If you aren’t a Lebowski acolyte, I’ll save you some time by advising you skip this entry. If you are a Little Lebowski Urban Achiever, read on. And, we are all very proud of you.
I just got an email from Luis, thanking me for “The Big Lebowski” DVD I had sent to him. Luis was one of the guides I employed in a kayaking trip in Costa Rica. One night, when we were out doing a round of bars with Davis (another guide), I slipped into an impression of Jesus. If you’re still reading, you know I’m referring to Jesus the pederast, not the son of the Lord. They looked at me blankly.
In my defense, these guys carry cell phones and ipods, and wear Oakley, Burton and Nike products. Surely, they would know Lebowski, if not be outright devotees. Not.
In his email, Luis asked what I liked about the movie. It’s the Coen brothers. You know these things happened. You know for a fact the characters exist. I would like to meet them.
Luis expressed doubt that was the case. But, it is. The Coens are able to unearth these gems of reality, like when little Larry is confronted about the Dude’s stolen car.
The beauty is that the scene in the living room did take place, with the homework in the plastic “evidence bag” and Larry’s incapacitated father (a screenwriter) there in a hospital bed. You can’t make up this stuff.
He is Jaik Freeman and was tracked down when his homework was found in a recovered stolen car. So, how did the Coens happen upon this episode? It was Peter Exline’s car, and he was one of the guys to brace Jaik with the evidence. Exline met the Coens at a Superbowl party and told them the story.
Jaik may be an obscure answer in big league trivia competition, but the real Walter is hiding in plain sight. And when you see him, you have to wonder if John Goodman (as Walter) is real or Memorex. He’s John Milius, a legend in Hollywood. He wrote “Apocalypse Now,” “Conan the Barbarian,” and “Red Dawn,” among other screenplays of similar bent. He was also a co-founder of the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Deep in the heart of the politically correct left coast film industry, the centerpiece of his office is a large photograph of an atomic bomb explosion.
The Dude is another story. A lot of ins and outs and what have yous. But, he does exist and makes a cameo appearance in the movie. He’s Jeff Dowd and the Coens didn’t have to go far to trip over him. He’s been working (unlike his character) in film production for 30 years. He was a political activist and one of the Seattle Seven.
Even though Dowd’s cleaned up, Jeff Bridges was able to ratchet the image back down with his own quirks. Bridges brought elements of the Dude’s wardrobe from his own closet.
Yes, Virginia, there is a little Larry. He exists as certainly as depravity and insanity and impropriety exist. And that’s part of the genius of the Coens.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Comic economics
Rest easy. The government that pulled the strings for Freddie Mac, Sallie Mae and Social Security is now at the wheel of the automobile and banking sectors. What could go wrong here?
In the Great Depression, they took a different route; one that ironically seemed suited to them. Comics.
They decided to promote a cheaper source of iron for the diet. So, they turned to Popeye, whose extraordinary strength had yet to be accounted for. The government supplied spinach as the explanation and the popularity of this second cousin to lawn clippings soared.
The basis of their strategy was based on an erroneous study of iron content that was off by a full decimal. This was a government project, after all. At least they didn’t label it as a source of salmonella. That was an idea that’s time was yet to come.
They weren’t the only ones who used the funnies as a source of inspiration. A young Elvis Presley was obsessed with Captain Marvel. A comic book still sits in his boyhood bedroom in the Memphis apartment. The Pelvis copied the Captain’s touseled do, along for a penchant for jumpsuits and capes.
Borrowing from comics doesn’t work out for everyone. A small source of pride for me was when a patent application was turned down, citing that I had already conceived it. Pride until I discovered that I shared that distinction of being cited in such a way with another. It seems that an engineer was denied protection for a process because it had already been posited in a comic. In the relevant episode, Donald Duck takes a blow to the head and begins spouting scientific ideas. Yes, the idea emanated from an artist known for his scientific prowess, not the bird. But, finding myself in league with a cartoon duck kind of devalued the distinction nonetheless.
I never saw the economic stimulus package or bailouts as effective solutions to our current woes. The government needs to return to its depth and get out the comic books.
In the Great Depression, they took a different route; one that ironically seemed suited to them. Comics.
They decided to promote a cheaper source of iron for the diet. So, they turned to Popeye, whose extraordinary strength had yet to be accounted for. The government supplied spinach as the explanation and the popularity of this second cousin to lawn clippings soared.
The basis of their strategy was based on an erroneous study of iron content that was off by a full decimal. This was a government project, after all. At least they didn’t label it as a source of salmonella. That was an idea that’s time was yet to come.
They weren’t the only ones who used the funnies as a source of inspiration. A young Elvis Presley was obsessed with Captain Marvel. A comic book still sits in his boyhood bedroom in the Memphis apartment. The Pelvis copied the Captain’s touseled do, along for a penchant for jumpsuits and capes.
Borrowing from comics doesn’t work out for everyone. A small source of pride for me was when a patent application was turned down, citing that I had already conceived it. Pride until I discovered that I shared that distinction of being cited in such a way with another. It seems that an engineer was denied protection for a process because it had already been posited in a comic. In the relevant episode, Donald Duck takes a blow to the head and begins spouting scientific ideas. Yes, the idea emanated from an artist known for his scientific prowess, not the bird. But, finding myself in league with a cartoon duck kind of devalued the distinction nonetheless.
I never saw the economic stimulus package or bailouts as effective solutions to our current woes. The government needs to return to its depth and get out the comic books.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Tis the Season?
I don’t know why some feel that Christmas is the perfect time to get engaged. I’ve never had enough interest to research that. If I had, I might not be caught off guard when such customs insinuate themselves into my cloistered world.
The first came as little surprise. My son’s girlfriend had the full court press on for the holiday. Of course, she does for all holidays. Even Presidents’ Day. My son says it’s because of the circumstances of her childhood. I ascribe some weight to the fact that they’ve been going together for over three years, and she’s looking at it as more than a hobby.
They provided a modicum of edge to the big family party. I should say, patchwork family party since we don’t seem to permit divorces, blood feuds or homicides influence the invitation list. My ex likes to entertain big crowds.
I hadn’t met my nephew’s new bride, so she seemed a likely source for some unbiased theory. As it turns out, she’s Kurdish. Has this big, lumpy Polish face that looks like it should appear on the cover of “Collective Farming Monthly.” In contrast, from the neck down could easily front for “Victoria’s Secret.” It might’ve been. I could develop a taste for shrink wrap tight skirts, with a long slit to allow for some leg movement and a view of the vampire boots. Her belt would be a watchband on me.
Communication was somewhat challenging. She spoke English, but like Natasha of the old cartoon show. I beat back an insane desire to ask her if she knew where moose and squirrel were. She had enough challenges with this clan, without me adding to them.
I waxed philosophical about the path to matrimony and its implications. She cut me short. “Chris (my nephew) no longer makes pilaf for me. Not since we’ve been married.” She couldn’t mean the dish. Maybe it was Polish slang for a variation of hot monkey love. She must read minds. “Rice! I mean rice.” I started crafting my escape in hopes of not provoking an international incident.
My daughter is another issue. Her boyfriend had decided to test market his idea for a proposal on my son. There are varying opinions of him within the family council and my son didn’t want to get in the middle of this. He’s not a supporter, but didn’t want to stick his neck out. So, he told me. “You came to me with this because you’re hoping I’ll do something really aggressive and inane.”
“Would you? I’d appreciate it.”
I know my kids and didn’t think any interference was necessary. I had scheduled a dinner elsewhere to ensure reason for a timely escape.
My date was someone I’ve known for a long time. I felt like I had attained a safe haven.
“Do you ever think about marriage?”
I supposed I gulped my wine. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you. I’m just not sure I understood it.”
“You did. Exactly what do you have against marriage?”
“Spouses stop making pilaf.” I’m a quick study.
“What?”
“Once you’re married, you don’t get pilaf anymore.”
“Don’t be fatuous. If you want to change the subject, just say so.”
“So.”
“Not so fast.”
As fate would have it, someone by the doorway caught my eye. She dashed over to the table and we hugged. She was an old neighbor. I introduced her. She said she had been meeting someone here for dinner, but he just called her and said he was ill. I invited her to join us.
I didn’t check to see if that earned me a look. No sense wasting energy.
To the best of my knowledge, we’re all still single. I’ll have to poll the troops after New Year.
The first came as little surprise. My son’s girlfriend had the full court press on for the holiday. Of course, she does for all holidays. Even Presidents’ Day. My son says it’s because of the circumstances of her childhood. I ascribe some weight to the fact that they’ve been going together for over three years, and she’s looking at it as more than a hobby.
They provided a modicum of edge to the big family party. I should say, patchwork family party since we don’t seem to permit divorces, blood feuds or homicides influence the invitation list. My ex likes to entertain big crowds.
I hadn’t met my nephew’s new bride, so she seemed a likely source for some unbiased theory. As it turns out, she’s Kurdish. Has this big, lumpy Polish face that looks like it should appear on the cover of “Collective Farming Monthly.” In contrast, from the neck down could easily front for “Victoria’s Secret.” It might’ve been. I could develop a taste for shrink wrap tight skirts, with a long slit to allow for some leg movement and a view of the vampire boots. Her belt would be a watchband on me.
Communication was somewhat challenging. She spoke English, but like Natasha of the old cartoon show. I beat back an insane desire to ask her if she knew where moose and squirrel were. She had enough challenges with this clan, without me adding to them.
I waxed philosophical about the path to matrimony and its implications. She cut me short. “Chris (my nephew) no longer makes pilaf for me. Not since we’ve been married.” She couldn’t mean the dish. Maybe it was Polish slang for a variation of hot monkey love. She must read minds. “Rice! I mean rice.” I started crafting my escape in hopes of not provoking an international incident.
My daughter is another issue. Her boyfriend had decided to test market his idea for a proposal on my son. There are varying opinions of him within the family council and my son didn’t want to get in the middle of this. He’s not a supporter, but didn’t want to stick his neck out. So, he told me. “You came to me with this because you’re hoping I’ll do something really aggressive and inane.”
“Would you? I’d appreciate it.”
I know my kids and didn’t think any interference was necessary. I had scheduled a dinner elsewhere to ensure reason for a timely escape.
My date was someone I’ve known for a long time. I felt like I had attained a safe haven.
“Do you ever think about marriage?”
I supposed I gulped my wine. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you. I’m just not sure I understood it.”
“You did. Exactly what do you have against marriage?”
“Spouses stop making pilaf.” I’m a quick study.
“What?”
“Once you’re married, you don’t get pilaf anymore.”
“Don’t be fatuous. If you want to change the subject, just say so.”
“So.”
“Not so fast.”
As fate would have it, someone by the doorway caught my eye. She dashed over to the table and we hugged. She was an old neighbor. I introduced her. She said she had been meeting someone here for dinner, but he just called her and said he was ill. I invited her to join us.
I didn’t check to see if that earned me a look. No sense wasting energy.
To the best of my knowledge, we’re all still single. I’ll have to poll the troops after New Year.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
What moves you
This alludes to the prior blog, in which I mention rare moments when you are truly moved. To the point where you have a physical response.
I was on a board and the question came up concerning sculpture to be included in a construction project. The designated artist was going back and forth with the board about the nature of the creation, but I was staying out of it. He turned to me, probably looking for support.
“I don’t know a lot about art.”
“You don’t have to. What do you think art is?”
“I’m not sure. I never tried to pin that down. What is art?”
“Art is a creation that moves you.”
I liked that. I wasn’t moved by his concepts, but I did buy the definition.
I can understand that. When I watch “Casablanca,” what sends a shiver up my spine are the tight shots of Yvonne in the middle of singing “La Marseillaise” (the French national anthem) and at the end of that scene (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-KL76edqCKc). If you have an atom of patriotism in your body, you cannot help but resonate with what she feels.
That’s art.
I was on a board and the question came up concerning sculpture to be included in a construction project. The designated artist was going back and forth with the board about the nature of the creation, but I was staying out of it. He turned to me, probably looking for support.
“I don’t know a lot about art.”
“You don’t have to. What do you think art is?”
“I’m not sure. I never tried to pin that down. What is art?”
“Art is a creation that moves you.”
I liked that. I wasn’t moved by his concepts, but I did buy the definition.
I can understand that. When I watch “Casablanca,” what sends a shiver up my spine are the tight shots of Yvonne in the middle of singing “La Marseillaise” (the French national anthem) and at the end of that scene (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-KL76edqCKc). If you have an atom of patriotism in your body, you cannot help but resonate with what she feels.
That’s art.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Time for Love
The subject of the email from Joe was “December 23rd.” I’m not using his real name because he’s somewhat of a celebrity.
I know what the date is without asking. The message is, “The Kleenex is on the coffee table.” On that date, Joe will be sitting in front of his television with tears rolling down his cheeks and a chill running up his spine. Me, too. Or, will I?
I reply. “This year, let’s go. Road trip!”
A couple years ago, Joe and I discovered that we’ve been doing the same thing one evening in December for decades. We discuss the merits of each year, like wine buffs talk about vintages.
On December 23rd, Darlene Love, formally of The Crystals, will appear on the David Letterman Show and sing, “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” The studio audience will go freaking nuts. Joe and I will be sitting in our respective abodes and experience that rare sensation of being deeply moved.
Great, but why settle for that? The ultimate has to be being there. The ticket has to be harder to get than the fifty yard line at the Super Bowl, but I’ll give it a shot.
I know what the date is without asking. The message is, “The Kleenex is on the coffee table.” On that date, Joe will be sitting in front of his television with tears rolling down his cheeks and a chill running up his spine. Me, too. Or, will I?
I reply. “This year, let’s go. Road trip!”
A couple years ago, Joe and I discovered that we’ve been doing the same thing one evening in December for decades. We discuss the merits of each year, like wine buffs talk about vintages.
On December 23rd, Darlene Love, formally of The Crystals, will appear on the David Letterman Show and sing, “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” The studio audience will go freaking nuts. Joe and I will be sitting in our respective abodes and experience that rare sensation of being deeply moved.
Great, but why settle for that? The ultimate has to be being there. The ticket has to be harder to get than the fifty yard line at the Super Bowl, but I’ll give it a shot.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Enjoy it while you can
I just completed a trip that required eight hours in-transit at each end. It’s hard for me to do nothing for eight minutes, let alone hours. I equipped myself with a book, as well as Sudoku and crossword puzzles and cryptograms to pass the time. They just got me through the outbound flight.
I didn’t think I’d need any distractions on the way home. It had been a week of paddling whitewater all day and rum all night. I could sleep on a cheese grater, let alone an airliner seat. Or, that was the plan.
We boarded the full flight and I had the aisle seat next to an elderly couple. I hoped that I wouldn’t slouch over and drool on the poor lady.
As opposed to the equipment for the flight down there, which had overhead screens that showed a third rate movie, this had seatback screens. Once the door closed, they flashed into life with an actress cutting us in on the secrets of seatbelts and oxygen masks. She was perky and beautiful, and bore little resemblance to the uniformed gargoyle who trudged up and down the aisle to detect violators.
Airborne at last. I settled back as best I could and readied myself for the sandman. The screen switched to a menu. Movies, TV shows, games, route map, weather…wait. Back up. Games?
I browsed that. One sounded somewhere between Trivial Pursuit and an SAT test. Okay, I’ll try that once before I nap. I poked the touchscreen.
It asked me to enter a nickname. Huh? Whatever. I stabbed in a name. “Joining in-progress.”
It was question #4 in a series of 20. A clock icon was sweeping. More points for a quicker correct answer. I selected my response and my score was reported. Then, the screen shifted to a rankings list showing seat numbers and nicknames. You were competing with other passengers.
Even though I was late to the game, I managed to finish third. So much for the nap. I would play until I won one. The next game, I place second. Same with the third. I should sleep. Maybe one more.
