dolphin escorts. Nights, we partied in our string of contiguous, beachside condos.
It was about 40 miles south to our “compound” on the Homosassa River, a matter of paddle strokes from the Gulf. We had nine “standard” rooms and one large suite (”party central”) in a motel/marina complex. Just off the river bank was Monkey Island. Local Good Samaritans maintained a colony of primates, who never failed to entertain. You could watch their antics from the balcony bar, or paddle out to the island. Paddling was preferable, as you could catch sight of manatees swimming by, along with the endless variety of waterfowl. A nature preserve burgeoning with wildlife was just upstream.
This was also our base for paddling and snorkeling Crystal River and The Chaz. Crystal River had the densest manatee population and we immensely enjoyed snorkeling with the massive, but gentle creatures. What an experience! The crystal-clear Chaz threaded through dense “jungle” and featured “swimming-pool-colored” springs, teeming with fish of all descriptions. We rolled out of our boats and took pleasure in them.
Now, we approach a return trip to Georgia; wilderness camping and ocean paddling. The trip “sold out” almost immediately. That’s more like it.
Warm breezes, aqua waters, manatees, alligators, monkeys, dolphins and once-in-a-lifetime adventures. Were memories of this what had mature adults giddy with anticipation?
Surprisingly (or not), that’s not what the flurry of emails is about. There’s little mention of wildlife or waves. Most of the banter is about the laughs, interchanges, practical jokes, mishaps, and other “incidental” things that occurred in the course of past trips. They’re about the fun of experiencing whatever the trip holds, together. Good, bad or ugly, whatever transpires, we’ll enjoy it together.
I still think the principal attraction is to spend a week enriching our lives with unique experiences. But, as long as everyone has a great time…
Monday, January 22, 2007
The Tease
I’m blithely pecking away on my keyboard when a promotion emanates from the radio. I shudder and wonder if I should unlist my phone number. Too late. The call comes. “What day do you want to take me to the car show?”
Cat is selectively reclusive in her personal life, so most people who know her, know her through her business executive persona. The initial impression of an exceptionally attractive woman is quickly replaced by that of a penetrating intelligence and imperturbable cool that can easily overpower you in the board room. She appears faultless in every respect. I know otherwise.
Her Achilles heel is cars. Cat knows less about them than I know about thermonuclear physics. She enlists me to help make her lease selection every two years. Unfortunately, her thorough nature dictates that this analytical process commence a couple months after taking delivery on the present vehicle. She insists that it include the annual car show, an event I equate to a prostate exam.
“You don’t need to go. You get the same car every time, anyway.”
“Don’t be fatuous. The last three were a Camry, Solara and Lexus.”
“They’re all Camrys. Just get another one.”
“Go with me.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’ll take you to the Bahamas for a long weekend of hot monkey sex,” she proffered facetiously.
“I have my own monkey.”
“How about if I just slap the crap out of you?”
“Preferable to the car show.”
“Okay, seriously, I’ll cook you a nice dinner and top it off with Graeter’s.”
“The last alternative sounded less dangerous.”
“We’re going.”
“There’s no way I’m attending that circus again. So just get it out of your mind.”
So that’s how I wound up scrounging around for some discounted tickets. What did I have against the show? Couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
For one thing, it’s a hassle. Finding reasonable parking downtown, wending through oblivious crowds – not my idea of a good time. But, that’s not the deal breaker.
It’s a family affair. This was not a deterrent when parents had some inkling about acceptable behavior and discipline. But, that ship sailed some time ago.
My first test of a vehicle is sitting in it. No small feat if the cabin is crammed with unruly urchins jumping up and down on the seats. Does anyone have a clue that the purpose of this exercise is to evaluate cars for potential purchase? Even today, ten-year-olds are unlikely to secure ample credit to make such a buy. If you want to amuse your feral offspring, take them to Kings Island. Otherwise, clear a path for those who paid to evaluate the products. Yes, I can wait for them to evacuate. If I don’t mind sitting on the sticky patina of spilled soft drink and chewing gum the little guttersnipes left behind. Still, I can live with this.
Could my aversion be based, in part, upon a fear of an impulse buy? I’m there for Cat, but am still exposed to temptation. I’ve evolved beyond the point of feeling a need for a status symbol, macho icon or other vacuous compensation. But…
It’s none of these. It dawns on me that what I find most disconcerting is that the show is a big tease. I invariably see two or three vehicles that have me anxiously clamoring for my checkbook, only to find out that they are “concept models.” Not production models that are available for acquisition. Idealized concept models that bristle with intriguing features and amenities. The very best of what could be, gauging and tantalizing the appetite.
Most of these evoke slavering responses. Logic would seem to dictate that they would quickly progress to market. So it would seem, but my psyche bore the scar tissue of high expectations, dating back as far as the Mako Corvette.
You may hasten to point out that concept models do find their way to the showroom floor, in some instances. True, but it takes years and the versions that survive the gauntlet of corporate mediocrity are so watered down, they bear only a sparse semblance to the epitomized original.
I gained more insights after getting into the rapid prototyping business. At a car show, I was mooning over an especially alluring concept car when it occurred me. The sinuous curves of the bodywork and interior, and the intricate mechanisms could not easily be duplicated with mass production. This was a handcrafted creation. Production machinery and procedure would flatten out those curves and simplify or eliminate the innovative features.
“Friends.” A television show that led a generation of young people to think that life would be living in a very posh Manhattan apartment (that you somehow afford with an undemanding minimum wage/effort job) with all exceedingly attractive neighbors who party all the time.
Imagine the disappointment when they’re toiling evenings and weekends at Steak n’ Shake, and live next to Iggy the Wonderslug, who has a 900-watt sound system, but only one CD (Metallica). Welcome to the real world. That’s how I feel when I walk into a car dealer after attending the car show.
Cat is selectively reclusive in her personal life, so most people who know her, know her through her business executive persona. The initial impression of an exceptionally attractive woman is quickly replaced by that of a penetrating intelligence and imperturbable cool that can easily overpower you in the board room. She appears faultless in every respect. I know otherwise.
Her Achilles heel is cars. Cat knows less about them than I know about thermonuclear physics. She enlists me to help make her lease selection every two years. Unfortunately, her thorough nature dictates that this analytical process commence a couple months after taking delivery on the present vehicle. She insists that it include the annual car show, an event I equate to a prostate exam.
“You don’t need to go. You get the same car every time, anyway.”
“Don’t be fatuous. The last three were a Camry, Solara and Lexus.”
“They’re all Camrys. Just get another one.”
“Go with me.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’ll take you to the Bahamas for a long weekend of hot monkey sex,” she proffered facetiously.
“I have my own monkey.”
“How about if I just slap the crap out of you?”
“Preferable to the car show.”
“Okay, seriously, I’ll cook you a nice dinner and top it off with Graeter’s.”
“The last alternative sounded less dangerous.”
“We’re going.”
“There’s no way I’m attending that circus again. So just get it out of your mind.”
So that’s how I wound up scrounging around for some discounted tickets. What did I have against the show? Couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
For one thing, it’s a hassle. Finding reasonable parking downtown, wending through oblivious crowds – not my idea of a good time. But, that’s not the deal breaker.
It’s a family affair. This was not a deterrent when parents had some inkling about acceptable behavior and discipline. But, that ship sailed some time ago.
My first test of a vehicle is sitting in it. No small feat if the cabin is crammed with unruly urchins jumping up and down on the seats. Does anyone have a clue that the purpose of this exercise is to evaluate cars for potential purchase? Even today, ten-year-olds are unlikely to secure ample credit to make such a buy. If you want to amuse your feral offspring, take them to Kings Island. Otherwise, clear a path for those who paid to evaluate the products. Yes, I can wait for them to evacuate. If I don’t mind sitting on the sticky patina of spilled soft drink and chewing gum the little guttersnipes left behind. Still, I can live with this.
