The test

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Plimpton mode

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trans-Siberian Orchestra

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

It was one great present.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regarding the Darlene Love post...

If this doesn't say Christmas...

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

Strike not this

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

Until now.

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

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

Rambling thoughts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not there. I’m in Miami Beach.”

“I could hitchhike down.”

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

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

“The Jag. Is that okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nah.”

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

“Nah.”

“You gotta better idea?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still have a car, don’t you?”

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

“Just tell me!”

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

“Okay, sorry. What is it?”

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

“Okay, see ya.”

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

“I can wait.”

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

“Hammer. Your cousin.”

“Oh, yeah. How ya doing?”

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

“Tell you something?”

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

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

“Trust me, it’s a surprise.”

“Did you need a car?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Remember the Rambler?’

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

“Well, it’s yours.” Surprise!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe not.

Niantic

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

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

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

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

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

John grinned. “Niantic, Connecticut.”

“Where the hell is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What word would you use?”

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

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

“I’m not going to let it go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“New Haven?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“Very funny, John.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shhhhh!”

“I’m officially freezing here.”

“Shutup!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can explain.”

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

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

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

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

“Or, I can just throw you in jail.”

“Can do that.”

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

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

“What’s going on tonight?”

Oh, great. “With Pete? The award?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think we’re done here.”

Christmas comes early

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosetta Stone of American Culture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gimme that ol' time Rock n' Roll

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

“Thanks. Bring some doughnuts?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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