I won that one on the last question. Someone two rows up and the opposite side of the aisle whirled around and glared at me. I checked the screen. He was the one I aced out at the end. Time to quit, while I’m on top. Maybe one more.
This continued with four out of the couple dozen players consistently jockeying for the top spots. Groans and cheers echoed around the cabin as each question was scored. Angry shouts rang out when a game was interrupted by an announcement of rough air. The woman next to me began murmuring encouragement, strangely taking pride in “our row’s” victories. That was okay, but when she moaned as I made one choice, I had to give her a warning glance. Don’t mess with my game, granny.
This was getting intense. The beverage cart trundled by. I heard someone ahead tell the attendant to come back later, he was in the middle of a game. When told there would be no further service, he snapped, “Then get lost.”
At one point, I sensed someone hovering over me. I looked up at an angry face. “Just seeing if you were getting answers off a laptop or something.” With five seconds to answer?
That signaled that enough was enough. I switched the screen to see where we were on the map and thought I detected a sigh of disappointment from granny.
Will there be riots in the planes over ambiguous questions? Fights in the terminal after the flights? This cannot end well. Enjoy it while you can.
I didn’t think I’d need any distractions on the way home. It had been a week of paddling whitewater all day and rum all night. I could sleep on a cheese grater, let alone an airliner seat. Or, that was the plan.
We boarded the full flight and I had the aisle seat next to an elderly couple. I hoped that I wouldn’t slouch over and drool on the poor lady.
As opposed to the equipment for the flight down there, which had overhead screens that showed a third rate movie, this had seatback screens. Once the door closed, they flashed into life with an actress cutting us in on the secrets of seatbelts and oxygen masks. She was perky and beautiful, and bore little resemblance to the uniformed gargoyle who trudged up and down the aisle to detect violators.
Airborne at last. I settled back as best I could and readied myself for the sandman. The screen switched to a menu. Movies, TV shows, games, route map, weather…wait. Back up. Games?
I browsed that. One sounded somewhere between Trivial Pursuit and an SAT test. Okay, I’ll try that once before I nap. I poked the touchscreen.
It asked me to enter a nickname. Huh? Whatever. I stabbed in a name. “Joining in-progress.”
It was question #4 in a series of 20. A clock icon was sweeping. More points for a quicker correct answer. I selected my response and my score was reported. Then, the screen shifted to a rankings list showing seat numbers and nicknames. You were competing with other passengers.
Even though I was late to the game, I managed to finish third. So much for the nap. I would play until I won one. The next game, I place second. Same with the third. I should sleep. Maybe one more.
I won that one on the last question. Someone two rows up and the opposite side of the aisle whirled around and glared at me. I checked the screen. He was the one I aced out at the end. Time to quit, while I’m on top. Maybe one more.
This continued with four out of the couple dozen players consistently jockeying for the top spots. Groans and cheers echoed around the cabin as each question was scored. Angry shouts rang out when a game was interrupted by an announcement of rough air. The woman next to me began murmuring encouragement, strangely taking pride in “our row’s” victories. That was okay, but when she moaned as I made one choice, I had to give her a warning glance. Don’t mess with my game, granny.
This was getting intense. The beverage cart trundled by. I heard someone ahead tell the attendant to come back later, he was in the middle of a game. When told there would be no further service, he snapped, “Then get lost.”
At one point, I sensed someone hovering over me. I looked up at an angry face. “Just seeing if you were getting answers off a laptop or something.” With five seconds to answer?
That signaled that enough was enough. I switched the screen to see where we were on the map and thought I detected a sigh of disappointment from granny.
Will there be riots in the planes over ambiguous questions? Fights in the terminal after the flights? This cannot end well. Enjoy it while you can.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Costa Rica Kayaking Trip
Scenery pics: http://tinyurl.com/62t8gq
Paddling pics: http://tinyurl.com/58zfgp
Life is comprised of bricks of experiences. When you approach the end, would you have a barbeque pit or a castle?
Tomorrow is promised to no one. If not now, when?
These are a couple of the philosophies that compelled me to plan a whitewater kayaking trip to Costa Rica. Or, rationalizations. Regardless, it was on my list.
Why there? Some of the primo scenery, wildlife and paddling in the world. And, less than a full day’s travel. Okay, enough of the prologue.
Day One. I flew to San Jose and was met by Jose (coincidentally), who works for the outfitter. Jose is a bright and personable young man who holds a wealth of knowledge about his country. He was also picking up Erica, a young lady from California who was with my group. From there, he was taking us to a B&B in Turrialba, which was to be our base of operations, about 30 miles away. The literature said it was about a two-hour ride. I thought that was padding it. I was wrong.
It took over an hour and a half just to get through San Jose. It was like Beechmont Avenue the week before Christmas. San Jose has a population of about a million, of which three quarters are on whatever street you’re on. They’ve tried to deal with the congestion by limiting driving by day of the week, according to the last digits of the license plate. Nice try.
The jam gave me time to read a newspaper I picked up at the airport. The lead story was about Hu Jintao’s visit to Central America. He worked an agreement with Costa Rica to build a soccer stadium, install a Chinese institute at the university and invest millions to double the output of the petroleum refineries of Costa Rica, for China’s benefit. Costa Rica is promoted as the mecca of the green movement, but eco-principles are soluble in cash. In short, China was making Costa Rica its bitch, along with the rest of Central America. In case this escaped anyone, the subhead of the article was “Hu’s your daddy?” I don’t condone editorializing in reporting, but that’s just too funny.
When we finally broke free, we wound about on two-lane mountain roads that are packed with everything from bicycles to semis, all weaving around each other. Passing is done without regard to what may be around the bend. And, without guardrails. If I had wearied during the plane trip, I was wide awake, now.
Forget about taking alternative routes. There is only one way from point A to point B. And, no bypass around towns. Attribute this to topography and economy. I was in no hurry and enjoyed the sights.
The scenery is pretty. But, the mountainsides have been scalped in favor of palm, coffee, sugar and other cash crops.
The flimsy houses are mostly small, with two or three rooms. You see almost no chimneys or air conditioning units. There’s no HVAC, and really no need. They are surprisingly packed together, given the vast amount of land. But, that real estate is often owned by corporate farmers.
As you approach Turrialba, and other tourism regions, you will find islands of gated opulent resorts or condos. They also get the land. We would later pass a lot on a river that had a sale sign. I suggested to one of the guides that it would be a nice place for him to have a house. He replied that he would never be permitted to purchase it. It’s not for Ticos (natives). They want wealthy Americans to buy such land and develop tourist attractions. The land is basically ceded to corporate farming, with related production, or tourism.
Turrialba supports a population of 65,000. I had a good view of it as we crested a mountaintop. The B&B was more like a compound made from small houses, so elements of it were open. I settled in my room and then went across the street to be fitted for boat and gear, which are kept in a warehouse that is fenced and razor-wired. Everything is razor-wired. When the average annual income is $4,200, the common career path isn’t neurosurgery. Yes, the country is touted as having very friendly people. Just don’t be walking around with black socks in your sandals or otherwise mark yourself as a tourist.
Then, it was back to the B&B to meet my fellow paddlers. Six of them were from a hardcore whitewater group out of Virginia. That left me and Erica, who is a veteran of western big water. I am not a veteran of big water, nor hardcore whitewater.
The compound had a central courtyard that sported hammocks, a hot tub, pool table and other amenities. Very nice. The room was okay. Signage in the bathroom advises that Costa Rican plumbing is not robust, so bathroom tissue does not go into the toilet. It goes into the trash basket. Interesting. Better have daily maid service. This would be the rule, rather than the exception. Like most places, the B&B did not have HVAC. Nor a water heater. The shower head was wired for heat, in the event you are not a fan of cold showers. I’ve never been entirely comfortable with electrical appliances in my shower stalls.
Dinner was served buffet style. It included black beans and rice (gallo pinto). Every meal is or includes gallo pinto in Costa Rica. The national dish. Fortunately, I like it. Especially with their salsas, which are wonderful. Fried plantains and fresh fruit are in abundance. We ate well.
We were introduced to Pablo, who would be our head guide for the week. I’d guess him to be about 30 and a little more serious than Colin Powell. He advised us that they had been having heavy rains for weeks and we might have to deviate from our plan, which was to paddle the upper and lower sections of three rivers in six days.
We played pool, drank beer and got acquainted. Some very interesting people. David is about my age and has a small plumbing company. He wears his hair in a ponytail and talks a bit like Larry the Cable Guy. This belies a very sharp and educated mind. He and I would hang quite a bit.
Day Two. After breakfast, we headed out in the driving rain for Rio Pejibaye, an hour or so away. I noticed the Virginia crowd brought a lot of their own gear and even some boats. Very serious class V paddlers.
The water was muddy, furious and faster than anything I had seen. I wondered if we’d paddle because it was up in the trees.
Pablo conferred with his assistants, Luis and Davis, along with Cliff, who was there to take video. They all merit comment.
Luis is a character and he and I would also become buds. Leading many trips, I tend to empathize with the people who manage them. Someone asked him what kind of fish were in the river. He said there were piranha, but they’re friendly ones. They don’t eat the PFDs and paddles, saving the outfitter a lot of money. Later, I mentioned to Luis that I had underpacked because I expected to be able to rinse stuff out and let it dry. It was just too humid. He said their climate was very healthy. “All the germs do well.”
Davis was the youngest and always had a ready smile. He, Luis and I would hit a few bars together over the course of the week. They all paddled these rivers as if they had been born on them. Which, they had been. Sometimes, I’d be getting maytagged playing a ferocious hole, and then look around and see some local kids with inner tubes just messing around in it.
Cliff was a young adventurer who had moved to Costa Rica a couple weeks before. He had lived on the north shore of Lake Superior and shot videos of kayaking the steep creeks that drop into the lake. However, he had kayaked most of the world. He was walking around with a Spanish-English dictionary, doing a good job of picking up the idioms.
They were taking no chances. The drill was that they told you the lines for the rapid, you followed them through it and eddied out at the end for instructions regarding the next drop. Sounds like a good plan, but there was a fly in the ointment. Actually, several flies.
The water was moving way too fast to easily hit an eddy at the end, especially with a violently boiling eddyline. The eddys were small and more like maelstroms of whirlpools at this level. I frequently careened off the line and was swept downstream past Pablo and dumped into the next chute. That’s how I learned Spanish for a**hole.
Pablo yelled about my technique, contradicting what I have been taught. Every leader seems to have his own theories. Hard to debate the points when the river is kicking your butt. Luis ribbed me a lot. I asked him if he was aware that his compensation was based on the gratuity system.
This river was essentially a giant rock garden with a potent keeper behind every pourover. If you weren’t paddling for all you were worth while you dodged back and forth, you were munched. If you were spit out, you were immediate sucked into the next hole. Swim and the rocks beat the crap out of you. The waves were big and powerful, so you really had to maintain an aggressive position. Get slapped back by the big waves and haystacks and you’re dead. Keep moving, no matter what. Also, the monsoons had downed many trees, creating a lot of strainers wedged between the rocks. Oh yes, this was a wise decision.
I might add that I was having more trouble than the others. They advised that I just treat it like a faster, higher volume Green River (NC). Fine, but the way I usually treat that is to avoid it.
I had a few rapids where I’d wipe out, roll, immediately get eaten by the next hole, roll, get munched, etc. It was not unusual for me to need four rolls in eight seconds. One hole grabbed my bow and I fought it for all I was worth. Above the roar, I thought I heard cheering. When I managed to get to the eddy, they high-fived me for pulling off a triple 360. They thought I was putting on a playboating clinic. Sure, that’s exactly what I was doing.
This first run was intended as a test, so the guides could assess our abilities. I felt like I had barely passed. Pablo said we all did well and that after lunch we would go to the upper river, which was difficult. Wait a minute. Back up the bus! You mean this wasn’t?
It continued to pour and the river was on the rise. Pablo said we’d skip lunch so we could get on before it was totally out of hand. Yeah, that’s one solution, I thought. Another could be to go back to the B&B and soak in the hot tub with some wine. Let’s look at all the alternatives.
But, we did the upper. Everything was a blur. Like trying to thread a Ferrari through a Wal-Mart with the gas pedal stuck to the floor. It was also running just above many of the boulders, so a flip resulted in a hard, fast head strike or getting your paddle whacked out of roll position. Are we having fun yet?
Bloodied but not bowed, we had a damp lunch and piled onto the minibus. We hung our gear to dry (or, at least drip a little), but didn’t head for the showers right away. Instead, we beelined for the bodega down the block for rum, wine and beer. Shower, dinner and into the hot tub.
Dinner had a different tone tonight. We had bonded in the crucible of the river. The warm brothership is one of the most positive aspects of paddling. It had been a trial today, but we were now having a blast.
Pablo informed us to pack for a few nights, as the rivers in the Turrialba region were too dangerous right now. Do ya think? We’d go up to the Caribbean slopes for a couple days, optimistic for less rain. Hated to leave our little funhouse, but safer water would be nice.
Day Three. We picked up our gear from the barn and loaded it into the minibus. It hadn’t dried. Nothing dries in Costa Rica. We drove a few hours and arrived at Rio Sarapiqui.
It was a beautiful light green. This is more like it. Pablo said the character was different from the previous river. This would be steep chutes that slam into a rock wall at the bottom where they pillow before a sharp turn. Don’t go too far and get smashed on the rock wall. I was keen not to learn Spanish for “Too far!”
My Mamba 8.0 wasn’t edgy, but I managed to carve enough to avoid the wall. However, there was a monster diagonal hydraulic on the downstream side of every pillow. You lost momentum skidding up the pillow and fell prey to the hole. Luis showed me a technique for taking on the walls. “Just do this. Is simple, no?” No. I had a better chance of sprouting wings and flying over it. I was becoming a gourmet for the tastes of the different rivers.
After the first couple, Pablo decided that we were ready to stop at the pillows and play them. There’s a good idea. After barely surviving one, I would turn around and stick my nose back in it. Why didn’t I think of that? After two days, I already had more combat rolls than I had done my entire life. I’ve also never had a helmet or paddle break before and was on my second of each.
So far, it had been a matter of just getting pummeled. But, I got kicked sideways on a big pourover and found myself crushed against a boulder under water with the powerful current pinning me against it with my boat. I was sandwiched and couldn’t even move my paddle. That’s one of those rare “This is it” moments of terror. With everything I could muster, I thrust with my legs and back, gaining a little room to get my arms into it and managed to break free. I let go of my paddle in the process, so it was a swim and some punishing pinballing off the boulders. Beats the heck out of drowning. A little bloody and bruised, but more pissed off than anything. Time to kick some rio butt. Taking the aggression up a notch made for a better run.
From the river, we went to the Ara Ambigua, a hillside inn with a tropical setting. Excellent place and a good tradeoff for our B&B. We cleaned up and relaxed on the patios of our adjoining rooms. Then, it was dinner and rum. My back was tightening up from my misadventure and I missed the hot tub. The rum helped. We had a nice party. I got back to the room and thought I had drank too much because a table looked like it was moving. Just a Costa Rican spider. I didn’t think the front door was wide enough, so I opened the patio slider and let it out.
Day Four. I woke up early to the screams of howler monkeys and could hardly budge. My back was locked into the shape of a question mark. At breakfast, I told Pablo I might not be able to paddle.
It had rained all night. We went to the river and it had come up considerably and was muddy. There were a few rafting companies at the put-in and most were scrubbing the mission. Pablo thought the river would drop off. We waited and it looked like it was rising to me. But, my back had already made my decision.
Pablo decided we’d put in further downstream, a few miles above where it usually flattened out. The bus driver dropped the paddlers and we went into a small town to hang for a while. Very interesting. He told me his life story. At least, that’s what I think it was. I don’t speak Spanish and he had no English. It was like conversations my ex and I used to have.
The rain stopped and we went to the takeout. There were three boys on what I thought was a dilapidated houseboat tied up in the cove. It turned out to be a barge with a shack. They freight vegetables and fruit from Nicaragua. I don’t think any of them was older than twelve. This was as high as they could get on the river. They were waiting for the water to drop before attempting to go home.