Could my aversion be based, in part, upon a fear of an impulse buy? I’m there for Cat, but am still exposed to temptation. I’ve evolved beyond the point of feeling a need for a status symbol, macho icon or other vacuous compensation. But…
It’s none of these. It dawns on me that what I find most disconcerting is that the show is a big tease. I invariably see two or three vehicles that have me anxiously clamoring for my checkbook, only to find out that they are “concept models.” Not production models that are available for acquisition. Idealized concept models that bristle with intriguing features and amenities. The very best of what could be, gauging and tantalizing the appetite.
Most of these evoke slavering responses. Logic would seem to dictate that they would quickly progress to market. So it would seem, but my psyche bore the scar tissue of high expectations, dating back as far as the Mako Corvette.
You may hasten to point out that concept models do find their way to the showroom floor, in some instances. True, but it takes years and the versions that survive the gauntlet of corporate mediocrity are so watered down, they bear only a sparse semblance to the epitomized original.
I gained more insights after getting into the rapid prototyping business. At a car show, I was mooning over an especially alluring concept car when it occurred me. The sinuous curves of the bodywork and interior, and the intricate mechanisms could not easily be duplicated with mass production. This was a handcrafted creation. Production machinery and procedure would flatten out those curves and simplify or eliminate the innovative features.
“Friends.” A television show that led a generation of young people to think that life would be living in a very posh Manhattan apartment (that you somehow afford with an undemanding minimum wage/effort job) with all exceedingly attractive neighbors who party all the time.
Imagine the disappointment when they’re toiling evenings and weekends at Steak n’ Shake, and live next to Iggy the Wonderslug, who has a 900-watt sound system, but only one CD (Metallica). Welcome to the real world. That’s how I feel when I walk into a car dealer after attending the car show.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Gear Hounding
Be forewarned. Unless you’re an outdoors person with a bent for paddling, this will be of limited interest.
Our paddling group is a couple months away from a southern expedition, but already the excitement is building. The emails are flying thick and fast in anticipation, as are the cell calls, with participants getting amped for fun in the sun.
My route took me by an outfitter this afternoon, so I stopped in to shop some gear. The cell phone rang. It was one of the paddlers who had come to a lull at the office, and he was jonesing to jaw about the trip. He asked where I was.
“Don’t you already have like one of everything made from past trips?” He’s of the age where “like” is like part of every sentence.
“Maybe.”
“So, it’s easier for you to buy than find?”
“Maybe.”
He had nailed me. The stuff is probably in the garage, barn, shed or crawl space, but who knows? I thought it would be interesting to see. So, when I got home, I started the “dig.”
It was very close to an archeological dig, as the gear was layered in strata corresponding to year of expeditions. The closer to the core of the earth, the more interesting the relics became.
At the very bottom was wool. The rule of cold weather paddling is that you don’t dress for air temperature. You dress for a possible capsize and swim.
Decades ago, when I began paddling, neoprene paddling gear didn’t exist. Scuba wetsuits were around, but they weren’t cheap. And, they didn’t bend where you needed to. I began paddling with canoes, which required kneeling. Wetsuits were made for straight-legged kicking.
So, you wore wool, which insulated even when wet. In theory. I found matted wool underwear, socks, gloves and surplus German Army pants.
I also found one stab at upgrading. I forgot that I had attempted a do-it-yourself wetsuit. You received a pattern, roll of neoprene, zippers and glue. The pattern was rendered in concentric outlines, so you could size or adjust for bulges or indentations. I had more bulges than indentations.
It still came out with places that were too tight, and some that were too loose. After a couple chilly swims, I went back to wool.
The PFD (personal floatation device, or lifejacket) looked positively primitive compared to today’s. It was comprised of thick blocks of foam, encased in nylon tubes or compartments. The blocks didn’t bend, so it was the compartmentalization that provided articulation, as scant as it was. There were no pockets or attachment patches, as the Coast Guard did not approve of them back then. Probably afraid someone would try to pocket a Buick and render the floatation ineffective.
So, the paddling knife was no surprise. Instead of the scabbard being designed to clip to a PFD, it had two straps to go around your lower leg. Not very comfortable and of no help to kayakers who might suffer leg entrapment.
Another item with straps was a pair of clunky roofing knee pads. That’s what we used for kneeling in canoes before closed cell foam and elaborate saddles. They were heavy and didn’t stay in place well.
The car racks were crafted from pressure-treated two-by-fours. Deck and fencing material. Even today, I prefer to engineer my own, rather than pay Thule or Yakima the equivalent of a decent boat for a couple metal tubes.
I re-heaped the heap. Easier to buy.
Our paddling group is a couple months away from a southern expedition, but already the excitement is building. The emails are flying thick and fast in anticipation, as are the cell calls, with participants getting amped for fun in the sun.
My route took me by an outfitter this afternoon, so I stopped in to shop some gear. The cell phone rang. It was one of the paddlers who had come to a lull at the office, and he was jonesing to jaw about the trip. He asked where I was.
“Don’t you already have like one of everything made from past trips?” He’s of the age where “like” is like part of every sentence.
“Maybe.”
“So, it’s easier for you to buy than find?”
“Maybe.”
He had nailed me. The stuff is probably in the garage, barn, shed or crawl space, but who knows? I thought it would be interesting to see. So, when I got home, I started the “dig.”
It was very close to an archeological dig, as the gear was layered in strata corresponding to year of expeditions. The closer to the core of the earth, the more interesting the relics became.
At the very bottom was wool. The rule of cold weather paddling is that you don’t dress for air temperature. You dress for a possible capsize and swim.
Decades ago, when I began paddling, neoprene paddling gear didn’t exist. Scuba wetsuits were around, but they weren’t cheap. And, they didn’t bend where you needed to. I began paddling with canoes, which required kneeling. Wetsuits were made for straight-legged kicking.
So, you wore wool, which insulated even when wet. In theory. I found matted wool underwear, socks, gloves and surplus German Army pants.
I also found one stab at upgrading. I forgot that I had attempted a do-it-yourself wetsuit. You received a pattern, roll of neoprene, zippers and glue. The pattern was rendered in concentric outlines, so you could size or adjust for bulges or indentations. I had more bulges than indentations.
It still came out with places that were too tight, and some that were too loose. After a couple chilly swims, I went back to wool.
The PFD (personal floatation device, or lifejacket) looked positively primitive compared to today’s. It was comprised of thick blocks of foam, encased in nylon tubes or compartments. The blocks didn’t bend, so it was the compartmentalization that provided articulation, as scant as it was. There were no pockets or attachment patches, as the Coast Guard did not approve of them back then. Probably afraid someone would try to pocket a Buick and render the floatation ineffective.
So, the paddling knife was no surprise. Instead of the scabbard being designed to clip to a PFD, it had two straps to go around your lower leg. Not very comfortable and of no help to kayakers who might suffer leg entrapment.
Another item with straps was a pair of clunky roofing knee pads. That’s what we used for kneeling in canoes before closed cell foam and elaborate saddles. They were heavy and didn’t stay in place well.
The car racks were crafted from pressure-treated two-by-fours. Deck and fencing material. Even today, I prefer to engineer my own, rather than pay Thule or Yakima the equivalent of a decent boat for a couple metal tubes.
I re-heaped the heap. Easier to buy.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The Shore
I was asked to attend a conference back east. Not something I like to do a lot of, but the location was not far from Philadelphia, where I had recently had a blast at a high school reunion.
I called Lynda, one of the ringleaders of the old gang, and told her I could be in town for a long weekend, if anyone was available. “Fantastic! I’ll put the word out. Where do you want to meet up? South Philly? Northeast?”
“The shore.” I live in the Midwest now, and that’s what they refer to as “the beach.”
“Atlantic City? Big & sweet! We’ll catch a show, do a little gambling, do a lot of partying.”
“No, the shore. Like when we were kids.”
“Hammer, it’s January. There’s nothing there.”
“Don’t care. I’d just like to go there.”