It was still raining, but I enjoyed standing out there and talking with the boys. Also, looking at the toucans and macaws.
The kayaks arrived fairly quickly and the group was uncharacteristically quiet and grim. They had had a few bad situations. If they had a hard time, I would’ve been fish food. It may be one of the few times a bad back was a blessing.
Pablo judged it was too dangerous here. We set out for Turrialba, hoping the weather had tailed off there. This was one great group. Almost everyone rolled with the punches.
It was good to be “home” with the hammocks and hot tub. Life was good. Not so fast.
At dinner, Pablo told us that everything here was flooded and to pack all our stuff tonight. We would spend the rest of the week down by the Pacific. Breakfast would be early because it was a five-hour drive. The route would take us back through San Jose, so I guessed six or seven hours and was close. It didn’t matter. We always had a lot of fun on the bus and the scenery was spectacular.
Day Five. After breakfast, we loaded up and headed out. One of the treats of the road trips was the rest stops. Usually a roadside bungalow where they made all kinds of goodies over wood fires. And, that fantastic local coffee. The bathrooms were mostly plywood booths around back. Men peed into a trough that drained ten feet away onto the ground. Easier to skip the middleman.
The mountains approaching the Pacific were especially pretty and afforded high views of the ocean. As you wound down toward the shore, more and more resorts poked up through the jungle.
We cut over some back roads to Rio Naranjo. They were basically compacted mud with cavernous potholes. The driver picked his lines like we were running a river. However, the road was about four lanes wide to accommodate the trucks for the teak, palm oil and other products harvested and processed back in there. Four lanes of all manner of vehicle zigzagging side to side to avoid the larger potholes in some strange dance.
Those roads gave way to one-laners, winding around steep hills. The boat trailer blew a tire and we had to load the boats on top of the bus. Pablo stayed to fix the trailer, which put Luis in charge.
By now, we had time for just a two-hour run. The water was high and pushy, but not all that dangerous. Some immense waves and holes to keep you alert. Not that you needed that. We had seen numerous large crocodiles lounging along the banks on the ride in. Alert was not a problem.
Luis was quick with his wit, but a little shorter on patience for people who didn’t follow direction on these swift waters, or for the issues person we had on the trip. Every trip has one. Like most of this ilk, she didn’t take up her issues with the guides. Her delight was attempting to rabble rouse. Didn’t sit well with the group, but even less so with Luis. He was ready to feed her to a croc and we were ready to sprinkle tenderizer on her. Even better, this would be a source of some good material I could use to needle Luis with later.
From there, we went to the oceanside town of Quepos. Not having a beach, it wasn’t the posh resort town that Jaco is, or the Ohiopyle-on-the-Pacific that is Manuel Antonio. We checked into the Le Priss, which kind of resembles a grand mansion. Off to a sumptuous dinner at an open air tavern and then doing the night life. Good times. I met Hernando, who ran kayak tours back into the mangroves and jungle. Interesting guy.
Day Six. Breakfast and then piling on the bus for a trip to Rio Savegre. The bus had had almost a week of wet river gear and people who had been pounding down rum, beans and salsa. Not exactly lavender-scented. I can only assume it’s been turned over to a hazmat crew.
The back road to the Savegre was about as back as you can get. Winding through the jungle, we had to ford some streams. But, we saw a lot of bird life, iguanas and crocs. This was adventure.
The river was absolutely beautiful. I was so glad the weather had forced relocation to the Pacific. It was like whitewater in deepest Africa, with some magnificent waterfalls. The paddling was spirited and fun. The plan was to finish up by about three and go to the beach at Manual Antonio. However, severe storms came up, so we went back to the hotel.
After cleaning up, we went out to dinner and then hit the dance bars. I ran into Hernando again, who suggested I join his jungle paddle the next morning. Our plan was to do a repeat on the Naranjo, except covering more distance than the foreshortened trip. This seemed like an opportunity to add variety to my trip, so I agreed to go with Hernando. Fine, he’ll pick me up at 6:00 AM. Come again? The times are dictated by the tides.
Day Seven. I should’ve crashed early last night, but how many times do you get to party hardy in a tropical paradise? Hernando showed up with a van and two couples from Nebraska, who were also doing the tour. Very nice people. I had almost a week of damp river in my clothes and prayed they wouldn't pass out in the van.
We took the roads back into the jungle, where Hernando had a small compound and some sit-on-top kayaks. And, monkeys all over the place. Playful and amusing little devils. The channels that cut through the dense mangroves are about ten feet wide. The mangrove roots are home for ample numbers of colorful tree crabs and snails. Also, an extensive variety of bird life. We watched one stalk a six-foot boa draped on a tree limb. The snake was a lot bigger than the bird, so it didn’t seem like a terrific idea. I assumed he knew his business.
We plied the mangroves to where they meet the Pacific. Way cool.
Hernando drove me back to town, where I arrived well before my group. Had time to do some enjoyable sightseeing and shopping. My group arrived and we did lunch before heading for Manuel Antonio to get in some beach time. It’s a small community with a carnival-like atmosphere. The road along the beach is lined with street vendors and palm trees, filled with macaws and monkeys.
What Ohiopyle is to kayakers, this place is to surfers. We loaded up on surf bling before pointing the bus to San Jose. Wade is a huge good ol’ boy, at home in jeans and a tee. And, I’m not exactly a cover model for the Dakine catalog. The women had some fun accessorizing us with the rad stuff. Rum helped the process. I was going to taper off for re-entry to the civilized world, but there was a beach bar owned by a guy named Wild Bill. I took that as a sign.
We stayed at a nice inn on the west side of San Jose, not far from the airport. After dinner, we filled our glasses and gathered in a room to view Cliff’s video of the week. He had been editing along the way. Lots of laughs (mostly at my expense). It looked like a highlight reel of spectacular flips. He was selling them for a hundred dollars a pop, which seemed like a lot just to see the bottom of my boat. After that, we disposed of the remainder of our liquor cache late into the wee hours.
Cliff mentioned that the hotel had a computer lounge and a bunch of eyebrows went up. We sprinted down there to shoot some email home. Four computers and not one had 100% key function. The dead keys were the frequently used letters, so it looked like most wouldn’t be able to log on. I hit upon the idea of cutting and pasting the dead letters from the welcome opening pages. Rum is good stuff for creativity.
Day Eight. Our last meal together, which was kind of sad. Sorry to come to an end of the experience. Pablo came around the tables to take our choices, as usual. For three meals a day all week, we had heard him ask the same question, “fish, chicken or beef,” as in, what do you want with your rice and beans. He asked in his usual deadpan and then broke into a rare smile. “Or, at this fancy place, you can have bacon and eggs with pancakes.” Yes!
The bus took us to the airport and we wandered the shops. They know you don’t care about price. You’ve got a hundred thousand or so colons on you that’s going to turn into Monopoly money the second you touch down in Atlanta. Better to burn it off on trinkets than take the hit at the airport exchange. My assistant will enjoy her chili-flavored macadamia nuts Christmas present.
I was a little sorry to watch the mountains disappear under the wing, but there’s no pad like home.
Paddling pics: http://tinyurl.com/58zfgp
Life is comprised of bricks of experiences. When you approach the end, would you have a barbeque pit or a castle?
Tomorrow is promised to no one. If not now, when?
These are a couple of the philosophies that compelled me to plan a whitewater kayaking trip to Costa Rica. Or, rationalizations. Regardless, it was on my list.
Why there? Some of the primo scenery, wildlife and paddling in the world. And, less than a full day’s travel. Okay, enough of the prologue.
Day One. I flew to San Jose and was met by Jose (coincidentally), who works for the outfitter. Jose is a bright and personable young man who holds a wealth of knowledge about his country. He was also picking up Erica, a young lady from California who was with my group. From there, he was taking us to a B&B in Turrialba, which was to be our base of operations, about 30 miles away. The literature said it was about a two-hour ride. I thought that was padding it. I was wrong.
It took over an hour and a half just to get through San Jose. It was like Beechmont Avenue the week before Christmas. San Jose has a population of about a million, of which three quarters are on whatever street you’re on. They’ve tried to deal with the congestion by limiting driving by day of the week, according to the last digits of the license plate. Nice try.
The jam gave me time to read a newspaper I picked up at the airport. The lead story was about Hu Jintao’s visit to Central America. He worked an agreement with Costa Rica to build a soccer stadium, install a Chinese institute at the university and invest millions to double the output of the petroleum refineries of Costa Rica, for China’s benefit. Costa Rica is promoted as the mecca of the green movement, but eco-principles are soluble in cash. In short, China was making Costa Rica its bitch, along with the rest of Central America. In case this escaped anyone, the subhead of the article was “Hu’s your daddy?” I don’t condone editorializing in reporting, but that’s just too funny.
When we finally broke free, we wound about on two-lane mountain roads that are packed with everything from bicycles to semis, all weaving around each other. Passing is done without regard to what may be around the bend. And, without guardrails. If I had wearied during the plane trip, I was wide awake, now.
Forget about taking alternative routes. There is only one way from point A to point B. And, no bypass around towns. Attribute this to topography and economy. I was in no hurry and enjoyed the sights.
The scenery is pretty. But, the mountainsides have been scalped in favor of palm, coffee, sugar and other cash crops.
The flimsy houses are mostly small, with two or three rooms. You see almost no chimneys or air conditioning units. There’s no HVAC, and really no need. They are surprisingly packed together, given the vast amount of land. But, that real estate is often owned by corporate farmers.
As you approach Turrialba, and other tourism regions, you will find islands of gated opulent resorts or condos. They also get the land. We would later pass a lot on a river that had a sale sign. I suggested to one of the guides that it would be a nice place for him to have a house. He replied that he would never be permitted to purchase it. It’s not for Ticos (natives). They want wealthy Americans to buy such land and develop tourist attractions. The land is basically ceded to corporate farming, with related production, or tourism.
Turrialba supports a population of 65,000. I had a good view of it as we crested a mountaintop. The B&B was more like a compound made from small houses, so elements of it were open. I settled in my room and then went across the street to be fitted for boat and gear, which are kept in a warehouse that is fenced and razor-wired. Everything is razor-wired. When the average annual income is $4,200, the common career path isn’t neurosurgery. Yes, the country is touted as having very friendly people. Just don’t be walking around with black socks in your sandals or otherwise mark yourself as a tourist.
Then, it was back to the B&B to meet my fellow paddlers. Six of them were from a hardcore whitewater group out of Virginia. That left me and Erica, who is a veteran of western big water. I am not a veteran of big water, nor hardcore whitewater.
The compound had a central courtyard that sported hammocks, a hot tub, pool table and other amenities. Very nice. The room was okay. Signage in the bathroom advises that Costa Rican plumbing is not robust, so bathroom tissue does not go into the toilet. It goes into the trash basket. Interesting. Better have daily maid service. This would be the rule, rather than the exception. Like most places, the B&B did not have HVAC. Nor a water heater. The shower head was wired for heat, in the event you are not a fan of cold showers. I’ve never been entirely comfortable with electrical appliances in my shower stalls.
Dinner was served buffet style. It included black beans and rice (gallo pinto). Every meal is or includes gallo pinto in Costa Rica. The national dish. Fortunately, I like it. Especially with their salsas, which are wonderful. Fried plantains and fresh fruit are in abundance. We ate well.
We were introduced to Pablo, who would be our head guide for the week. I’d guess him to be about 30 and a little more serious than Colin Powell. He advised us that they had been having heavy rains for weeks and we might have to deviate from our plan, which was to paddle the upper and lower sections of three rivers in six days.
We played pool, drank beer and got acquainted. Some very interesting people. David is about my age and has a small plumbing company. He wears his hair in a ponytail and talks a bit like Larry the Cable Guy. This belies a very sharp and educated mind. He and I would hang quite a bit.
Day Two. After breakfast, we headed out in the driving rain for Rio Pejibaye, an hour or so away. I noticed the Virginia crowd brought a lot of their own gear and even some boats. Very serious class V paddlers.
The water was muddy, furious and faster than anything I had seen. I wondered if we’d paddle because it was up in the trees.
Pablo conferred with his assistants, Luis and Davis, along with Cliff, who was there to take video. They all merit comment.
Luis is a character and he and I would also become buds. Leading many trips, I tend to empathize with the people who manage them. Someone asked him what kind of fish were in the river. He said there were piranha, but they’re friendly ones. They don’t eat the PFDs and paddles, saving the outfitter a lot of money. Later, I mentioned to Luis that I had underpacked because I expected to be able to rinse stuff out and let it dry. It was just too humid. He said their climate was very healthy. “All the germs do well.”
Davis was the youngest and always had a ready smile. He, Luis and I would hit a few bars together over the course of the week. They all paddled these rivers as if they had been born on them. Which, they had been. Sometimes, I’d be getting maytagged playing a ferocious hole, and then look around and see some local kids with inner tubes just messing around in it.
Cliff was a young adventurer who had moved to Costa Rica a couple weeks before. He had lived on the north shore of Lake Superior and shot videos of kayaking the steep creeks that drop into the lake. However, he had kayaked most of the world. He was walking around with a Spanish-English dictionary, doing a good job of picking up the idioms.
They were taking no chances. The drill was that they told you the lines for the rapid, you followed them through it and eddied out at the end for instructions regarding the next drop. Sounds like a good plan, but there was a fly in the ointment. Actually, several flies.
The water was moving way too fast to easily hit an eddy at the end, especially with a violently boiling eddyline. The eddys were small and more like maelstroms of whirlpools at this level. I frequently careened off the line and was swept downstream past Pablo and dumped into the next chute. That’s how I learned Spanish for a**hole.
Pablo yelled about my technique, contradicting what I have been taught. Every leader seems to have his own theories. Hard to debate the points when the river is kicking your butt. Luis ribbed me a lot. I asked him if he was aware that his compensation was based on the gratuity system.
This river was essentially a giant rock garden with a potent keeper behind every pourover. If you weren’t paddling for all you were worth while you dodged back and forth, you were munched. If you were spit out, you were immediate sucked into the next hole. Swim and the rocks beat the crap out of you. The waves were big and powerful, so you really had to maintain an aggressive position. Get slapped back by the big waves and haystacks and you’re dead. Keep moving, no matter what. Also, the monsoons had downed many trees, creating a lot of strainers wedged between the rocks. Oh yes, this was a wise decision.
I might add that I was having more trouble than the others. They advised that I just treat it like a faster, higher volume Green River (NC). Fine, but the way I usually treat that is to avoid it.
I had a few rapids where I’d wipe out, roll, immediately get eaten by the next hole, roll, get munched, etc. It was not unusual for me to need four rolls in eight seconds. One hole grabbed my bow and I fought it for all I was worth. Above the roar, I thought I heard cheering. When I managed to get to the eddy, they high-fived me for pulling off a triple 360. They thought I was putting on a playboating clinic. Sure, that’s exactly what I was doing.
This first run was intended as a test, so the guides could assess our abilities. I felt like I had barely passed. Pablo said we all did well and that after lunch we would go to the upper river, which was difficult. Wait a minute. Back up the bus! You mean this wasn’t?
It continued to pour and the river was on the rise. Pablo said we’d skip lunch so we could get on before it was totally out of hand. Yeah, that’s one solution, I thought. Another could be to go back to the B&B and soak in the hot tub with some wine. Let’s look at all the alternatives.
But, we did the upper. Everything was a blur. Like trying to thread a Ferrari through a Wal-Mart with the gas pedal stuck to the floor. It was also running just above many of the boulders, so a flip resulted in a hard, fast head strike or getting your paddle whacked out of roll position. Are we having fun yet?
Bloodied but not bowed, we had a damp lunch and piled onto the minibus. We hung our gear to dry (or, at least drip a little), but didn’t head for the showers right away. Instead, we beelined for the bodega down the block for rum, wine and beer. Shower, dinner and into the hot tub.
Dinner had a different tone tonight. We had bonded in the crucible of the river. The warm brothership is one of the most positive aspects of paddling. It had been a trial today, but we were now having a blast.
Pablo informed us to pack for a few nights, as the rivers in the Turrialba region were too dangerous right now. Do ya think? We’d go up to the Caribbean slopes for a couple days, optimistic for less rain. Hated to leave our little funhouse, but safer water would be nice.
Day Three. We picked up our gear from the barn and loaded it into the minibus. It hadn’t dried. Nothing dries in Costa Rica. We drove a few hours and arrived at Rio Sarapiqui.
It was a beautiful light green. This is more like it. Pablo said the character was different from the previous river. This would be steep chutes that slam into a rock wall at the bottom where they pillow before a sharp turn. Don’t go too far and get smashed on the rock wall. I was keen not to learn Spanish for “Too far!”
My Mamba 8.0 wasn’t edgy, but I managed to carve enough to avoid the wall. However, there was a monster diagonal hydraulic on the downstream side of every pillow. You lost momentum skidding up the pillow and fell prey to the hole. Luis showed me a technique for taking on the walls. “Just do this. Is simple, no?” No. I had a better chance of sprouting wings and flying over it. I was becoming a gourmet for the tastes of the different rivers.
After the first couple, Pablo decided that we were ready to stop at the pillows and play them. There’s a good idea. After barely surviving one, I would turn around and stick my nose back in it. Why didn’t I think of that? After two days, I already had more combat rolls than I had done my entire life. I’ve also never had a helmet or paddle break before and was on my second of each.
So far, it had been a matter of just getting pummeled. But, I got kicked sideways on a big pourover and found myself crushed against a boulder under water with the powerful current pinning me against it with my boat. I was sandwiched and couldn’t even move my paddle. That’s one of those rare “This is it” moments of terror. With everything I could muster, I thrust with my legs and back, gaining a little room to get my arms into it and managed to break free. I let go of my paddle in the process, so it was a swim and some punishing pinballing off the boulders. Beats the heck out of drowning. A little bloody and bruised, but more pissed off than anything. Time to kick some rio butt. Taking the aggression up a notch made for a better run.
From the river, we went to the Ara Ambigua, a hillside inn with a tropical setting. Excellent place and a good tradeoff for our B&B. We cleaned up and relaxed on the patios of our adjoining rooms. Then, it was dinner and rum. My back was tightening up from my misadventure and I missed the hot tub. The rum helped. We had a nice party. I got back to the room and thought I had drank too much because a table looked like it was moving. Just a Costa Rican spider. I didn’t think the front door was wide enough, so I opened the patio slider and let it out.
Day Four. I woke up early to the screams of howler monkeys and could hardly budge. My back was locked into the shape of a question mark. At breakfast, I told Pablo I might not be able to paddle.
It had rained all night. We went to the river and it had come up considerably and was muddy. There were a few rafting companies at the put-in and most were scrubbing the mission. Pablo thought the river would drop off. We waited and it looked like it was rising to me. But, my back had already made my decision.
Pablo decided we’d put in further downstream, a few miles above where it usually flattened out. The bus driver dropped the paddlers and we went into a small town to hang for a while. Very interesting. He told me his life story. At least, that’s what I think it was. I don’t speak Spanish and he had no English. It was like conversations my ex and I used to have.
The rain stopped and we went to the takeout. There were three boys on what I thought was a dilapidated houseboat tied up in the cove. It turned out to be a barge with a shack. They freight vegetables and fruit from Nicaragua. I don’t think any of them was older than twelve. This was as high as they could get on the river. They were waiting for the water to drop before attempting to go home.
It was still raining, but I enjoyed standing out there and talking with the boys. Also, looking at the toucans and macaws.
The kayaks arrived fairly quickly and the group was uncharacteristically quiet and grim. They had had a few bad situations. If they had a hard time, I would’ve been fish food. It may be one of the few times a bad back was a blessing.
Pablo judged it was too dangerous here. We set out for Turrialba, hoping the weather had tailed off there. This was one great group. Almost everyone rolled with the punches.
It was good to be “home” with the hammocks and hot tub. Life was good. Not so fast.
At dinner, Pablo told us that everything here was flooded and to pack all our stuff tonight. We would spend the rest of the week down by the Pacific. Breakfast would be early because it was a five-hour drive. The route would take us back through San Jose, so I guessed six or seven hours and was close. It didn’t matter. We always had a lot of fun on the bus and the scenery was spectacular.
Day Five. After breakfast, we loaded up and headed out. One of the treats of the road trips was the rest stops. Usually a roadside bungalow where they made all kinds of goodies over wood fires. And, that fantastic local coffee. The bathrooms were mostly plywood booths around back. Men peed into a trough that drained ten feet away onto the ground. Easier to skip the middleman.
The mountains approaching the Pacific were especially pretty and afforded high views of the ocean. As you wound down toward the shore, more and more resorts poked up through the jungle.
We cut over some back roads to Rio Naranjo. They were basically compacted mud with cavernous potholes. The driver picked his lines like we were running a river. However, the road was about four lanes wide to accommodate the trucks for the teak, palm oil and other products harvested and processed back in there. Four lanes of all manner of vehicle zigzagging side to side to avoid the larger potholes in some strange dance.
Those roads gave way to one-laners, winding around steep hills. The boat trailer blew a tire and we had to load the boats on top of the bus. Pablo stayed to fix the trailer, which put Luis in charge.
By now, we had time for just a two-hour run. The water was high and pushy, but not all that dangerous. Some immense waves and holes to keep you alert. Not that you needed that. We had seen numerous large crocodiles lounging along the banks on the ride in. Alert was not a problem.
Luis was quick with his wit, but a little shorter on patience for people who didn’t follow direction on these swift waters, or for the issues person we had on the trip. Every trip has one. Like most of this ilk, she didn’t take up her issues with the guides. Her delight was attempting to rabble rouse. Didn’t sit well with the group, but even less so with Luis. He was ready to feed her to a croc and we were ready to sprinkle tenderizer on her. Even better, this would be a source of some good material I could use to needle Luis with later.
From there, we went to the oceanside town of Quepos. Not having a beach, it wasn’t the posh resort town that Jaco is, or the Ohiopyle-on-the-Pacific that is Manuel Antonio. We checked into the Le Priss, which kind of resembles a grand mansion. Off to a sumptuous dinner at an open air tavern and then doing the night life. Good times. I met Hernando, who ran kayak tours back into the mangroves and jungle. Interesting guy.
Day Six. Breakfast and then piling on the bus for a trip to Rio Savegre. The bus had had almost a week of wet river gear and people who had been pounding down rum, beans and salsa. Not exactly lavender-scented. I can only assume it’s been turned over to a hazmat crew.
The back road to the Savegre was about as back as you can get. Winding through the jungle, we had to ford some streams. But, we saw a lot of bird life, iguanas and crocs. This was adventure.
The river was absolutely beautiful. I was so glad the weather had forced relocation to the Pacific. It was like whitewater in deepest Africa, with some magnificent waterfalls. The paddling was spirited and fun. The plan was to finish up by about three and go to the beach at Manual Antonio. However, severe storms came up, so we went back to the hotel.
After cleaning up, we went out to dinner and then hit the dance bars. I ran into Hernando again, who suggested I join his jungle paddle the next morning. Our plan was to do a repeat on the Naranjo, except covering more distance than the foreshortened trip. This seemed like an opportunity to add variety to my trip, so I agreed to go with Hernando. Fine, he’ll pick me up at 6:00 AM. Come again? The times are dictated by the tides.
Day Seven. I should’ve crashed early last night, but how many times do you get to party hardy in a tropical paradise? Hernando showed up with a van and two couples from Nebraska, who were also doing the tour. Very nice people. I had almost a week of damp river in my clothes and prayed they wouldn't pass out in the van.
We took the roads back into the jungle, where Hernando had a small compound and some sit-on-top kayaks. And, monkeys all over the place. Playful and amusing little devils. The channels that cut through the dense mangroves are about ten feet wide. The mangrove roots are home for ample numbers of colorful tree crabs and snails. Also, an extensive variety of bird life. We watched one stalk a six-foot boa draped on a tree limb. The snake was a lot bigger than the bird, so it didn’t seem like a terrific idea. I assumed he knew his business.
We plied the mangroves to where they meet the Pacific. Way cool.
Hernando drove me back to town, where I arrived well before my group. Had time to do some enjoyable sightseeing and shopping. My group arrived and we did lunch before heading for Manuel Antonio to get in some beach time. It’s a small community with a carnival-like atmosphere. The road along the beach is lined with street vendors and palm trees, filled with macaws and monkeys.
What Ohiopyle is to kayakers, this place is to surfers. We loaded up on surf bling before pointing the bus to San Jose. Wade is a huge good ol’ boy, at home in jeans and a tee. And, I’m not exactly a cover model for the Dakine catalog. The women had some fun accessorizing us with the rad stuff. Rum helped the process. I was going to taper off for re-entry to the civilized world, but there was a beach bar owned by a guy named Wild Bill. I took that as a sign.
We stayed at a nice inn on the west side of San Jose, not far from the airport. After dinner, we filled our glasses and gathered in a room to view Cliff’s video of the week. He had been editing along the way. Lots of laughs (mostly at my expense). It looked like a highlight reel of spectacular flips. He was selling them for a hundred dollars a pop, which seemed like a lot just to see the bottom of my boat. After that, we disposed of the remainder of our liquor cache late into the wee hours.
Cliff mentioned that the hotel had a computer lounge and a bunch of eyebrows went up. We sprinted down there to shoot some email home. Four computers and not one had 100% key function. The dead keys were the frequently used letters, so it looked like most wouldn’t be able to log on. I hit upon the idea of cutting and pasting the dead letters from the welcome opening pages. Rum is good stuff for creativity.
Day Eight. Our last meal together, which was kind of sad. Sorry to come to an end of the experience. Pablo came around the tables to take our choices, as usual. For three meals a day all week, we had heard him ask the same question, “fish, chicken or beef,” as in, what do you want with your rice and beans. He asked in his usual deadpan and then broke into a rare smile. “Or, at this fancy place, you can have bacon and eggs with pancakes.” Yes!
The bus took us to the airport and we wandered the shops. They know you don’t care about price. You’ve got a hundred thousand or so colons on you that’s going to turn into Monopoly money the second you touch down in Atlanta. Better to burn it off on trinkets than take the hit at the airport exchange. My assistant will enjoy her chili-flavored macadamia nuts Christmas present.
I was a little sorry to watch the mountains disappear under the wing, but there’s no pad like home.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Pineys
I was doing my monthly shopping at the book store and a title caught my eye. “The Pines.” We’re all products of our experiences and perceive things through that prism. I was transported to my youth by the expression.
It was not a positive term. It was a euphemism for the benches you sat on, in the context that you were not on the starting team. It was a stigma to be “riding the pines.” It was also a motivator to go full out in practice.
I picked up the book and read the jacket copy. An even more poignant memory. It wasn’t about athletics. It was a horror story set in the New Jersey Pine Barrens.
There are over a million acres of swampy cedar forest in South Jersey, straddling the roads we took from Philly to the shore. The waters are tea colored, due to high iron ore content in the sandy soil. It was never a hospitable place to inhabit.
Therefore, it harbored the dregs of society. The Pineys. Many of the impressions you may hold of deepest Appalachia apply here.
“It is a region aboriginal in savagery.” – “Atlantic Magazine,” 1858
“I have been shocked by the conditions I have found. Evidently these people are a serious menace to the state of New Jersey (that’s saying something). They have inbred till they have become a race of imbeciles, criminals and defectives.” – James Fielder, Governor of New Jersey (1914-17)
The seed of fact spawned legend. The lore spread about teenagers getting flat tires in the barrens and disappearing. The Greenies got them. This was a variation on the Piney theme. Denizens had turned green from eating pine needles. And teenagers, apparently. The area was also supposed to be a favorite haunt of the Jersey Devil.
So, we grew up terrified of the area. Returning from a weekend at the shore with their parents, kids would pray for an uneventful passage through the long tunnels that threaded the closely set trees. The setting sun would play tricks with your eyes and the shadows appeared to leap toward you.
This mindset changed as puberty set in. An area where you could completely disappear a hundred yards down a dirt road. Where most feared to tread. That spelled party to us. We could roister there with virtual impunity.
But, what about the Pineys, Greenies and Devil? Bring ‘em on! We’re young, tough and indestructible. We’ve kicked butt all the way across South Philly and back. You want to talk about savages? That’s us.
Apparently, the Pineys agreed. We never saw a one.
It was not a positive term. It was a euphemism for the benches you sat on, in the context that you were not on the starting team. It was a stigma to be “riding the pines.” It was also a motivator to go full out in practice.
I picked up the book and read the jacket copy. An even more poignant memory. It wasn’t about athletics. It was a horror story set in the New Jersey Pine Barrens.
There are over a million acres of swampy cedar forest in South Jersey, straddling the roads we took from Philly to the shore. The waters are tea colored, due to high iron ore content in the sandy soil. It was never a hospitable place to inhabit.
Therefore, it harbored the dregs of society. The Pineys. Many of the impressions you may hold of deepest Appalachia apply here.
“It is a region aboriginal in savagery.” – “Atlantic Magazine,” 1858
“I have been shocked by the conditions I have found. Evidently these people are a serious menace to the state of New Jersey (that’s saying something). They have inbred till they have become a race of imbeciles, criminals and defectives.” – James Fielder, Governor of New Jersey (1914-17)
The seed of fact spawned legend. The lore spread about teenagers getting flat tires in the barrens and disappearing. The Greenies got them. This was a variation on the Piney theme. Denizens had turned green from eating pine needles. And teenagers, apparently. The area was also supposed to be a favorite haunt of the Jersey Devil.
So, we grew up terrified of the area. Returning from a weekend at the shore with their parents, kids would pray for an uneventful passage through the long tunnels that threaded the closely set trees. The setting sun would play tricks with your eyes and the shadows appeared to leap toward you.
This mindset changed as puberty set in. An area where you could completely disappear a hundred yards down a dirt road. Where most feared to tread. That spelled party to us. We could roister there with virtual impunity.
But, what about the Pineys, Greenies and Devil? Bring ‘em on! We’re young, tough and indestructible. We’ve kicked butt all the way across South Philly and back. You want to talk about savages? That’s us.
Apparently, the Pineys agreed. We never saw a one.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Skin in the game
There’s something missing from the bailout discussion regarding the Big Three automobile makers. It’s so obvious, I must’ve missed it.
The first time I went out looking for venture capital, I thought I had all the bases covered. I did my research in painstaking detailed and crafted a clever plan. So, I wasn’t all that surprised when I had some nibbles.
One appeared especially interested. We appeared to agree on all the parameters. I wasn’t dismayed that they were taking a big chunk of ownership. That was expected.
I thought the deal was done, but they had one last thing to discuss with me. Skin in the game. Come again?
They would put up most of the capital, but they wanted me to put my assets on the line in personal guarantees. House, cars, etc. Wait a minute. They’re supposed to be the money people. I’m sweat equity.
True, but they wanted my skin in the game for two reasons. The first was motivation. If my assets were on the line, they would sleep well knowing that I wasn’t slacking off. Sure, the potential big payoff for me was motivation, but nothing like my neck on the line.
The other reason was a test in my belief in the concept. If I wasn’t confident in success, knowing more about the business than they did, why should they feel comfortable putting up the money? If I felt good enough about the odds to risk my capital, so did they.
As I did more deals down the line, I would find this to be a standard clause. So, where are the personal guarantees of the auto maker executives? If they think they can turn it around and pay the money back, let’s see their confidence. I’m against pumping tax money into their businesses, just so they can enjoy a few more years of seven-figure salaries. Let’s see some skin in the game and then we’ll talk.