“Not the same place. They charge everywhere to get on the beach, if you can even park within a mile. Nothing but t-shirt shops and game arcades. And nothing's open this time of year.”
“The shore, Lynda, the shore.”
“You haven’t changed.”
But, the shore had changed, like everything else. I knew that would be the case, but wanted to go there anyway.
My earliest recollections were packing the Scotch Plaid cooler into the ’53 Chevy and heading east across the bridge. The great thing about the shore was you didn’t have to be wealthy to enjoy it. Anyone who could spare a few gallons of gas could avail themselves of all the delights of the beach and boardwalk.
The rich had largely abandoned Atlantic City as their escape by then. Air travel brought Florida within reach. It was the death knell for Atlantic City (pre-gambling), but there was still plenty left.
We’d play all day on the beach and then the parents and kids would go their separate ways. We’d meander up and down the boardwalk in endless repetition. What a magical place that was.
Where do I begin? It was a sensory kaleidoscope of lights, sounds of the surf and aromas of food. Okay, there’s a start.
When you went to the shore, you must get salt water taffy. Everyone was fiercely loyal to their favorite brand. I was a St. James man. I probably didn’t touch anything akin to taffy all year. But, when down the shore, I feasted on the filling-jerking stuff.
And, when on the boardwalk, one simply must visit Planter’s. A mechanical Mr. Peanut stood outside, bedecked in top hat and monocle, beckoning you inside to swoon from the heady bouquet of fresh roasting peanuts. Every variation of peanut snack lined the extensive shelves, but the heavily salted peanut in the shell was our quarry. Every crack between the boardwalk slats was beaded with empty shells. It was the favorite fuel for walking the boards.
We’d also watch them making fudge and bought paper cones full of hot, crinkle-cut french fries. Then, off to the automat to wash it down. There, you found every exotic beverage known to man; cocoanut milk to birch beer.
But, enough about the food. Steel Pier was the centerpiece for entertainment. Jutting out into the ocean, it carried all kinds of amusement park rides to fling you around and stir up your bloated belly. It also had the famous dancing waters, a mélange of fountains and changing colored lights; a precursor to the psychedelic era. And, the fabulous diving horse. A rider mounted the steed on a towering platform and they plunged into a large tank. The animal rights people probably put the kibosh on that. Steel Pier booked top rock groups, but that wouldn’t be of much interest to me until the adolescent years.
Ah, the adolescent years. What could be more idyllic than being a teenager at the shore? Nothing. Especially when we put together a rock band and played some of the teen clubs down there. Paris in the spring? No, thanks. Rio during carnival? Keep it. Put me in a hot rod Ford packed with rowdy friends, scorching down the White Horse Pike with wide open lake pipes, and I’ll ask no more.
Geographic focus shifted with the onset of puberty. AC (Atlantic City) held a lot of attractions, but it was mostly for “old people.” Ocean City was to the south, but it was determined to be family oriented. They came down hard on boisterous teenagers.
That put us in Wildwood. Or, “The Wood,” as we usually referred to it in sweaty anticipation.
They knew their market in The Wood. Cheap flop houses and no questions asked. Road houses that would take a hand-crafted draft card for ID. No pretenses on anyone’s part; if you were in The Wood, you were there to party. Let the good times roll! Anyone who spent any time at The Wood cannot listen to “Under the Boardwalk” (The Drifters) now without zoning out into a dreamy trance.
Two other memories came back. Jitneys. What the hell is a Jitney? It was a short bus painted blue and silver that plied up and down Pacific Avenue in endless streams. They always seemed to be honking at lethargic teens jaywalking to the White House, the premier sub shop. Labor Day marked the sad end to a summer of nonstop reveling, and teenage ‘riots” broke out in the angst. Jitneys seemed to draw the most ire, and more than one was tipped. The police didn’t take any chances. Being an adolescent was considered “due cause” around Labor Day and you were rousted or jailed. The ACLU wasn’t in evidence then.
A couple years ago, I was wearing an old t-shirt in Florida, emblazoned with the Ron Jon logo and “Ship Bottom, New Jersey.” Ron Jon is a major surf shop chain.
I was waiting in a line and the young man in front of me noticed the shirt. “Dude, they have a Ron Jon’s in New Jersey?” He seemed amused.
Actually, it was the original Ron Jon’s. And, our first stop on a shore safari. We rented boards there.
I don’t recall that more than a few of us ever got to the point where we could stay up for more than scant seconds and ride a wave. But, that was beside the point. You just wanted the board to strap on top of your car when you were trolling. The Beach Boys, Jan & Dean, The Ventures – it was the golden age of the surf culture.
Lynda called with the “news.” “I contactd a bunch of people. Everyone wants to see you and everyone thinks you’re nuts about this shore thing. Besides, the Iggles (Eagles) are in the playoffs Saturday.”
Silence. “I hear an ‘and’ coming up. Also, here’s what I did just for you and you owe me big time.”
“So here’s what I did for you and you owe me big time. Angie’s got a huge house near Cape May, right by the beach. She says we can party there and stay over Saturday, if we want. I told her you’re driving in Friday night and she says she’ll put you up.”
“Now that is big & sweet. I owe you big time.”
Friday afternoon, I blew out of DC with my foot on the floor of the rented Kia. This rocketed it up to about half the speed of smoke. I reached Cape May and went right to Sunset Beach. Cape May is on the southern tip of Jersey and you can see sunrises and sunsets from about any of its beaches. But Sunset Beach was fraught with memories of glorious dates from the days of yore. It was a little cloudy, but a fiery pink palette made the side trip more than worthwhile.
Angie’s house was one of those grand old “painted ladies” that festoon Cape May and sell for well into seven figures. She had divorced well.
She hadn’t changed. She hugged me, and commenced to bounce off the walls excitedly. Angie always had the frenetic energy of “Chip n’ Dale” (the cartoon chipmunks) and was about the same size. I gave her time to settle down to earth and treated her to a sumptuous dinner at the Virginia Hotel, another grand old lady, and the best eats in town.
We stayed up late talking about old times, but I informed her that we’d rise early and motor up the coast to see all the old haunts before party guests started to arrive. She said there was nothing to see this time of year, but finally agreed to go along with it.
We did it all – Wildwood Crest, Wildwood, Avalon, Ocean City, Ventnor, Margate, Atlantic City and Long Beach Island. It had all changed. Condos, condos and more condos. At least Lucy the Elephant was still preserved in Margate; an icon worth visiting. It’s a building on the beach, by the way, not a mammal. But, at least all the memories were intact.
On the return trip, I insisted on finding a place for cheese steaks. Angie protested, saying she had ordered cheese steaks, subs, soft pretzels (the real, Philly style) and Taste-T-Kakes for the party. Ah, the food of the gods. But, I could eat genuine Philly cheese steaks all weekend (and did). The “chain” cheese steaks found around the rest of the country resemble the real thing about the way Steven Segal resembles Sir Lawrence Olivier in the acting genre.
Partying with old friends was fun, even if they had changed. But, the Shore was the old friend I had come to see, and that was extraordinary. Even if it had changed, the memories hadn’t.
The Iggles dropped the ball. They hadn’t changed.
I called Lynda, one of the ringleaders of the old gang, and told her I could be in town for a long weekend, if anyone was available. “Fantastic! I’ll put the word out. Where do you want to meet up? South Philly? Northeast?”
“The shore.” I live in the Midwest now, and that’s what they refer to as “the beach.”
“Atlantic City? Big & sweet! We’ll catch a show, do a little gambling, do a lot of partying.”
“No, the shore. Like when we were kids.”
“Hammer, it’s January. There’s nothing there.”
“Don’t care. I’d just like to go there.”
“Not the same place. They charge everywhere to get on the beach, if you can even park within a mile. Nothing but t-shirt shops and game arcades. And nothing's open this time of year.”
“The shore, Lynda, the shore.”
“You haven’t changed.”