The first time I went out looking for venture capital, I thought I had all the bases covered. I did my research in painstaking detailed and crafted a clever plan. So, I wasn’t all that surprised when I had some nibbles.
One appeared especially interested. We appeared to agree on all the parameters. I wasn’t dismayed that they were taking a big chunk of ownership. That was expected.
I thought the deal was done, but they had one last thing to discuss with me. Skin in the game. Come again?
They would put up most of the capital, but they wanted me to put my assets on the line in personal guarantees. House, cars, etc. Wait a minute. They’re supposed to be the money people. I’m sweat equity.
True, but they wanted my skin in the game for two reasons. The first was motivation. If my assets were on the line, they would sleep well knowing that I wasn’t slacking off. Sure, the potential big payoff for me was motivation, but nothing like my neck on the line.
The other reason was a test in my belief in the concept. If I wasn’t confident in success, knowing more about the business than they did, why should they feel comfortable putting up the money? If I felt good enough about the odds to risk my capital, so did they.
As I did more deals down the line, I would find this to be a standard clause. So, where are the personal guarantees of the auto maker executives? If they think they can turn it around and pay the money back, let’s see their confidence. I’m against pumping tax money into their businesses, just so they can enjoy a few more years of seven-figure salaries. Let’s see some skin in the game and then we’ll talk.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Sic transit gloria mundi
I suppose I should’ve seen it coming when Yahoo announced employment cutbacks. The email sadly informed me that the Power Moderator program was being discontinued. It didn’t state it explicitly but, therefore, I was no longer a Power Moderator.
I shed no tears, much as I had popped no corks when I had been informed that I was designated one. It was a result of a Yahoo group board that I had started and grown to a point that earmarked me as someone they wanted to cultivate. I scanned the benefits and privileges inherent to the title and saw little that really rang the bell. Ergo, there wouldn’t be much I’d miss.
A few decades ago, I received notification that I was anointed with the title Kentucky Colonel. I had heard of it and thought there was even a style of necktie that carried that name. Stirring. It took a while for it to dawn on me that the primary benefit was that I was entitled to make contributions to their cause. The same was true when I was inducted into the order of Colorado Mountain Men and made an Honorary Engineer of the Chattanooga Choo Choo. Titles are cheap. I prefer cash.
Apparently, so did they. After a protracted period of not receiving any checks from me, I dropped off the mailing lists. I assume I was stripped of my rank. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Some titles are better than others. I was in the river barging business. The southern routes were largely worked by Cajuns, a somewhat closed society. Like others, I had some difficulty getting in the door. Big Eddie Conrad, the godfather of the clan, once referred to me as a Yankee. I countered that I was working out of Cincinnati, which was kind of a border area. “Anyone north of the Huey P. Long Bridge is a Yankee,” he corrected. Okay. I think I understand your policy.
It was a rough road for outsiders, but I kept chipping away. One day, Eddie summoned me to his enclave. “What now?” I thought.
I stood before him and some other luminaries of their tribe. Eddie presented me with a plaque and lapel pin. I was made an Honorary Koon-Ass, which is how they referred to their breed. Things were a lot easier after that. At last, a title worth having.
Some years back, a representative of Delta Airlines showed up in my office with another plaque. I was now a Flying Colonel. I had already been a colonel, so this didn’t knock me over. Except, I learned it gained free admission to any of their Crown Rooms, with the complimentary beverages, snacks and other amenities. That’s more like it.
However, Delta fell on hard times, like Yahoo. And that was that for the perks.
Easy come, easy go.
I shed no tears, much as I had popped no corks when I had been informed that I was designated one. It was a result of a Yahoo group board that I had started and grown to a point that earmarked me as someone they wanted to cultivate. I scanned the benefits and privileges inherent to the title and saw little that really rang the bell. Ergo, there wouldn’t be much I’d miss.
A few decades ago, I received notification that I was anointed with the title Kentucky Colonel. I had heard of it and thought there was even a style of necktie that carried that name. Stirring. It took a while for it to dawn on me that the primary benefit was that I was entitled to make contributions to their cause. The same was true when I was inducted into the order of Colorado Mountain Men and made an Honorary Engineer of the Chattanooga Choo Choo. Titles are cheap. I prefer cash.
Apparently, so did they. After a protracted period of not receiving any checks from me, I dropped off the mailing lists. I assume I was stripped of my rank. Sic transit gloria mundi.
Some titles are better than others. I was in the river barging business. The southern routes were largely worked by Cajuns, a somewhat closed society. Like others, I had some difficulty getting in the door. Big Eddie Conrad, the godfather of the clan, once referred to me as a Yankee. I countered that I was working out of Cincinnati, which was kind of a border area. “Anyone north of the Huey P. Long Bridge is a Yankee,” he corrected. Okay. I think I understand your policy.
It was a rough road for outsiders, but I kept chipping away. One day, Eddie summoned me to his enclave. “What now?” I thought.
I stood before him and some other luminaries of their tribe. Eddie presented me with a plaque and lapel pin. I was made an Honorary Koon-Ass, which is how they referred to their breed. Things were a lot easier after that. At last, a title worth having.
Some years back, a representative of Delta Airlines showed up in my office with another plaque. I was now a Flying Colonel. I had already been a colonel, so this didn’t knock me over. Except, I learned it gained free admission to any of their Crown Rooms, with the complimentary beverages, snacks and other amenities. That’s more like it.
However, Delta fell on hard times, like Yahoo. And that was that for the perks.
Easy come, easy go.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Another meeting I would have liked to attend
Duke Energy is the power company for this region. They have paid “refunds” of at least $80 million to 22 influential, high volume customers (Procter & Gamble, General Motors, etc.) in exchange for them dropping opposition to rate increases.
The question before the Ohio Supreme Court is, is this unfair to the 600,000 small customers, mostly residential, who endure the increases without the rebates? Duke had to formulate a response and I would’ve loved to have been in that meeting.
Before postulating how that went, I will review some background. Cinergy, the forerunner power company, was criticized for buying the naming rights to Cinergy Field (nee Riverfront Stadium). It’s not like they’re in a highly competitive field. Why spend all that money on naming rights (and let’s not forget the luxury suite at the games) when you’re pleading poverty and coming to us for rate hikes?
Cinergy’s explanation was that the money wasn’t coming from utility billings. Say again? The money wasn’t coming from utility billings. So, either you’re selling Amway on the side or you’re taking it out of retained earnings, which did come from power revenue. High points for audacity. And, more significantly, it flew.
So, here’s how I see the meeting going:
Smith: They bought that Cinergy explanation. Let’s just tell them the bribes are refunds and that they don’t come out of power revenue.
Jones: Underreaching.
Smith: How’s that?
Jones: If they bought that so easily, we obviously haven’t pushed the envelope. Let’s not say it didn’t hurt them to carry the increased load alone. Tell them they actually benefitted by doing so.
Farfetched? Before passing judgment, consider this quote from PUCO attorney Thomas McNamee, imbiber of the Kool-Aid, when denying how the selective refunds neither discriminate against nor harm residential customers: “It’s turned out to be a very good deal for Mr. Small’s customers.”
Paying higher rates and carrying a bigger share of the financial load always is. Isn’t it?
The question before the Ohio Supreme Court is, is this unfair to the 600,000 small customers, mostly residential, who endure the increases without the rebates? Duke had to formulate a response and I would’ve loved to have been in that meeting.
Before postulating how that went, I will review some background. Cinergy, the forerunner power company, was criticized for buying the naming rights to Cinergy Field (nee Riverfront Stadium). It’s not like they’re in a highly competitive field. Why spend all that money on naming rights (and let’s not forget the luxury suite at the games) when you’re pleading poverty and coming to us for rate hikes?
Cinergy’s explanation was that the money wasn’t coming from utility billings. Say again? The money wasn’t coming from utility billings. So, either you’re selling Amway on the side or you’re taking it out of retained earnings, which did come from power revenue. High points for audacity. And, more significantly, it flew.
So, here’s how I see the meeting going:
Smith: They bought that Cinergy explanation. Let’s just tell them the bribes are refunds and that they don’t come out of power revenue.
Jones: Underreaching.
Smith: How’s that?
Jones: If they bought that so easily, we obviously haven’t pushed the envelope. Let’s not say it didn’t hurt them to carry the increased load alone. Tell them they actually benefitted by doing so.
Farfetched? Before passing judgment, consider this quote from PUCO attorney Thomas McNamee, imbiber of the Kool-Aid, when denying how the selective refunds neither discriminate against nor harm residential customers: “It’s turned out to be a very good deal for Mr. Small’s customers.”
Paying higher rates and carrying a bigger share of the financial load always is. Isn’t it?
Free comedy
It takes some pretty high grade obfuscation to raise my eyebrows. I’ve run newspapers and have been deluged with some of the best spin-doctoring a large PR budget can buy. I’ve also served on college boards and in other adjunct roles in academia, and enjoyed the finest in that genre of palaver.
Nonetheless, I would’ve paid good money to be at the University of Cincinnati board of trustees meeting for the discussion of the proposal to change from quarters to semesters. The snippets of the process reported in the newspaper were enough to tantalize my appetite for high farce.
I’ve served on a number of boards and encouraged the management to continuously come up with ways to advance the cause. But when you bring the proposal to the board, keep in mind our limited time frame and stick with the concrete and specific. In other words, if you’re positing a significant change, don’t tell us it’ll be “better.” Show us precisely how, and with facts and figures.
Therefore, I wanted to be in the room when the reason for this prodigious change at UC was given as “When coupled with collegiate restructuring, the conversion will result in more synergies across programs, fewer programmatic redundancies across colleges and a more strategic array of degree programs.” Bravo! Well-crafted.
Mind you, I would be checking out the recipients of this, not the provost who fired it off. I would be looking around for those nodding sagely, just as though that explained it.
UC informed the trustees that the conversion would cost a little over $7 million, while a task force on the conversion projected a little under $13 million. That’s a discrepancy of only about 86%. Why hold up the vote and decisions to nail down the facts? You know it’s going to turn out to be multiples of that, anyway.
Not to be upstaged in the ready-fire-aim derby, the UC Faculty Senate asked the trustees two months ago to come up with the funding before a plan was out and approved. Good thinking, faculty. How ‘bout you sign a five-year teaching contract now and we’ll tell you what it pays later? Individual faculty quoted in the article were vehemently opposed to the proposed changes and predicted ruin, if approved.
What’s even more disquieting about that is the faculty doesn’t appear to discern that this is preordained and the falderal between the upper management and the board is just theater. I’m not complaining about the process, I just want seats for the performance.
It’s not bad enough to see this tease about trustee fun that I’m missing, but the newspaper includes a sidebar report that the College Conservatory of Music has requested that the trustees approve a purchase of new pianos in excess of $4 million. The proposal says that the purchase saves $1.8 million off the retail price, calculating in $414,325 that could be realized through the sale of pianos being replaced.
At that point, if I’m a trustee, I look down at the highly polished table to see if something is written on my forehead. First of all, selling off 165 heavily used pianos is neither a given nor part of a “savings.”
Then, what is the relevance of retail price? The average Steinway retail buyer purchases an average of…oh, lemme guess…one per lifetime? You buy in multiples of a hundred with greater frequency. You better not have been paying retail price or I’m about to set up a payroll deduction on you geniuses. This is like the Department of Defense justifying a broad-brush upgrade of fighter engines by saying it will give the jets a top speed of up to twenty times that of a Hyundai Sonata.
Just to dot the “i,” I’m scanning radio channels a few nights ago and hit the UC basketball postgame show. It was the “turning point of the game” segment, which I understand is sold as a sponsored deal. UC, a national power, had just flattened early-season patsy South Dakota 77-46. The UC announcer recounts the turning point play and I about go off the road from laughing.
It wasn’t the turning point of tonight’s contest. That would’ve taken place about a year ago, when they scheduled the Coyotes to be the Washington Generals of the season. But, if you have a sponsor who’s willing to underwrite the segment as such, it’s okay by me. I’m just along for the free ride.
I don’t know why I subscribe to XM to get the comedy channels when there’s so much free material.
Nonetheless, I would’ve paid good money to be at the University of Cincinnati board of trustees meeting for the discussion of the proposal to change from quarters to semesters. The snippets of the process reported in the newspaper were enough to tantalize my appetite for high farce.
I’ve served on a number of boards and encouraged the management to continuously come up with ways to advance the cause. But when you bring the proposal to the board, keep in mind our limited time frame and stick with the concrete and specific. In other words, if you’re positing a significant change, don’t tell us it’ll be “better.” Show us precisely how, and with facts and figures.
Therefore, I wanted to be in the room when the reason for this prodigious change at UC was given as “When coupled with collegiate restructuring, the conversion will result in more synergies across programs, fewer programmatic redundancies across colleges and a more strategic array of degree programs.” Bravo! Well-crafted.
Mind you, I would be checking out the recipients of this, not the provost who fired it off. I would be looking around for those nodding sagely, just as though that explained it.
UC informed the trustees that the conversion would cost a little over $7 million, while a task force on the conversion projected a little under $13 million. That’s a discrepancy of only about 86%. Why hold up the vote and decisions to nail down the facts? You know it’s going to turn out to be multiples of that, anyway.
Not to be upstaged in the ready-fire-aim derby, the UC Faculty Senate asked the trustees two months ago to come up with the funding before a plan was out and approved. Good thinking, faculty. How ‘bout you sign a five-year teaching contract now and we’ll tell you what it pays later? Individual faculty quoted in the article were vehemently opposed to the proposed changes and predicted ruin, if approved.
What’s even more disquieting about that is the faculty doesn’t appear to discern that this is preordained and the falderal between the upper management and the board is just theater. I’m not complaining about the process, I just want seats for the performance.
It’s not bad enough to see this tease about trustee fun that I’m missing, but the newspaper includes a sidebar report that the College Conservatory of Music has requested that the trustees approve a purchase of new pianos in excess of $4 million. The proposal says that the purchase saves $1.8 million off the retail price, calculating in $414,325 that could be realized through the sale of pianos being replaced.
At that point, if I’m a trustee, I look down at the highly polished table to see if something is written on my forehead. First of all, selling off 165 heavily used pianos is neither a given nor part of a “savings.”
Then, what is the relevance of retail price? The average Steinway retail buyer purchases an average of…oh, lemme guess…one per lifetime? You buy in multiples of a hundred with greater frequency. You better not have been paying retail price or I’m about to set up a payroll deduction on you geniuses. This is like the Department of Defense justifying a broad-brush upgrade of fighter engines by saying it will give the jets a top speed of up to twenty times that of a Hyundai Sonata.
Just to dot the “i,” I’m scanning radio channels a few nights ago and hit the UC basketball postgame show. It was the “turning point of the game” segment, which I understand is sold as a sponsored deal. UC, a national power, had just flattened early-season patsy South Dakota 77-46. The UC announcer recounts the turning point play and I about go off the road from laughing.
It wasn’t the turning point of tonight’s contest. That would’ve taken place about a year ago, when they scheduled the Coyotes to be the Washington Generals of the season. But, if you have a sponsor who’s willing to underwrite the segment as such, it’s okay by me. I’m just along for the free ride.
I don’t know why I subscribe to XM to get the comedy channels when there’s so much free material.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Reality show
I don’t watch “reality shows” and their kin. What I do know about them is a mélange of impressions gleaned from around the lunch table at work, where they are avidly discussed. As far as I can tell, you run around Ethiopia dressed like Rambo trying to redeem a Wendy’s coupon while plotting the ouster of your bunkmates. Or, something like that.
No one seems to feel they are reality, but it doesn’t appear to matter. Unless, you’re undergoing a scan and have nothing to do but lie still and contemplate such inanities.
Okay, this would be a reality show. You have ten tasks to complete successfully:
1. Call a computer or software customer service department, get connected with a real person and obtain an understandable and accurate solution within twenty minutes.
2. Buy an appliance, apply for and obtain the rebate within two months.
3. File a scam or fraud complaint with the FTC, state attorney general or Better Business Bureau and elicit a remedy within six months.
4. When there’s a DST change, adjust all your clocks, watches and other devices within 24 hours.
5. Build a desk or home entertainment center from an assemble-it-yourself kit within six hours with no extra or missing parts.
6. Collect an insurance claim in full.
7. Get valid assistance with your tax return from the IRS helpline.
8. Change the name or address on your driver’s license or vehicle registration within a month.
9. Get a plumbing, electrical or HVAC problem fixed at a reasonable price within three days.
10. Redeem your Skymiles or other bonus points for an airline ticket with the date, time and destination you want.
Now you’ve got a reality show.
No one seems to feel they are reality, but it doesn’t appear to matter. Unless, you’re undergoing a scan and have nothing to do but lie still and contemplate such inanities.
Okay, this would be a reality show. You have ten tasks to complete successfully:
1. Call a computer or software customer service department, get connected with a real person and obtain an understandable and accurate solution within twenty minutes.
2. Buy an appliance, apply for and obtain the rebate within two months.
3. File a scam or fraud complaint with the FTC, state attorney general or Better Business Bureau and elicit a remedy within six months.
4. When there’s a DST change, adjust all your clocks, watches and other devices within 24 hours.
5. Build a desk or home entertainment center from an assemble-it-yourself kit within six hours with no extra or missing parts.
6. Collect an insurance claim in full.
7. Get valid assistance with your tax return from the IRS helpline.
8. Change the name or address on your driver’s license or vehicle registration within a month.
9. Get a plumbing, electrical or HVAC problem fixed at a reasonable price within three days.
10. Redeem your Skymiles or other bonus points for an airline ticket with the date, time and destination you want.
Now you’ve got a reality show.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The life I always wanted
I was out with some kayaking friends. Bill said that he heard that one of the regulars had recently gotten engaged, but he didn’t know to whom. I knew but, before I could answer, Marie said, “Well, one thing you know, it isn’t Henry.”
It wasn’t me, but I wondered why she said that. “Because it’s obvious you have the life you always wanted.”
In many respects. But, in others, the goals change over time. As we paddled, I tried to think way back to when I yearned to be a grownup.
A priority would’ve been soda. I was permitted to indulge maybe twice a month. I recall thinking that when I was out on my own, it would be root beer or black cherry wishniak every day. That would be nirvana.
Now, it’s entirely up to me and there’s not a bottle or can in my house. I’ll do Diet Coke at work, but not the sugar water.
I was required to be in bed by 9:00 PM. Or, 9:30 or 10:00, depending upon age. I looked forward to the time when I could stay up as late as I wanted.
Okay, now I can. But, I don’t. I often swim laps early in the morning, before the crowds are at the pool, so I’m not burning the midnight oil. I’m in bed before anyone has to tell me. Unfortunately, my clientele are night creatures by nature. I get a number of late night calls when they get into trouble.
I remember when no one on the street had televisions. Then the Zadarosni’s got one because Big Dan worked for RCA. Once in a while, we were invited down to partake. You watched what Big Dan wanted to watch.
Muntz made televisions affordable for the masses and we finally got one. Three channels. I was permitted a maximum of two hours a day, but that was superseded once my father got home. We watched what he wanted to watch.
Now, I have about 120 channels and complete freedom to choose. But, I seldom find something worth watching. Another dream shatters on the reef of reality.
Sometimes I’d look at our ’53 Chevy parked at the curb and wonder why they let it sit idle. If I had a car, I’d be rollin’. I’d be going places, doing things.
That, I do. Life’s too short to spend in a chair.
And, that vehicle wouldn’t be an anemic Chevy six-banger. It would be a sleek Jag XKE, big block Vette, chopped Harley or all the above.
Been there, done that. Now, comfort and utility are the priorities. Comfort in the car and the ability to easily haul kayaks and gear in the truck. Sheer excitement.
If it had been up to me, I’d have worn my favorite shirt, jeans and Keds every day. It wasn’t up to me.
Now, it is. There’s a combination that’s just right for each different day. Usually, outdoor clothing.
That wouldn’t seem to fit into a work environment. That’s why I was delighted when the memo came out that the office dress code included tasteful outdoor attire. Almost as delighted as when I wrote the memo. It’s good to be the parent.
When I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed to have friends up to my room. Now, I’m the adult. It’s good to be the adult.
So, maybe it isn’t the life I always wanted. But, it ain’t bad.
It wasn’t me, but I wondered why she said that. “Because it’s obvious you have the life you always wanted.”
In many respects. But, in others, the goals change over time. As we paddled, I tried to think way back to when I yearned to be a grownup.
A priority would’ve been soda. I was permitted to indulge maybe twice a month. I recall thinking that when I was out on my own, it would be root beer or black cherry wishniak every day. That would be nirvana.
Now, it’s entirely up to me and there’s not a bottle or can in my house. I’ll do Diet Coke at work, but not the sugar water.
I was required to be in bed by 9:00 PM. Or, 9:30 or 10:00, depending upon age. I looked forward to the time when I could stay up as late as I wanted.
Okay, now I can. But, I don’t. I often swim laps early in the morning, before the crowds are at the pool, so I’m not burning the midnight oil. I’m in bed before anyone has to tell me. Unfortunately, my clientele are night creatures by nature. I get a number of late night calls when they get into trouble.
I remember when no one on the street had televisions. Then the Zadarosni’s got one because Big Dan worked for RCA. Once in a while, we were invited down to partake. You watched what Big Dan wanted to watch.
Muntz made televisions affordable for the masses and we finally got one. Three channels. I was permitted a maximum of two hours a day, but that was superseded once my father got home. We watched what he wanted to watch.
Now, I have about 120 channels and complete freedom to choose. But, I seldom find something worth watching. Another dream shatters on the reef of reality.
Sometimes I’d look at our ’53 Chevy parked at the curb and wonder why they let it sit idle. If I had a car, I’d be rollin’. I’d be going places, doing things.
That, I do. Life’s too short to spend in a chair.
And, that vehicle wouldn’t be an anemic Chevy six-banger. It would be a sleek Jag XKE, big block Vette, chopped Harley or all the above.
Been there, done that. Now, comfort and utility are the priorities. Comfort in the car and the ability to easily haul kayaks and gear in the truck. Sheer excitement.
If it had been up to me, I’d have worn my favorite shirt, jeans and Keds every day. It wasn’t up to me.
Now, it is. There’s a combination that’s just right for each different day. Usually, outdoor clothing.
That wouldn’t seem to fit into a work environment. That’s why I was delighted when the memo came out that the office dress code included tasteful outdoor attire. Almost as delighted as when I wrote the memo. It’s good to be the parent.
When I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed to have friends up to my room. Now, I’m the adult. It’s good to be the adult.
So, maybe it isn’t the life I always wanted. But, it ain’t bad.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Fasten your seatbelts
If you think it’s been rough economically, you ain’t seen nothing, yet. We’re in for a very rough few years. Just one man’s opinion, but based on talking with the geese laying the golden eggs, whose killing was promised during the election campaign, as opposed those who have nothing better to do with their lives than cut & paste misinformation in web chat rooms. The real players aren’t on the internet tipping their hands.
These are the people who fuel economic growth. Products run through their life cycles and fade away, along with the jobs associated with them. They are replaced with companies and product lines spawned by venture capital. Venture investing is risky, so a high capital gain is sought. Go after the gains with draconian taxes and there’s no incentive to invest and take on high risk.
The venture capitalists didn’t amass their money by being obtuse. They’ll stick their money in a safe harbor, something like municipal bonds or go offshore and ride out the storm.
No new products and jobs means failure of companies that would’ve supplied them and those jobs go away, too. Taxes on employment, profits and capital gains dry up, so kiss those promises of manna from heaven goodbye.
Fasten your seatbelts. It’ll be a bumpy ride.
These are the people who fuel economic growth. Products run through their life cycles and fade away, along with the jobs associated with them. They are replaced with companies and product lines spawned by venture capital. Venture investing is risky, so a high capital gain is sought. Go after the gains with draconian taxes and there’s no incentive to invest and take on high risk.
The venture capitalists didn’t amass their money by being obtuse. They’ll stick their money in a safe harbor, something like municipal bonds or go offshore and ride out the storm.
No new products and jobs means failure of companies that would’ve supplied them and those jobs go away, too. Taxes on employment, profits and capital gains dry up, so kiss those promises of manna from heaven goodbye.
Fasten your seatbelts. It’ll be a bumpy ride.
Monday, October 27, 2008
You're safe, now
I work for a nonprofit mental health/drug & alcohol treatment center. We employ doctors, so drug reps do call on us. Their ranks have been thinning as pharmaceutical companies have hit a rough patch. This might come as a surprise to those who swallowed the dramatized reports that drug companies print money.
In fact, as of the first of the year, they will no longer be giving us the handful of pens and post-it notepads that I look at as helping to defray some office supply expense. Or, as I also look at it, free up some dollars to treat the indigent in need.
That's right, we were on the take. All the treatment facilities are in on it. For a few plastic pens, we were hooking tens of thousands of people on unnecessary psychotropic drugs. Biggest thing since the Medellin Cartel.
But, the flow of cheap pens is coming to a close. The war on legal drugs and pharmaceutical companies can be declared a victory. You're all safe, now.
In fact, as of the first of the year, they will no longer be giving us the handful of pens and post-it notepads that I look at as helping to defray some office supply expense. Or, as I also look at it, free up some dollars to treat the indigent in need.
That's right, we were on the take. All the treatment facilities are in on it. For a few plastic pens, we were hooking tens of thousands of people on unnecessary psychotropic drugs. Biggest thing since the Medellin Cartel.
But, the flow of cheap pens is coming to a close. The war on legal drugs and pharmaceutical companies can be declared a victory. You're all safe, now.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The art of the deal
I’m always a little amazed when reminded of some of the practical things we don’t teach in schools. A neighbor was just telling me he got a quote from a roofing company and accepted it.
I was also surprised because I had been thinking of roof replacement and had proposed to him that we negotiate a two-for deal, pooling our bargaining power. “Yeah, but this guy said his price was good for only that day, so I had to take it.” The hot box sell.
Most things are negotiable, especially in home improvement. If the vendor tries to dictate the rules, you can always walk.
For instance, a few weeks ago, I had a furnace repaired. The serviceman advised me that it was a very old unit (I knew that) and had reached the point of being dangerous. I asked him for specifics. Another company had told me the same thing a couple years ago and their explanation didn’t wash. I checked his out, and it did.
So, a salesman from the firm contacted me and came over. He led off with some small talk to get a feel for me. That’s good, because it afforded me the same opportunity. He’d been selling HVAC for over twenty years, so I knew what league we were playing in.
He wrote up three alternatives, recommending the best one, of course. I asked him to deduct the cost of the service call. It wouldn’t make sense to pay them to fix the furnace and turn around and have them sell me a new one. He grumbled, but did it. There was air in the price, as I suspected. But, how much?
He tried to close the sale, but I said I needed to do some comparison shopping. I would call him next week. He wasn’t wild about that, but relented.
I did do some comparing, but really wanted to see how hungry he was. I didn’t call all week, and neither did he. Not a good sign.
To keep my word, I called late Friday when I was pretty sure he’d be out of the office. I left a message that I had a question.
He called three times over the weekend, leaving his personal cell number. That’s more like it.
I returned the call on Monday, so I wouldn’t appear too eager, and told him I was narrowing down the choices. But, I needed his bottom line figure, not the proposal number. He knocked off 10% and attempted to close. I wasn’t certain that was the floor, so I said I’d call back in a couple days.
I did and gave him a number that would seal the deal. You’d think I had slapped him, but he’s a big boy. He came down a couple bucks, but said he couldn’t meet my price. That’s okay, I was now sure we had boiled all the fat out. A little bit of work, but taking out the service call and discounting was worth over a grand. Not a bad return.
He asked for a rather substantial deposit, I countered with a smaller one and said he’d get the rest when I was satisfied with the installation. Once they have the money, you lose your leverage.
Just a few simple things that people should know to manage their lives. We teach health (or whatever it’s called, now). Why not financial health?
I was also surprised because I had been thinking of roof replacement and had proposed to him that we negotiate a two-for deal, pooling our bargaining power. “Yeah, but this guy said his price was good for only that day, so I had to take it.” The hot box sell.
Most things are negotiable, especially in home improvement. If the vendor tries to dictate the rules, you can always walk.
For instance, a few weeks ago, I had a furnace repaired. The serviceman advised me that it was a very old unit (I knew that) and had reached the point of being dangerous. I asked him for specifics. Another company had told me the same thing a couple years ago and their explanation didn’t wash. I checked his out, and it did.
So, a salesman from the firm contacted me and came over. He led off with some small talk to get a feel for me. That’s good, because it afforded me the same opportunity. He’d been selling HVAC for over twenty years, so I knew what league we were playing in.
He wrote up three alternatives, recommending the best one, of course. I asked him to deduct the cost of the service call. It wouldn’t make sense to pay them to fix the furnace and turn around and have them sell me a new one. He grumbled, but did it. There was air in the price, as I suspected. But, how much?
He tried to close the sale, but I said I needed to do some comparison shopping. I would call him next week. He wasn’t wild about that, but relented.
I did do some comparing, but really wanted to see how hungry he was. I didn’t call all week, and neither did he. Not a good sign.
To keep my word, I called late Friday when I was pretty sure he’d be out of the office. I left a message that I had a question.
He called three times over the weekend, leaving his personal cell number. That’s more like it.
I returned the call on Monday, so I wouldn’t appear too eager, and told him I was narrowing down the choices. But, I needed his bottom line figure, not the proposal number. He knocked off 10% and attempted to close. I wasn’t certain that was the floor, so I said I’d call back in a couple days.
I did and gave him a number that would seal the deal. You’d think I had slapped him, but he’s a big boy. He came down a couple bucks, but said he couldn’t meet my price. That’s okay, I was now sure we had boiled all the fat out. A little bit of work, but taking out the service call and discounting was worth over a grand. Not a bad return.
He asked for a rather substantial deposit, I countered with a smaller one and said he’d get the rest when I was satisfied with the installation. Once they have the money, you lose your leverage.
Just a few simple things that people should know to manage their lives. We teach health (or whatever it’s called, now). Why not financial health?
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
What financial crisis?
When people are buying customizing decals for riding mowers, they have too much money, not too little: http://www.vinzdecals.com/ridingmower.html
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
On a positive note
As a youngster, I would bring in the newspaper and give my mother the sections she had first dibs on while I’d pore over the rest. I would kid her about reading the obituaries. “You’ll see,” she replied.
My mom’s math was to compute the difference between the deceased’s age and hers. I didn’t think it was either relevant or uplifting. I prefer positive role models.
A friend of mine died this week. He ran the airport well and was a great guy. I caught myself noticing he was eight years older than me. Not a point to focus upon.
“You must have a thing for me,” Liz kidded me this morning at the pool. She was alluding to the fact that I had shifted swimming laps with my usual cronies to her schedule.
The change was intentional. The people I was swimming with made me feel fast. Liz kicks my butt. It’s a better gauge for knowing how much work I need to do.
I’m not young, but Liz is 10 years older and in great shape. That’s something to shoot for.
My mom’s math was to compute the difference between the deceased’s age and hers. I didn’t think it was either relevant or uplifting. I prefer positive role models.
A friend of mine died this week. He ran the airport well and was a great guy. I caught myself noticing he was eight years older than me. Not a point to focus upon.
“You must have a thing for me,” Liz kidded me this morning at the pool. She was alluding to the fact that I had shifted swimming laps with my usual cronies to her schedule.
The change was intentional. The people I was swimming with made me feel fast. Liz kicks my butt. It’s a better gauge for knowing how much work I need to do.
I’m not young, but Liz is 10 years older and in great shape. That’s something to shoot for.