But, the shore had changed, like everything else. I knew that would be the case, but wanted to go there anyway.
My earliest recollections were packing the Scotch Plaid cooler into the ’53 Chevy and heading east across the bridge. The great thing about the shore was you didn’t have to be wealthy to enjoy it. Anyone who could spare a few gallons of gas could avail themselves of all the delights of the beach and boardwalk.
The rich had largely abandoned Atlantic City as their escape by then. Air travel brought Florida within reach. It was the death knell for Atlantic City (pre-gambling), but there was still plenty left.
We’d play all day on the beach and then the parents and kids would go their separate ways. We’d meander up and down the boardwalk in endless repetition. What a magical place that was.
Where do I begin? It was a sensory kaleidoscope of lights, sounds of the surf and aromas of food. Okay, there’s a start.
When you went to the shore, you must get salt water taffy. Everyone was fiercely loyal to their favorite brand. I was a St. James man. I probably didn’t touch anything akin to taffy all year. But, when down the shore, I feasted on the filling-jerking stuff.
And, when on the boardwalk, one simply must visit Planter’s. A mechanical Mr. Peanut stood outside, bedecked in top hat and monocle, beckoning you inside to swoon from the heady bouquet of fresh roasting peanuts. Every variation of peanut snack lined the extensive shelves, but the heavily salted peanut in the shell was our quarry. Every crack between the boardwalk slats was beaded with empty shells. It was the favorite fuel for walking the boards.
We’d also watch them making fudge and bought paper cones full of hot, crinkle-cut french fries. Then, off to the automat to wash it down. There, you found every exotic beverage known to man; cocoanut milk to birch beer.
But, enough about the food. Steel Pier was the centerpiece for entertainment. Jutting out into the ocean, it carried all kinds of amusement park rides to fling you around and stir up your bloated belly. It also had the famous dancing waters, a mélange of fountains and changing colored lights; a precursor to the psychedelic era. And, the fabulous diving horse. A rider mounted the steed on a towering platform and they plunged into a large tank. The animal rights people probably put the kibosh on that. Steel Pier booked top rock groups, but that wouldn’t be of much interest to me until the adolescent years.
Ah, the adolescent years. What could be more idyllic than being a teenager at the shore? Nothing. Especially when we put together a rock band and played some of the teen clubs down there. Paris in the spring? No, thanks. Rio during carnival? Keep it. Put me in a hot rod Ford packed with rowdy friends, scorching down the White Horse Pike with wide open lake pipes, and I’ll ask no more.
Geographic focus shifted with the onset of puberty. AC (Atlantic City) held a lot of attractions, but it was mostly for “old people.” Ocean City was to the south, but it was determined to be family oriented. They came down hard on boisterous teenagers.
That put us in Wildwood. Or, “The Wood,” as we usually referred to it in sweaty anticipation.
They knew their market in The Wood. Cheap flop houses and no questions asked. Road houses that would take a hand-crafted draft card for ID. No pretenses on anyone’s part; if you were in The Wood, you were there to party. Let the good times roll! Anyone who spent any time at The Wood cannot listen to “Under the Boardwalk” (The Drifters) now without zoning out into a dreamy trance.
Two other memories came back. Jitneys. What the hell is a Jitney? It was a short bus painted blue and silver that plied up and down Pacific Avenue in endless streams. They always seemed to be honking at lethargic teens jaywalking to the White House, the premier sub shop. Labor Day marked the sad end to a summer of nonstop reveling, and teenage ‘riots” broke out in the angst. Jitneys seemed to draw the most ire, and more than one was tipped. The police didn’t take any chances. Being an adolescent was considered “due cause” around Labor Day and you were rousted or jailed. The ACLU wasn’t in evidence then.
A couple years ago, I was wearing an old t-shirt in Florida, emblazoned with the Ron Jon logo and “Ship Bottom, New Jersey.” Ron Jon is a major surf shop chain.
I was waiting in a line and the young man in front of me noticed the shirt. “Dude, they have a Ron Jon’s in New Jersey?” He seemed amused.
Actually, it was the original Ron Jon’s. And, our first stop on a shore safari. We rented boards there.
I don’t recall that more than a few of us ever got to the point where we could stay up for more than scant seconds and ride a wave. But, that was beside the point. You just wanted the board to strap on top of your car when you were trolling. The Beach Boys, Jan & Dean, The Ventures – it was the golden age of the surf culture.
Lynda called with the “news.” “I contactd a bunch of people. Everyone wants to see you and everyone thinks you’re nuts about this shore thing. Besides, the Iggles (Eagles) are in the playoffs Saturday.”
Silence. “I hear an ‘and’ coming up. Also, here’s what I did just for you and you owe me big time.”
“So here’s what I did for you and you owe me big time. Angie’s got a huge house near Cape May, right by the beach. She says we can party there and stay over Saturday, if we want. I told her you’re driving in Friday night and she says she’ll put you up.”
“Now that is big & sweet. I owe you big time.”
Friday afternoon, I blew out of DC with my foot on the floor of the rented Kia. This rocketed it up to about half the speed of smoke. I reached Cape May and went right to Sunset Beach. Cape May is on the southern tip of Jersey and you can see sunrises and sunsets from about any of its beaches. But Sunset Beach was fraught with memories of glorious dates from the days of yore. It was a little cloudy, but a fiery pink palette made the side trip more than worthwhile.
Angie’s house was one of those grand old “painted ladies” that festoon Cape May and sell for well into seven figures. She had divorced well.
She hadn’t changed. She hugged me, and commenced to bounce off the walls excitedly. Angie always had the frenetic energy of “Chip n’ Dale” (the cartoon chipmunks) and was about the same size. I gave her time to settle down to earth and treated her to a sumptuous dinner at the Virginia Hotel, another grand old lady, and the best eats in town.
We stayed up late talking about old times, but I informed her that we’d rise early and motor up the coast to see all the old haunts before party guests started to arrive. She said there was nothing to see this time of year, but finally agreed to go along with it.
We did it all – Wildwood Crest, Wildwood, Avalon, Ocean City, Ventnor, Margate, Atlantic City and Long Beach Island. It had all changed. Condos, condos and more condos. At least Lucy the Elephant was still preserved in Margate; an icon worth visiting. It’s a building on the beach, by the way, not a mammal. But, at least all the memories were intact.
On the return trip, I insisted on finding a place for cheese steaks. Angie protested, saying she had ordered cheese steaks, subs, soft pretzels (the real, Philly style) and Taste-T-Kakes for the party. Ah, the food of the gods. But, I could eat genuine Philly cheese steaks all weekend (and did). The “chain” cheese steaks found around the rest of the country resemble the real thing about the way Steven Segal resembles Sir Lawrence Olivier in the acting genre.
Partying with old friends was fun, even if they had changed. But, the Shore was the old friend I had come to see, and that was extraordinary. Even if it had changed, the memories hadn’t.
The Iggles dropped the ball. They hadn’t changed.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Thom
I recently attended a meeting of an advisory board in Washington DC. At it, I met Thom, an extraordinary man who I intend to partner with on future projects because he is a person of great qualities.
Thom has written several books, one of which contains a collection of quotes to illustrate his points on self-actualization. What I liked about it is that it includes, but extends beyond the bounds of commonly quoted wisdom. Here’s a sampling.
“Growth is never about focusing on someone else’s lessons but only on our own.”
- Marianne Williamson
“Our greatest tool for changing the world is our capacity to change our mind about the world.”
- Marianne Williamson
“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
“If you want to continue what you are getting, just keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
- Les Brown
“Someone’s opinion of you does not have to become your reality.”
- Les Brown
“What you intend is what you become.”
- Gary Zukav
“Thoughts are like boomerangs.”
- Eileen Caddy
“He who conceals his disease cannot hope to be cured.”