Depraved new world
One of my employees (not in the business end of the organization) asked me why the stock market dove in spite of the EESA (bailout legislation). Simple. The market plunged because of the EESA, not in spite of it.
Investors recognize it as a placebo in a barrel of pork. In this economic crisis, using this emergency measure to pork up wooden arrows, rum, etc. is akin to EMTs arriving at a disaster site and stealing the wallets of the victims.
Where were the draconian cuts in wasteful government spending, duplication and overemployment? Just more pork. Yeah, that'll help us out of the hole.
The "bailout" will be financed by printing more money and your taxes. Inflation and sapping purchasing power. Effective plan.
Even more relevant is the investors discern the fundamental and momentous shift in the fabric of our capitalistic system. The feds took over Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac (stupendous failures that they helped craft) and the EESA imbues the Treasury, FDIC and Federal Reserve with super powers and arbitrary control. The same outfit that mucked up Social Security, Sallie Mae and a legion of other programs – what could go wrong here?
The powers are in place and the overt socialists are about to assume control of the executive branch with promises to kill the geese that are laying our golden eggs, with the exception of their Hollywood friends (see: EESA/pork). Worked out great for the Russians, et al.
The investors see it coming and aren’t fooled by the crap sandwich that the EESA is. They’re not the idiots with their noses stuck against a computer screen eight hours a day. They’re reading the entrails. It’s now a whole new country, and not one that will be good for business.
Investors recognize it as a placebo in a barrel of pork. In this economic crisis, using this emergency measure to pork up wooden arrows, rum, etc. is akin to EMTs arriving at a disaster site and stealing the wallets of the victims.
Where were the draconian cuts in wasteful government spending, duplication and overemployment? Just more pork. Yeah, that'll help us out of the hole.
The "bailout" will be financed by printing more money and your taxes. Inflation and sapping purchasing power. Effective plan.
Even more relevant is the investors discern the fundamental and momentous shift in the fabric of our capitalistic system. The feds took over Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac (stupendous failures that they helped craft) and the EESA imbues the Treasury, FDIC and Federal Reserve with super powers and arbitrary control. The same outfit that mucked up Social Security, Sallie Mae and a legion of other programs – what could go wrong here?
The powers are in place and the overt socialists are about to assume control of the executive branch with promises to kill the geese that are laying our golden eggs, with the exception of their Hollywood friends (see: EESA/pork). Worked out great for the Russians, et al.
The investors see it coming and aren’t fooled by the crap sandwich that the EESA is. They’re not the idiots with their noses stuck against a computer screen eight hours a day. They’re reading the entrails. It’s now a whole new country, and not one that will be good for business.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Weighty issues
Part of the check-in procedure at the clinic I run is the measurement of height, weight, temperature and blood pressure. I’m intrigued by the number of people I see kick off their shoe before getting onto the scale. If you suffer a mental illness or substance dependency, the least of your problems is knocking a couple pounds off your chart weight.
I have an employee who uses the office scale to weight herself about every hour. What makes this seem even more quirky is that she could probably use the postage scale. Obviously some issues at work, here.
I mused about this to a friend, who didn’t find it odd at all. She told me she has about a dozen weights; with shoes, without shoes, first-thing-in-the-morning, before period, after period, right after a dump, etc.
I was thinking of this because I moved past my break point last week, which reminds me of a philosophical discussion I’ve had with someone I’ll see tonight. I’m not anxious to have it again.
I have a fairly rigorous adventure coming up toward the end of the year. So, I stepped up my usual conditioning. This results in better muscle tone, weight loss, etc. Somewhere, south of the mid-180s, I move from my normal wardrobe to smaller sizes.
Another friend of mine maintains a vigorous daily workout routine continuously. A couple years ago, due to significantly increased hours and travel on the job, she crept above her break point, which is about 110. I slipped and said aging might have something to do with it. That was out of my mouth before I could stop it and was pretty costly.
She had added “more comfortable” attire to her collection before drawing the line and burning off the weight. She immediately disposed of the new clothing. The Cortez approach.
When Cortez landed at Vera Cruz, he ordered his men to burn the 11 ships. He did this to ensure commitment to the mission.
I’m not about to burn the ships. Aside from the fact that I don’t think this is a realistic level of training to carry on after the event, I’d rather do something on the strength of my will as opposed to an artificial boundary. That also assumes it’s something I want to do, and I feel no need to push it.
Beyond an acceptable level of health, this creeps into the province of courting the favor of others. That’s never a good recipe for balance or happiness.
I have an employee who uses the office scale to weight herself about every hour. What makes this seem even more quirky is that she could probably use the postage scale. Obviously some issues at work, here.
I mused about this to a friend, who didn’t find it odd at all. She told me she has about a dozen weights; with shoes, without shoes, first-thing-in-the-morning, before period, after period, right after a dump, etc.
I was thinking of this because I moved past my break point last week, which reminds me of a philosophical discussion I’ve had with someone I’ll see tonight. I’m not anxious to have it again.
I have a fairly rigorous adventure coming up toward the end of the year. So, I stepped up my usual conditioning. This results in better muscle tone, weight loss, etc. Somewhere, south of the mid-180s, I move from my normal wardrobe to smaller sizes.
Another friend of mine maintains a vigorous daily workout routine continuously. A couple years ago, due to significantly increased hours and travel on the job, she crept above her break point, which is about 110. I slipped and said aging might have something to do with it. That was out of my mouth before I could stop it and was pretty costly.
She had added “more comfortable” attire to her collection before drawing the line and burning off the weight. She immediately disposed of the new clothing. The Cortez approach.
When Cortez landed at Vera Cruz, he ordered his men to burn the 11 ships. He did this to ensure commitment to the mission.
I’m not about to burn the ships. Aside from the fact that I don’t think this is a realistic level of training to carry on after the event, I’d rather do something on the strength of my will as opposed to an artificial boundary. That also assumes it’s something I want to do, and I feel no need to push it.
Beyond an acceptable level of health, this creeps into the province of courting the favor of others. That’s never a good recipe for balance or happiness.
Friday, October 03, 2008
A ray of hope
Addicts of various stripe are usually in denial, which makes it impossible for them to dig out. If you refuse to recognize the problem and take responsibility, you won’t address it.
It usually takes some catastrophic event for one to face the music. They have to hit the wall. It isn’t all bad if it results in a turnaround.
I belong to a small club that meets monthly for dinner, as it has for almost a century. We take turns presenting papers on controversial subjects and then debate them. The deliberations are invariably spirited, but intelligent and not without wit.
It was my turn to present the paper. The theme I chose was that the “loan meltdown” was a symptom of a larger issue, not the problem. That problem is the “entitlement meltdown.”
During my formative years, I learned that you didn’t get accepted to college unless you qualified. You didn’t get a loan unless you could demonstrate the ability to pay it off. You weren’t hired unless you had the credentials.
Somewhere along the way, we veered off the road. We graduated some kids from high school who were barely literate and compelled colleges to accept them and green-light them through. Then, we forced businesses and colleges to hire them. We pressured banks to lend money to those who had little prospect of carrying the debt load. We allowed prodigious illegal immigration and diverted tax-financed services calculated to serve the citizens to be sopped up by illegals who were not contributing to the tax base. If you objected to any of this insanity, you were labeled and blacklisted. Political correctness usually damns those who describe things as they are. Euphemizers are free to spin things away from reality with indemnification.
When you mandate the employment of the unqualified into business and government positions, what outcome did you expect, other than billions in squandered salary dollars and even more in the cost of mismanagement? When you legislate lending to the financially weak, what did you foresee, other than defaults and losses? When you condition people to expect a free ride at someone else’s expense, what level of effort and responsibility did you expect? When you made it more lucrative not to work did you expect people to look for jobs?
It is in everyone’s interest to promote the general welfare. But, you do that by helping people attain literacy, productivity, responsibility and self-respect, not by lowering the bar.
Joe Paterno is the long-time and highly successful football coach of Penn State University. He’s also a champion of minorities. Yet, he strenuously objected to the overturning of Proposition 16.
That was the standard that required a meager 2.0 high school average and paltry 820 SAT score for a high school athlete to move up to the college level. Coach Paterno said that you were doing the kids harm by lowering the standard, not helping them. Meeting a standard to be admitted into college gave them motivation to achieve in high school and acquire an education. Lowering the bar took it away. And, to say that one or more ethnic groups were less capable of attaining a standard was de facto racism.
Coach Paterno maintained his standards and the minority composition of his team still increased. He maintains one of the highest percentages of graduation and average IQ among major teams. Point made.
The majority of the group I presented the paper to is liberal, so I expected my position to be lambasted. It wasn’t. They’ve now experienced the pain that makes you rethink your position. They’ve finally hit the wall. Hopefully, many have and we’ll begin to turn the corner without much further damage.
That’s not all bad.
It usually takes some catastrophic event for one to face the music. They have to hit the wall. It isn’t all bad if it results in a turnaround.
I belong to a small club that meets monthly for dinner, as it has for almost a century. We take turns presenting papers on controversial subjects and then debate them. The deliberations are invariably spirited, but intelligent and not without wit.
It was my turn to present the paper. The theme I chose was that the “loan meltdown” was a symptom of a larger issue, not the problem. That problem is the “entitlement meltdown.”
During my formative years, I learned that you didn’t get accepted to college unless you qualified. You didn’t get a loan unless you could demonstrate the ability to pay it off. You weren’t hired unless you had the credentials.
Somewhere along the way, we veered off the road. We graduated some kids from high school who were barely literate and compelled colleges to accept them and green-light them through. Then, we forced businesses and colleges to hire them. We pressured banks to lend money to those who had little prospect of carrying the debt load. We allowed prodigious illegal immigration and diverted tax-financed services calculated to serve the citizens to be sopped up by illegals who were not contributing to the tax base. If you objected to any of this insanity, you were labeled and blacklisted. Political correctness usually damns those who describe things as they are. Euphemizers are free to spin things away from reality with indemnification.
When you mandate the employment of the unqualified into business and government positions, what outcome did you expect, other than billions in squandered salary dollars and even more in the cost of mismanagement? When you legislate lending to the financially weak, what did you foresee, other than defaults and losses? When you condition people to expect a free ride at someone else’s expense, what level of effort and responsibility did you expect? When you made it more lucrative not to work did you expect people to look for jobs?
It is in everyone’s interest to promote the general welfare. But, you do that by helping people attain literacy, productivity, responsibility and self-respect, not by lowering the bar.
Joe Paterno is the long-time and highly successful football coach of Penn State University. He’s also a champion of minorities. Yet, he strenuously objected to the overturning of Proposition 16.
That was the standard that required a meager 2.0 high school average and paltry 820 SAT score for a high school athlete to move up to the college level. Coach Paterno said that you were doing the kids harm by lowering the standard, not helping them. Meeting a standard to be admitted into college gave them motivation to achieve in high school and acquire an education. Lowering the bar took it away. And, to say that one or more ethnic groups were less capable of attaining a standard was de facto racism.
Coach Paterno maintained his standards and the minority composition of his team still increased. He maintains one of the highest percentages of graduation and average IQ among major teams. Point made.
The majority of the group I presented the paper to is liberal, so I expected my position to be lambasted. It wasn’t. They’ve now experienced the pain that makes you rethink your position. They’ve finally hit the wall. Hopefully, many have and we’ll begin to turn the corner without much further damage.
That’s not all bad.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Had to happen
It was only a matter of time. Last December, I wrote a blog about some of the more frivilous items offered by a cataloger. Among those cited was the 14 mph cooler, which married the concepts of vehicle operation and ample cold beverages on hand. It's a cooler with wheels driven by an electric motor.
I'm guessing Leslie "Bomber" Marr was the first to be busted at the wheel (handlebars). The alert police force of Whitehall, NY (population 2,600) pounced on the 57- year old, who was on his way home from working at the local American Legion Post. Bomber avoids street operation and was on a sidewalk at the time of the arrest.
The arresting officer observed some sweerving and rose to the occasion. Bomber was charged with DWI, unlicensed operation of a motor vehicle, and operating an uninsured motor vehicle.
The county district attorney stated, "They tell us he's been riding around town (Whiteahll) for years. You can't cruise around on your cooler if you're intoxicated." Words to live by.
I'm guessing Leslie "Bomber" Marr was the first to be busted at the wheel (handlebars). The alert police force of Whitehall, NY (population 2,600) pounced on the 57- year old, who was on his way home from working at the local American Legion Post. Bomber avoids street operation and was on a sidewalk at the time of the arrest.
The arresting officer observed some sweerving and rose to the occasion. Bomber was charged with DWI, unlicensed operation of a motor vehicle, and operating an uninsured motor vehicle.
The county district attorney stated, "They tell us he's been riding around town (Whiteahll) for years. You can't cruise around on your cooler if you're intoxicated." Words to live by.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Who wants to be a millionaire?
I answered the phone. “Want to meet me and a couple guys for breakfast. We like your idea.”
I hadn’t spoken to Len in decades, much less floated a proposition to him. He was repeating the call he made to me almost twenty years ago, shortcutting the need to explain the purpose of the contact.
Way back when, a change in tax law, among other things, set the financial and real estate worlds on their ears. The government decided it needed to help and formed the Resolution Trust Company (RTC). Bureaucrats at the wheel – there’s only one way this can go.
There’s money to be made in an economic disaster, especially when you have the government involved. I had the germ of an idea, but knew I needed more brains and capital involved to pull it off. And, some people with the guts to roll the dice with me.
I contacted some financial gunslingers I knew. Len was the only one to show any serious interest. He brought in Howie and Jerry. Howie’s extensive knowledge of financial infrastructure would prove to be a critical success factor.
You start with the simple concepts of following the money and playing the niches. In this case, I thought paydirt was in the hotel market. Tax laws had compelled all kinds of investment in building hotels. They were practically stacked on top of each other at the interstate exits.
When the tax wind blew the other way, the owners simply tossed the keys to the banks that had made the loans. Banks wound up owning more hotel property than operators and investors. They were hemorrhaging cash.
It remained to gauge prevailing wisdom and identify the opening. You wanted to know which way most people were going, because smart money would run the other way.
So, I bought and read every financial publication I could lay hands on. The people who don’t know are always anxious to tell you. If they knew, they’d be busy churning property, not writing a column. The people who know aren’t talking. They’re too busy making real dough.
Media has proliferated with the internet, but it’s still easy to track. There’s an army of people who have nothing better to do with their lives than scour the web 24/7 for juicy tidbits of pseudothought and then parrot it in chatrooms , attempting to appear shrewd. They’ll collect all the babble for you. If you want to know what not to do, check out what these losers are espousing. Those in the know won’t be posting their analysis.
I told Len I wasn’t interested this time around. Back then, it was worth it to noodle it out and put all my chips on the line. Now, it’s a different time and I’m in a different place. And no, I haven’t figured it out and am just not publishing it.
If you have the taste for the profit and the risk, wait for the earliest announcement of what the bailout plan will be. Flowchart the movement of the money and monitor the listening posts (SEC filings, etc.) to detect where the smart money is quietly going. And, lay in a supply of Tums to wait it out and see if you read the entrails correctly.
Good luck.
I hadn’t spoken to Len in decades, much less floated a proposition to him. He was repeating the call he made to me almost twenty years ago, shortcutting the need to explain the purpose of the contact.
Way back when, a change in tax law, among other things, set the financial and real estate worlds on their ears. The government decided it needed to help and formed the Resolution Trust Company (RTC). Bureaucrats at the wheel – there’s only one way this can go.
There’s money to be made in an economic disaster, especially when you have the government involved. I had the germ of an idea, but knew I needed more brains and capital involved to pull it off. And, some people with the guts to roll the dice with me.
I contacted some financial gunslingers I knew. Len was the only one to show any serious interest. He brought in Howie and Jerry. Howie’s extensive knowledge of financial infrastructure would prove to be a critical success factor.