- Ethiopian proverb
“It’s not the critic who counts. Not the man who points out where the strong man has stumbled or where the doer of great deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena. Whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood. Who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again. And who, while daring greatly, spends himself in a worthy cause so that his place may not be among those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”
- Theodore Roosevelt
“Circumstances do not make a man, they reveal him.”
- Marianne Williamson
“What we are communicates far more eloquently than anything we say or do.”
- Stephen Covey
“We have friends and users who come to us in the same guise. Friends are angels who encourage us to grow, and we feel gratified when we’ve followed their encouragement. Users are unctuous little toads who enlist us in their failure, and we agonize when doing their lowly bidding.”
- L. Ramsey Peird
“We are what we repeatedly do.”
- Aristotle
Thom has written several books, one of which contains a collection of quotes to illustrate his points on self-actualization. What I liked about it is that it includes, but extends beyond the bounds of commonly quoted wisdom. Here’s a sampling.
“Growth is never about focusing on someone else’s lessons but only on our own.”
- Marianne Williamson
“Our greatest tool for changing the world is our capacity to change our mind about the world.”
- Marianne Williamson
“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
“If you want to continue what you are getting, just keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
- Les Brown
“Someone’s opinion of you does not have to become your reality.”
- Les Brown
“What you intend is what you become.”
- Gary Zukav
“Thoughts are like boomerangs.”
- Eileen Caddy
“He who conceals his disease cannot hope to be cured.”
- Ethiopian proverb
“It’s not the critic who counts. Not the man who points out where the strong man has stumbled or where the doer of great deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena. Whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood. Who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again. And who, while daring greatly, spends himself in a worthy cause so that his place may not be among those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”
- Theodore Roosevelt
“Circumstances do not make a man, they reveal him.”
- Marianne Williamson
“What we are communicates far more eloquently than anything we say or do.”
- Stephen Covey
“We have friends and users who come to us in the same guise. Friends are angels who encourage us to grow, and we feel gratified when we’ve followed their encouragement. Users are unctuous little toads who enlist us in their failure, and we agonize when doing their lowly bidding.”
- L. Ramsey Peird
“We are what we repeatedly do.”
- Aristotle
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Role Models
When you work with at-risk children, it’s apparent that one reason they’re heading down the wrong path is they emulate the wrong role models. The models are especially influential when one or no parent is significant or positive in their lives.
Marcus has innate intelligence and a personality that could propel him far. But, his role models are typical of his neighborhood; local criminals, and entertainers and athletes who behave inanely and irresponsibly.
I was pointing this out to him and linking it to his outcomes, because he’s smart enough to grasp it and possibly change course. He was pondering it for a few seconds when his eyes turned to mine. “Who were your role models?”
The hint of a smirk told me he thought he caught me off guard. Maybe another do-gooder talking trash to him.
But, he had misjudged his target. I had grown up in an urban environment and knew the value of role models. I had lived it. I know my role models were part of my ticket out.
I latched onto Ben Franklin almost by accident. In an elementary school class, we were required to pick a book from a pile on the teacher’s desk. When it was my turn, a cover caught my eye. Someone flying a kite in a lightening storm. Okay, there’s got to be a story behind that.
Ben Franklin; inventor, entrepreneur, publisher and co-founder of the greatest country on earth. This guy didn’t just sit around and wait for things to happen in any field – he made them happen. This was to be the first of many books I would read about Ben.
It wasn’t just that Ray Nitschke was an All-Pro football player. There were plenty of them. It was why he was. Nitschke played every single play as though the game depended upon it. He gave an all-out effort to succeed every time, sacrificing whatever it took to do so. He set the tone for the dominant Packer dynasty, inspiring his fellow players to ante up to his level.
A ferocious presence on the field, he was compassionate and intellectual off. He could adapt and had self-control. He cared about things that mattered.
The most important influence in my life was my father. He died when I was a teenager, but not before giving me what I needed.
He was a source of sage advice, so I recall being surprised that he had not completed high school until after going off to World War II. He was from a very poor neighborhood and it wasn’t that unusual.
He landed at Normandy and was wounded on the beach. But, he kept going, pushing inland. He saved his platoon by taking on a tank with a damaged bazooka, and was wounded again in the process. He kept going. At St. Lo, they suffered an aerial attack and he was riddled with shrapnel and almost died. He was awarded the Silver Star, Bronze Star and several Purple Hearts for his heroics.
His wounds required more than a year of rehabilitation and they never got all the shrapnel out. He had limited use of his left arm and leg. But, he kept going.
He got his GED and taught himself lithography, making a living for his family. Not the easiest profession for someone with the pain and metal he carried. But, he kept going and enjoyed life to the fullest extent possible.
I learned of his wartime heroics from his cousin. He never said a word. I knew about the constant pain from the wounds and internal shrapnel from the winces, limited motions and diet of aspirin. He’d never even consider mention of it. He just took the hand he was dealt and made the most of it. He kept accomplishing without complaint, hesitation or excuse.
Marcus didn’t quite get it. “So, you’re saying you did all right because you were given good role models?”
“No, I’m saying I selected good role models and, more importantly, applied what I learned. Look, we all grow up with influences, good and bad. But, at some point, it becomes our decision and our responsibility for who we are, what we do and what we accomplish or not. Make the right decisions, Marcus, and act on them.”
Hope he does.
Marcus has innate intelligence and a personality that could propel him far. But, his role models are typical of his neighborhood; local criminals, and entertainers and athletes who behave inanely and irresponsibly.
I was pointing this out to him and linking it to his outcomes, because he’s smart enough to grasp it and possibly change course. He was pondering it for a few seconds when his eyes turned to mine. “Who were your role models?”
The hint of a smirk told me he thought he caught me off guard. Maybe another do-gooder talking trash to him.
But, he had misjudged his target. I had grown up in an urban environment and knew the value of role models. I had lived it. I know my role models were part of my ticket out.
I latched onto Ben Franklin almost by accident. In an elementary school class, we were required to pick a book from a pile on the teacher’s desk. When it was my turn, a cover caught my eye. Someone flying a kite in a lightening storm. Okay, there’s got to be a story behind that.
Ben Franklin; inventor, entrepreneur, publisher and co-founder of the greatest country on earth. This guy didn’t just sit around and wait for things to happen in any field – he made them happen. This was to be the first of many books I would read about Ben.
It wasn’t just that Ray Nitschke was an All-Pro football player. There were plenty of them. It was why he was. Nitschke played every single play as though the game depended upon it. He gave an all-out effort to succeed every time, sacrificing whatever it took to do so. He set the tone for the dominant Packer dynasty, inspiring his fellow players to ante up to his level.
A ferocious presence on the field, he was compassionate and intellectual off. He could adapt and had self-control. He cared about things that mattered.
The most important influence in my life was my father. He died when I was a teenager, but not before giving me what I needed.
He was a source of sage advice, so I recall being surprised that he had not completed high school until after going off to World War II. He was from a very poor neighborhood and it wasn’t that unusual.
He landed at Normandy and was wounded on the beach. But, he kept going, pushing inland. He saved his platoon by taking on a tank with a damaged bazooka, and was wounded again in the process. He kept going. At St. Lo, they suffered an aerial attack and he was riddled with shrapnel and almost died. He was awarded the Silver Star, Bronze Star and several Purple Hearts for his heroics.
His wounds required more than a year of rehabilitation and they never got all the shrapnel out. He had limited use of his left arm and leg. But, he kept going.
He got his GED and taught himself lithography, making a living for his family. Not the easiest profession for someone with the pain and metal he carried. But, he kept going and enjoyed life to the fullest extent possible.
I learned of his wartime heroics from his cousin. He never said a word. I knew about the constant pain from the wounds and internal shrapnel from the winces, limited motions and diet of aspirin. He’d never even consider mention of it. He just took the hand he was dealt and made the most of it. He kept accomplishing without complaint, hesitation or excuse.
Marcus didn’t quite get it. “So, you’re saying you did all right because you were given good role models?”
“No, I’m saying I selected good role models and, more importantly, applied what I learned. Look, we all grow up with influences, good and bad. But, at some point, it becomes our decision and our responsibility for who we are, what we do and what we accomplish or not. Make the right decisions, Marcus, and act on them.”
Hope he does.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Things I Just Don't Get
I’m on the interstate and a car cuts in from the left lane, clearing my front bumper by a good three or four inches. About two thirds of the way into the lane, the right turn signal starts blinking. Far from the first time I’ve seen this.
Do we need to explain the basic concept of a turn signal? Is there a significant portion of the population that fails to grasp that it’s intended to communicate an upcoming change of course, not one that has already occurred? File this among the myriad things I don’t understand.
Add to that the debit/check card. Why use your money to buy something instead of someone else’s? Why not use a credit card and collect the interest on your own money for a couple weeks, as well as establishing a good credit record? Some credit cards do charge interest on the running balance, but there are still those that don’t.
I also don’t get the vehicle window decal of a demented kid urinating on the logo of another vehicle make, and a similar mentality (or lack there of) in other subjects. What difference does it make to those people what other people drive? I was pumping gas into my Ford pickup last week and a truck of a different make pulled up to the next pump. It had one of those decals with the Ford logo as the target.
When no reaction on my part registered, the driver walked over to me and pointed it out with a grin. Surprisingly, he appeared to have all his teeth.
My response was a simple shrug and return of his smile. He was dumbfounded. Why would he think it mattered to me what he thought of Fords? Why would those whose intellectual and emotional evolution halted at the sixth grade assume that the juvenile things that raise their hackles even matter to the rest of us who employ brain mass greater than a legume?
Radio talk shows, editorial pages and the internet are littered with the ravings of thousands of rabid people who proclaim that the country is messed up, public officials don’t know what they’re doing, and they have the solutions. And yet, when I do volunteer work, vote, attend city council meetings, etc., I see maybe dozens. Where are all these “impassioned” people, and what makes them think they even know what goes on where the rubber meets the road, much less how to resolve the issues?
A child gets sent home from school for misbehavior. When and why did we go from the question being “What did you do?” to “What did they do to you?”
There’s not enough space to catalog all the things I don’t get. But, why does anyone care a fig about what absurd stunt Paris Hilton is pulling next?
Do we need to explain the basic concept of a turn signal? Is there a significant portion of the population that fails to grasp that it’s intended to communicate an upcoming change of course, not one that has already occurred? File this among the myriad things I don’t understand.
Add to that the debit/check card. Why use your money to buy something instead of someone else’s? Why not use a credit card and collect the interest on your own money for a couple weeks, as well as establishing a good credit record? Some credit cards do charge interest on the running balance, but there are still those that don’t.
I also don’t get the vehicle window decal of a demented kid urinating on the logo of another vehicle make, and a similar mentality (or lack there of) in other subjects. What difference does it make to those people what other people drive? I was pumping gas into my Ford pickup last week and a truck of a different make pulled up to the next pump. It had one of those decals with the Ford logo as the target.
When no reaction on my part registered, the driver walked over to me and pointed it out with a grin. Surprisingly, he appeared to have all his teeth.
My response was a simple shrug and return of his smile. He was dumbfounded. Why would he think it mattered to me what he thought of Fords? Why would those whose intellectual and emotional evolution halted at the sixth grade assume that the juvenile things that raise their hackles even matter to the rest of us who employ brain mass greater than a legume?
Radio talk shows, editorial pages and the internet are littered with the ravings of thousands of rabid people who proclaim that the country is messed up, public officials don’t know what they’re doing, and they have the solutions. And yet, when I do volunteer work, vote, attend city council meetings, etc., I see maybe dozens. Where are all these “impassioned” people, and what makes them think they even know what goes on where the rubber meets the road, much less how to resolve the issues?
A child gets sent home from school for misbehavior. When and why did we go from the question being “What did you do?” to “What did they do to you?”
There’s not enough space to catalog all the things I don’t get. But, why does anyone care a fig about what absurd stunt Paris Hilton is pulling next?
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Grasshoppers and Ants
We’re having dinner in a restaurant and there’s a young man a few tables down who looks vaguely familiar. Mind you, at my age, everyone looks a little familiar. But this guy glances at me and then away to figure out where he knows me from. I’m thinking Biltmore Estate and can’t link the two. It’s like an Indiana Jones enigma, and I’m not breaking the code.
He gets the ah-hah expression first and wins. He comes over to the table and spares me the embarrassment of trying to guess. “Hi, I’m Frank Jr.”
Okay, I know who he is, but embarrass myself anyway. “Of course, Frank’s oldest.” Sounded even dumber, then.
After he goes back to his table, I give a few mental twists to the clues and the tumblers click into place. My excuse is that the reference points are almost as old as an Indiana Jones relic.
It was the 1980s and entrepreneurs were trying to ride the crest of an "economic wave.” There were those who caught it and those who were pounded into the surf. Such is the lot of an entrepreneur.
Some of us who caught it squirreled the coin away, feeling that for every summer, there’s a winter around the corner. But, most of my counterparts spent extremely ostentatiously. Not just spent, but leveraged great amounts into greater debt on homes, vacation homes, yachts and cars. Ants and grasshoppers, if you learned anything from Aesop. The ant spent the summer accumulating corn, while the grasshopper frittered it away.
If you had any degree of success, it was difficult to hide. You were targeted by every enterprise that thrived on new money. I received an invitation from a custom builder to tour a new “mansion” before he closed the sale to its new owner. I tossed it in the can.
He followed up with a phone call, and I politely declined. His wife just happened to invite mine to a social event, and there proffered an invitation to the house tour. The die was cast.
This was exactly what I hoped to avoid. She was more level-headed than I, but grand houses were her Achilles heel.
The reason I hoped to avert this goes back to one of my basic philosophies. Identify those who succeed, and emulate what makes them a success. The corollary is, discern who doesn’t, and take a lesson from that.
Years before, I attended a lecture by a local historian. It included an account of how Cincinnati had been a major beer producer and home to over 40 significant breweries. After the presentation, I approached the speaker and asked him what happened to all those breweries.
“One word,” he smiled, “wives.”
According to him, all the successful brewers knew each other and socialized. The wives would entertain each other and show off their homes, jewelry and cars. Wives returning to their own homes would demand luxuries better than they had just seen. This spiraled upward until the brewers went broke trying to one-up each other.
It sounded a bit apocryphal to me, but there was a lesson in it somewhere. So, I drove us to the home tour with no small amount of trepidation.
It was everything I feared and more. Not just a lavish entertainment room and a pool a little smaller than Lake Ontario, but hand-painted borders decorating the walls. Fortunately, my wife also viewed it as overkill. Whew. Dodged a bullet, there.
Or, did I? A few weeks later, we bumped into another business owner. He and his wife had just built a house that went well into seven figures. Would we like to see it? No. Yes. The first answer was mine and went unheeded.
If anything, this more expensive house appeared more modest than the first one. Maybe the premium cost was in the location.
But wait, the tour revealed more. The house was honeycombed with secret passages and other unique features. Frank had the fantasy about haunted mansions when he was a boy, and wanted his children to be able to enjoy the real thing. That’s just what Frank Jr. and his siblings did. When I had toured the Biltmore estate, I thought about Frank’s house.
Frank’s business survived the crash around 1990, but the other guy didn’t. So, the grasshoppers batted .500.
As far as I know, all the ants survived it.
He gets the ah-hah expression first and wins. He comes over to the table and spares me the embarrassment of trying to guess. “Hi, I’m Frank Jr.”
Okay, I know who he is, but embarrass myself anyway. “Of course, Frank’s oldest.” Sounded even dumber, then.
After he goes back to his table, I give a few mental twists to the clues and the tumblers click into place. My excuse is that the reference points are almost as old as an Indiana Jones relic.
It was the 1980s and entrepreneurs were trying to ride the crest of an "economic wave.” There were those who caught it and those who were pounded into the surf. Such is the lot of an entrepreneur.
Some of us who caught it squirreled the coin away, feeling that for every summer, there’s a winter around the corner. But, most of my counterparts spent extremely ostentatiously. Not just spent, but leveraged great amounts into greater debt on homes, vacation homes, yachts and cars. Ants and grasshoppers, if you learned anything from Aesop. The ant spent the summer accumulating corn, while the grasshopper frittered it away.
If you had any degree of success, it was difficult to hide. You were targeted by every enterprise that thrived on new money. I received an invitation from a custom builder to tour a new “mansion” before he closed the sale to its new owner. I tossed it in the can.
He followed up with a phone call, and I politely declined. His wife just happened to invite mine to a social event, and there proffered an invitation to the house tour. The die was cast.
This was exactly what I hoped to avoid. She was more level-headed than I, but grand houses were her Achilles heel.
The reason I hoped to avert this goes back to one of my basic philosophies. Identify those who succeed, and emulate what makes them a success. The corollary is, discern who doesn’t, and take a lesson from that.
Years before, I attended a lecture by a local historian. It included an account of how Cincinnati had been a major beer producer and home to over 40 significant breweries. After the presentation, I approached the speaker and asked him what happened to all those breweries.
“One word,” he smiled, “wives.”
According to him, all the successful brewers knew each other and socialized. The wives would entertain each other and show off their homes, jewelry and cars. Wives returning to their own homes would demand luxuries better than they had just seen. This spiraled upward until the brewers went broke trying to one-up each other.
It sounded a bit apocryphal to me, but there was a lesson in it somewhere. So, I drove us to the home tour with no small amount of trepidation.
It was everything I feared and more. Not just a lavish entertainment room and a pool a little smaller than Lake Ontario, but hand-painted borders decorating the walls. Fortunately, my wife also viewed it as overkill. Whew. Dodged a bullet, there.
Or, did I? A few weeks later, we bumped into another business owner. He and his wife had just built a house that went well into seven figures. Would we like to see it? No. Yes. The first answer was mine and went unheeded.
If anything, this more expensive house appeared more modest than the first one. Maybe the premium cost was in the location.
But wait, the tour revealed more. The house was honeycombed with secret passages and other unique features. Frank had the fantasy about haunted mansions when he was a boy, and wanted his children to be able to enjoy the real thing. That’s just what Frank Jr. and his siblings did. When I had toured the Biltmore estate, I thought about Frank’s house.
Frank’s business survived the crash around 1990, but the other guy didn’t. So, the grasshoppers batted .500.
As far as I know, all the ants survived it.
Partner Problems?
My lawyer was asking for advice about advertising. Really, do I get to bill you, now?
One of the best legal services ads I ever saw was a shot of an old-fashioned cash register, with a man greedily plunging his hands into the till. Another gent was behind him, strangling him. The headline was, “Partner Problems?”
Business mergers, partnerships, etc. are like any other relationship. I’ve got enough of them under my belt to be aware of the good, the bad and the ugly.
And, the ugliest. In one early business venture, I had Norm, the partner from hell. Being relatively inexperienced at the time, I did the deal because of the assets Norm brought to the table, even though I could see he’d be a problem.
I blame myself. We first met for lunch. While we were waiting in line for a table, Norm tapped the woman in front of us on the shoulder and said “hello.” She turned around, recognized him, kneed him in the crotch and stomped off. Norm said she must’ve thought he was someone else.
Okay, this might be a red flag.
The root of this was typical Norm. Norm was 59. To look at him, you might think 49. To read his singles ad, you’d get 39. You’d think it would be obvious that responding singles would detect the difference as soon as they met, so why lie?
Norm closed that gap with a personal trainer, spray-on tan, toupee, tailored Italian clothes, gold chains and a $90,000 sports car. Or, so he thought. Apparently, most of them could tell his age wasn’t what he said anyway. Especially in one case, when Norm sneezed and his rug flew across the table into her fettuccine alfredo.
Norm did register feedback that the fact that he had never been married was perceived as a negative. So, he edited his ads to show himself as divorced, and acquired some wallet photos of “his children.”
If that wasn’t nauseating enough, the lead to his ad was “Corporate executive who has worked too hard building his company wants to now devote himself to relaxing and a mate; sharing his life and fortunes.” Norm never shared anything except your food and his aches and pains. I had no problem shutting my door to him, but our employees weren’t quite in that position.
When I was spending as much time hearing complaints about Norm as I was doing business, I called him in. Many of us had hinted, but he was beyond oblivious. It was time to draw lines.
“Norm, I want you to stop going through people’s desks and taking their food.”
“They don’t mind. They know I work long hours and that I sometimes need to get my blood sugar up.”
“They think you’re a thief and know you don’t do squat around here. And, they don’t want you wasting their time with daily updates on your aches and pains because they DO have things to get done around here.”
“They know I have health issues and are concerned.”
“Everyone has health issues and they think you’re a little sissy for crying to everyone about yours.”
“Be sympathetic for a change “
“Be a man for a change. And while you’re at it, don’t bother them with strange tales of your personal ad mating rituals.
“They think it’s romantic.”
“They think you’re a pervert. Look, they’re here to work and earn a living. We want them to work. It’s a win-win. Stop distracting them from work and leave them alone.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“If you’d start using the warehouse door to avoid walking through the office, I’d appreciate it.”
In my callow youth, I thought we had resolved the problem. I had not bothered to project the upshot. Norm was what he was and therefore had no other choice but to act like a Norm.
Having lost an audience in the office, he turned to the outside world of customers and vendors. I was taken off guard by the first call.
“You badgered me for three months to give you our business, now you’re pulling it?”
“Calm down, Ed, and tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Kathy was on the phone with your sales manager and he resigned the account.”
“We don’t have a sales manager. Is she sure it was us?”
“Seems to be. He said that if she wasn’t interested in his bunion surgery or something, he wasn’t interested in shipping her any more stock.”
“Oh, God.”
“Also, something about him asking her to send him a picture of herself.”
“Oh, God.”
“Then, it is your sales manager?”
“No, Ed, but I know who it is. We’re still hooked up with you and I promise he won’t call again.” He couldn’t call if I snapped his neck. But, alas, killing him would probably be doing him a favor.
I called Norm’s extension, but no answer. So, I stuck my head outside the office and asked Maureen to track down Norm and bring him directly to my office. The inflection might’ve been a tad stronger than a request.
“Do you want to count to ten or a hundred or maybe a million, first?”
“Just get him, thank you.”
I had a bunch of calls on hold, all seeming to be related to the same problem. The third I took was from Johnny Magg in Louisville. Oh, double God. I didn’t know Mr. Magg very well, but my old street sense had put him on the short Do-Not-Cross-Under-Any-Circumstance list.
He gave a terse account of their “sales manager” call. “Do you want to know what this dog turd said to my daughter?”
“It’s not necessary. I get the picture.”
“Get this picture. If this guy ever calls again, writes a letter or even sets a pinkie toe down on Kentucky soil, I’ll send him back to you in a sponge.”
Not sure I completely understood that one. “I understand perfectly, Johnnie.” He hung up. All the lights on my phone lines were blinking. Would it never end?
A tapping on my door sill. “You were looking for me?”
“Yes, Norm, pack your bag. We need you to make a visit in Louisville.”
One of the best legal services ads I ever saw was a shot of an old-fashioned cash register, with a man greedily plunging his hands into the till. Another gent was behind him, strangling him. The headline was, “Partner Problems?”
Business mergers, partnerships, etc. are like any other relationship. I’ve got enough of them under my belt to be aware of the good, the bad and the ugly.
And, the ugliest. In one early business venture, I had Norm, the partner from hell. Being relatively inexperienced at the time, I did the deal because of the assets Norm brought to the table, even though I could see he’d be a problem.
I blame myself. We first met for lunch. While we were waiting in line for a table, Norm tapped the woman in front of us on the shoulder and said “hello.” She turned around, recognized him, kneed him in the crotch and stomped off. Norm said she must’ve thought he was someone else.
Okay, this might be a red flag.
The root of this was typical Norm. Norm was 59. To look at him, you might think 49. To read his singles ad, you’d get 39. You’d think it would be obvious that responding singles would detect the difference as soon as they met, so why lie?
Norm closed that gap with a personal trainer, spray-on tan, toupee, tailored Italian clothes, gold chains and a $90,000 sports car. Or, so he thought. Apparently, most of them could tell his age wasn’t what he said anyway. Especially in one case, when Norm sneezed and his rug flew across the table into her fettuccine alfredo.
Norm did register feedback that the fact that he had never been married was perceived as a negative. So, he edited his ads to show himself as divorced, and acquired some wallet photos of “his children.”
If that wasn’t nauseating enough, the lead to his ad was “Corporate executive who has worked too hard building his company wants to now devote himself to relaxing and a mate; sharing his life and fortunes.” Norm never shared anything except your food and his aches and pains. I had no problem shutting my door to him, but our employees weren’t quite in that position.
When I was spending as much time hearing complaints about Norm as I was doing business, I called him in. Many of us had hinted, but he was beyond oblivious. It was time to draw lines.
“Norm, I want you to stop going through people’s desks and taking their food.”
“They don’t mind. They know I work long hours and that I sometimes need to get my blood sugar up.”
“They think you’re a thief and know you don’t do squat around here. And, they don’t want you wasting their time with daily updates on your aches and pains because they DO have things to get done around here.”
“They know I have health issues and are concerned.”
“Everyone has health issues and they think you’re a little sissy for crying to everyone about yours.”
“Be sympathetic for a change “
“Be a man for a change. And while you’re at it, don’t bother them with strange tales of your personal ad mating rituals.
“They think it’s romantic.”
“They think you’re a pervert. Look, they’re here to work and earn a living. We want them to work. It’s a win-win. Stop distracting them from work and leave them alone.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“If you’d start using the warehouse door to avoid walking through the office, I’d appreciate it.”
In my callow youth, I thought we had resolved the problem. I had not bothered to project the upshot. Norm was what he was and therefore had no other choice but to act like a Norm.
Having lost an audience in the office, he turned to the outside world of customers and vendors. I was taken off guard by the first call.
“You badgered me for three months to give you our business, now you’re pulling it?”
“Calm down, Ed, and tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Kathy was on the phone with your sales manager and he resigned the account.”
“We don’t have a sales manager. Is she sure it was us?”
“Seems to be. He said that if she wasn’t interested in his bunion surgery or something, he wasn’t interested in shipping her any more stock.”
“Oh, God.”
“Also, something about him asking her to send him a picture of herself.”
“Oh, God.”
“Then, it is your sales manager?”
“No, Ed, but I know who it is. We’re still hooked up with you and I promise he won’t call again.” He couldn’t call if I snapped his neck. But, alas, killing him would probably be doing him a favor.
I called Norm’s extension, but no answer. So, I stuck my head outside the office and asked Maureen to track down Norm and bring him directly to my office. The inflection might’ve been a tad stronger than a request.
“Do you want to count to ten or a hundred or maybe a million, first?”
“Just get him, thank you.”
I had a bunch of calls on hold, all seeming to be related to the same problem. The third I took was from Johnny Magg in Louisville. Oh, double God. I didn’t know Mr. Magg very well, but my old street sense had put him on the short Do-Not-Cross-Under-Any-Circumstance list.
He gave a terse account of their “sales manager” call. “Do you want to know what this dog turd said to my daughter?”
“It’s not necessary. I get the picture.”
“Get this picture. If this guy ever calls again, writes a letter or even sets a pinkie toe down on Kentucky soil, I’ll send him back to you in a sponge.”
Not sure I completely understood that one. “I understand perfectly, Johnnie.” He hung up. All the lights on my phone lines were blinking. Would it never end?
A tapping on my door sill. “You were looking for me?”
“Yes, Norm, pack your bag. We need you to make a visit in Louisville.”
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Catalogue Hall of Fame
Every company you buy from messes up somewhere along the line. What separates the good from the bad is what they do when that happens.
During the holiday season, the cracks start to show with the added volume and pressures, and that difference becomes more apparent. During the past couple months, I shopped a couple dozen catalog vendors, and a few really shined.
When I ordered a car audio system from Crutchfield, they notified me at the time of order that they were out of one adaptor and when I could anticipate shipment. This gave me the option of changing product or even vendor. When I received it, they emailed an update on expected delivery on the part, and offered to reimburse me if I decided not to wait and buy it elsewhere.
NRS shipped me a product, which I was using for a gift and didn't open. Shortly after it arrived, I received a call from NRS, advising me that they had had negative feedback on the product and had shipped me an upgrade model of another brand. There was no need to return the substandard product.
I ordered a product from Amazon. The model number was correct on the order and the packing slip, but they had shipped the wrong one. Following their procedure, I notified them via their web site and they immediately shipped the correct model, not even waiting for the return.
Good customer service makes good sense and good business, but not everyone is smart enough to practice it. These companies are.
During the holiday season, the cracks start to show with the added volume and pressures, and that difference becomes more apparent. During the past couple months, I shopped a couple dozen catalog vendors, and a few really shined.
When I ordered a car audio system from Crutchfield, they notified me at the time of order that they were out of one adaptor and when I could anticipate shipment. This gave me the option of changing product or even vendor. When I received it, they emailed an update on expected delivery on the part, and offered to reimburse me if I decided not to wait and buy it elsewhere.
NRS shipped me a product, which I was using for a gift and didn't open. Shortly after it arrived, I received a call from NRS, advising me that they had had negative feedback on the product and had shipped me an upgrade model of another brand. There was no need to return the substandard product.
I ordered a product from Amazon. The model number was correct on the order and the packing slip, but they had shipped the wrong one. Following their procedure, I notified them via their web site and they immediately shipped the correct model, not even waiting for the return.
Good customer service makes good sense and good business, but not everyone is smart enough to practice it. These companies are.
Hitch Your Wagon to a Star
My last post reminds me of another piece of wisdom I learned about parenting from my father, and passed along to my kids. When I started tagging after Billy, it got my dad’s attention and he’d make comments about this not being a good choice.
But, I kept hanging with Billy. He was a year older and “cool.”
Finally, he took me aside. “Name three things Billy’s ever achieved.”
I couldn’t think of three. I couldn’t think of one.
“Then why would you listen to him? If he knew anything worth knowing, he’d be something.”
“But, he’s cool. And he lets me hang with him, even if I’m younger. And he does tell me things.”
“Yeah, and look at where it’s gotten you. Nothing but trouble. He lets you hang with him because it makes him feel like he’s worth something. And, he tells you to do those stupid things because misery loves company.”
I wasn’t quite getting it and he read that.
“Look, the adage is, “Hitch your wagon to a star,” not “Hitch your wagon to a sinker.” Hang with the kids who accomplish things and you’ll be a star. Hang with the sinkers and live in the muck.”
I got it.
But, I kept hanging with Billy. He was a year older and “cool.”
Finally, he took me aside. “Name three things Billy’s ever achieved.”
I couldn’t think of three. I couldn’t think of one.
“Then why would you listen to him? If he knew anything worth knowing, he’d be something.”
“But, he’s cool. And he lets me hang with him, even if I’m younger. And he does tell me things.”
“Yeah, and look at where it’s gotten you. Nothing but trouble. He lets you hang with him because it makes him feel like he’s worth something. And, he tells you to do those stupid things because misery loves company.”
I wasn’t quite getting it and he read that.
“Look, the adage is, “Hitch your wagon to a star,” not “Hitch your wagon to a sinker.” Hang with the kids who accomplish things and you’ll be a star. Hang with the sinkers and live in the muck.”
I got it.
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