You start with the simple concepts of following the money and playing the niches. In this case, I thought paydirt was in the hotel market. Tax laws had compelled all kinds of investment in building hotels. They were practically stacked on top of each other at the interstate exits.
When the tax wind blew the other way, the owners simply tossed the keys to the banks that had made the loans. Banks wound up owning more hotel property than operators and investors. They were hemorrhaging cash.
It remained to gauge prevailing wisdom and identify the opening. You wanted to know which way most people were going, because smart money would run the other way.
So, I bought and read every financial publication I could lay hands on. The people who don’t know are always anxious to tell you. If they knew, they’d be busy churning property, not writing a column. The people who know aren’t talking. They’re too busy making real dough.
Media has proliferated with the internet, but it’s still easy to track. There’s an army of people who have nothing better to do with their lives than scour the web 24/7 for juicy tidbits of pseudothought and then parrot it in chatrooms , attempting to appear shrewd. They’ll collect all the babble for you. If you want to know what not to do, check out what these losers are espousing. Those in the know won’t be posting their analysis.
I told Len I wasn’t interested this time around. Back then, it was worth it to noodle it out and put all my chips on the line. Now, it’s a different time and I’m in a different place. And no, I haven’t figured it out and am just not publishing it.
If you have the taste for the profit and the risk, wait for the earliest announcement of what the bailout plan will be. Flowchart the movement of the money and monitor the listening posts (SEC filings, etc.) to detect where the smart money is quietly going. And, lay in a supply of Tums to wait it out and see if you read the entrails correctly.
Good luck.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Inspiration
We were ordering lunch for a meeting today. A visitor asked me what we were having. She went on to explain that she wasn’t picky, she just needed to prepare. I told her I understood.
She was wearing a device that looked something like a pager. I recognized it as an insulin pump.
I’m not extremely knowledgeable of diabetes, but am a fan of Dean Kamen, who invented the AutoSyringe, from which this device was derived. He’s better known for the Segway, a human mobilizer.
Kamen belongs to that minute segment of the population who actually does something about challenges to society. And, his approaches reflect true genius.
By coincidence, I was contacted by someone today who asked if I had any old photographs of Levittown (PA). This evoked thoughts of William Levitt, another innovator who is widely regarded as the father of the modern suburb.
Levittown is one of the larger, if not largest suburbs of Philadelphia, yet does not have a traditional street grid in it. That is, in its entire expanse, virtually all the roads are curvilinear and there are no four-way intersections within the subdivisions. This produces a safer traffic flow. That's just a small sample of his intricate design. Levitt was far ahead of his time and I’m not sure we’ve caught up, yet.
Dwelling upon our capacity for genius and productivity is invigorating and inspirational. Now, I feel like I have to do something.
She was wearing a device that looked something like a pager. I recognized it as an insulin pump.
I’m not extremely knowledgeable of diabetes, but am a fan of Dean Kamen, who invented the AutoSyringe, from which this device was derived. He’s better known for the Segway, a human mobilizer.
Kamen belongs to that minute segment of the population who actually does something about challenges to society. And, his approaches reflect true genius.
By coincidence, I was contacted by someone today who asked if I had any old photographs of Levittown (PA). This evoked thoughts of William Levitt, another innovator who is widely regarded as the father of the modern suburb.
Levittown is one of the larger, if not largest suburbs of Philadelphia, yet does not have a traditional street grid in it. That is, in its entire expanse, virtually all the roads are curvilinear and there are no four-way intersections within the subdivisions. This produces a safer traffic flow. That's just a small sample of his intricate design. Levitt was far ahead of his time and I’m not sure we’ve caught up, yet.
Dwelling upon our capacity for genius and productivity is invigorating and inspirational. Now, I feel like I have to do something.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Too obvious
Any writers who keystroke an article about Duchovny's porn addiction entitled "The Double X Files" (or variation thereof) should have their tickets punched. Too obvious.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Mars/Venus - Part XXVI
I recently took on the task of having sweatshirts made for a club I belong to. I posted ordering directions on the website.
There were about 40 responses, split fairly evenly between the sexes. Five guys simply threw a check into an envelope (three of them, company stationery) and omitted size and other requested information.
Three of the women used personalized note stationery (one scented) with handwritten narrative. We are from different planets.
There were about 40 responses, split fairly evenly between the sexes. Five guys simply threw a check into an envelope (three of them, company stationery) and omitted size and other requested information.
Three of the women used personalized note stationery (one scented) with handwritten narrative. We are from different planets.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Supreme efforts
“What are you doing?”
I turned to see David, the host of the Fourth of July party. “I’m trying to figure out the controls of your intergalactic television.”
“I mean, what are you doing in here? I’ve got 30 people out on the porch, about nine hundred bucks in food and a two million dollar view.”
“Then, you don’t need me. Is there some way I can find a channel on this without getting a PhD in electrical engineering?”
“Here, give me that. What channel do you want?” I told him. “What the hell is this?”
“Olympic trials for swimming. I just want to see the individual medley. It’s going to be a shootout.”
“Swimming? Swimming, for crissake? That’s like watching ice melt.” He pitched the control to me and stomped out.
Ordinarily, I would agree. I’m not a spectator. But, this embodied some human drama. Ryan Lochte would take his big shot and I wanted to see if he made it. I think the drama in Olympic events is that you train hard for years for many events, and it comes down to just a minute or two at the highest level of competition. Certainly, they train harder and longer than many professional athletes.
And, there’s no test for a swimmer like the medley. You have to dedicate endless hours to strokes that aren’t your long suit.
The camera work was incredible, including the underwater shots. Predictably, the pre-race coverage focused on Michael Phelps and his butterfly stroke. In slow motion, you could see the power rings coming off his arm pull. And, his kick was like a freakin’ dolphin.
The people I swim with are divided on Phelps. He’s great, no question about it. But, he’s got gifts, including the size 14 feet. Like flippers. I lean toward someone less superhuman, like Ryan Lochte. He’s no runt, but you get the feeling he’s made a lot of what he has. And, his career overlaps with superstars Phelps and Aaron Peirsol (backstroke). In another era, he’d dominate. But, he’s always a fighter.
He would have to be tonight, swimming a grueling double. First, the 200m backstroke against Peirsol. Then, less than a half hour later, the IM. He swam what would be the third fastest time in history in the first event, but Peirsol pulled out a world record. Not a great prelude for Lochte in the IM.
The start finally came. The first lap was the butterfly. Phelps took the lead, as you would expect. Lochte would make up ground on the backstroke, also predictable. In the end, it would be a gut check.
Phelps was the first into the freestyle length, the final lap. But, Lochte wasn’t far behind. It looked like Phelps was running out of gas and Lochte was coming up strong, even after his previous race. Impressive. Could be game over.
But then, it happened. The type of thing that makes this worth watching. Phelps reached down somewhere deep inside and found some more grit. You could see it happen. He kicked it up a gear and beat out Lochte by less than a second.
I was pulling for Lochte, but this wasn’t a disappointment. You seldom get to see a truly supreme effort like that, much less two. It’s inspiring to see what humans are capable of when they hang it all out.
I turned to see David, the host of the Fourth of July party. “I’m trying to figure out the controls of your intergalactic television.”
“I mean, what are you doing in here? I’ve got 30 people out on the porch, about nine hundred bucks in food and a two million dollar view.”
“Then, you don’t need me. Is there some way I can find a channel on this without getting a PhD in electrical engineering?”
“Here, give me that. What channel do you want?” I told him. “What the hell is this?”
“Olympic trials for swimming. I just want to see the individual medley. It’s going to be a shootout.”
“Swimming? Swimming, for crissake? That’s like watching ice melt.” He pitched the control to me and stomped out.
Ordinarily, I would agree. I’m not a spectator. But, this embodied some human drama. Ryan Lochte would take his big shot and I wanted to see if he made it. I think the drama in Olympic events is that you train hard for years for many events, and it comes down to just a minute or two at the highest level of competition. Certainly, they train harder and longer than many professional athletes.
And, there’s no test for a swimmer like the medley. You have to dedicate endless hours to strokes that aren’t your long suit.
The camera work was incredible, including the underwater shots. Predictably, the pre-race coverage focused on Michael Phelps and his butterfly stroke. In slow motion, you could see the power rings coming off his arm pull. And, his kick was like a freakin’ dolphin.
The people I swim with are divided on Phelps. He’s great, no question about it. But, he’s got gifts, including the size 14 feet. Like flippers. I lean toward someone less superhuman, like Ryan Lochte. He’s no runt, but you get the feeling he’s made a lot of what he has. And, his career overlaps with superstars Phelps and Aaron Peirsol (backstroke). In another era, he’d dominate. But, he’s always a fighter.
He would have to be tonight, swimming a grueling double. First, the 200m backstroke against Peirsol. Then, less than a half hour later, the IM. He swam what would be the third fastest time in history in the first event, but Peirsol pulled out a world record. Not a great prelude for Lochte in the IM.
The start finally came. The first lap was the butterfly. Phelps took the lead, as you would expect. Lochte would make up ground on the backstroke, also predictable. In the end, it would be a gut check.
Phelps was the first into the freestyle length, the final lap. But, Lochte wasn’t far behind. It looked like Phelps was running out of gas and Lochte was coming up strong, even after his previous race. Impressive. Could be game over.
But then, it happened. The type of thing that makes this worth watching. Phelps reached down somewhere deep inside and found some more grit. You could see it happen. He kicked it up a gear and beat out Lochte by less than a second.
I was pulling for Lochte, but this wasn’t a disappointment. You seldom get to see a truly supreme effort like that, much less two. It’s inspiring to see what humans are capable of when they hang it all out.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
The Hiwassee
We’re going down to Tennessee to kayak the Hiwassee River this weekend. I’m already packed. I’ve been packed for two weeks. Can’t wait.
While it’s always been a blast for us, it represents more to me. I’ve always been a reader and writer, so there’s lessons and symbolism in everything.
About four years ago, I bought a whitewater kayak and began to dabble. It was a sit-on-top design. Not exactly hard core, but a first step. It helped dispel initial apprehensions and had me sticking my nose into the stuff. Such as the stuff was around here. I felt a need to grow.
A paddling group from another city posted a trip to the Hiwassee. I knew the trip leader and got the information. It sounded like a bit more of a leap than I wanted to make, but I pondered it.
I floated the idea to some people I paddled with. One bit. She was more advanced than I was, so it sounded great to her. I committed to go and the die was cast.
The camping site was at the outfitter. The leader was billeting in a cabin elsewhere. He told me he would have his family with him and his wife preferred the cabin. I should’ve paid more attention.
We checked in and were directed to the reserved site. There were numerous campsites crammed into the property. They were small. We pitched our tents and the others in the group began to arrive. I had been wondering where their spots were. Surprise. There was only one spot. We helped them wedge in. We were not only tent-to-tent with each other, but with our tripmates and those occupying adjoining sites.
So, who needs more space than your own tent? If you have a fraternity on one side, a scout troop on the other, and a gospel singing group across from you, you need more space. It was cacophonous. I began to write off sleep.
But, the rains came. That squelched the singers and the scouts, giving hope, but the frat boys were already too well lubricated. Sleep was fitful.
The next morning, we gathered for instructions with the trip leader. He gave us a rundown of the rapids and other features we would encounter, along with the appropriate cautions. My mouth was drying out. I think he was even giving my experienced cohort reason to pause. He urged us to wait for him to tackle the rough parts and follow his route. No problem.
So, we launched. The river was fairly flat for the first quarter mile and then dropped into a sweeping curve of a rapid. The leader shouted out reminders of technique and precautions. It was nothing real challenging, but I made a couple errors. What had caused them?
I was being tentative. To succeed, when you go, go hard.
The next rapid came up and he provided instructions, offering an alternative route around it. No, I came here to learn. Right down the gut it would be. And, hard.
No problem. By halfway through the trip, we were charging ahead as soon as he yelled out the instructions. The next day, most of his yelling was to rein us in. The first day, the objective had been to make it down the river. Now, we were testing it and ourselves.
You can almost always do more than you think you can. I knew that, but just wasn’t applying it here. Sometimes, you have to be reminded. That’s what the Hiwassee reminds me of.
In subsequent years, I would lead our group on the same trip (renting a large, secluded cabin for us). I had moved on to a “regular” whitewater kayak and to playing the holes and waves for all they were worth. But, the real enjoyment was watching beginners progress through those stages with each passing year.
The Hiwassee reminds me that growth is always possible. Can’t wait for the weekend.
While it’s always been a blast for us, it represents more to me. I’ve always been a reader and writer, so there’s lessons and symbolism in everything.
About four years ago, I bought a whitewater kayak and began to dabble. It was a sit-on-top design. Not exactly hard core, but a first step. It helped dispel initial apprehensions and had me sticking my nose into the stuff. Such as the stuff was around here. I felt a need to grow.
A paddling group from another city posted a trip to the Hiwassee. I knew the trip leader and got the information. It sounded like a bit more of a leap than I wanted to make, but I pondered it.
I floated the idea to some people I paddled with. One bit. She was more advanced than I was, so it sounded great to her. I committed to go and the die was cast.
The camping site was at the outfitter. The leader was billeting in a cabin elsewhere. He told me he would have his family with him and his wife preferred the cabin. I should’ve paid more attention.
We checked in and were directed to the reserved site. There were numerous campsites crammed into the property. They were small. We pitched our tents and the others in the group began to arrive. I had been wondering where their spots were. Surprise. There was only one spot. We helped them wedge in. We were not only tent-to-tent with each other, but with our tripmates and those occupying adjoining sites.
So, who needs more space than your own tent? If you have a fraternity on one side, a scout troop on the other, and a gospel singing group across from you, you need more space. It was cacophonous. I began to write off sleep.
But, the rains came. That squelched the singers and the scouts, giving hope, but the frat boys were already too well lubricated. Sleep was fitful.
The next morning, we gathered for instructions with the trip leader. He gave us a rundown of the rapids and other features we would encounter, along with the appropriate cautions. My mouth was drying out. I think he was even giving my experienced cohort reason to pause. He urged us to wait for him to tackle the rough parts and follow his route. No problem.
So, we launched. The river was fairly flat for the first quarter mile and then dropped into a sweeping curve of a rapid. The leader shouted out reminders of technique and precautions. It was nothing real challenging, but I made a couple errors. What had caused them?
I was being tentative. To succeed, when you go, go hard.
The next rapid came up and he provided instructions, offering an alternative route around it. No, I came here to learn. Right down the gut it would be. And, hard.
No problem. By halfway through the trip, we were charging ahead as soon as he yelled out the instructions. The next day, most of his yelling was to rein us in. The first day, the objective had been to make it down the river. Now, we were testing it and ourselves.
You can almost always do more than you think you can. I knew that, but just wasn’t applying it here. Sometimes, you have to be reminded. That’s what the Hiwassee reminds me of.
In subsequent years, I would lead our group on the same trip (renting a large, secluded cabin for us). I had moved on to a “regular” whitewater kayak and to playing the holes and waves for all they were worth. But, the real enjoyment was watching beginners progress through those stages with each passing year.
The Hiwassee reminds me that growth is always possible. Can’t wait for the weekend.
At last, a fortune cookie to believe in
I seldom touch a fortune cookie. The messages are banal and the vessels are more fit for packing material than consumption.
But, today's informal meeting drove me to seek diversion. The convener had run out of things to say at 12:04, but was still talking at 12:54. The delivery of checks and cookies didn't affect her momentum, much less our shuffling of feet and consulting of timepieces. Maybe cracking open a cookie would convey the message.
The slip inside read, "You will become hungry in the near future. Order take-out."
But, today's informal meeting drove me to seek diversion. The convener had run out of things to say at 12:04, but was still talking at 12:54. The delivery of checks and cookies didn't affect her momentum, much less our shuffling of feet and consulting of timepieces. Maybe cracking open a cookie would convey the message.
The slip inside read, "You will become hungry in the near future. Order take-out."
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Jersey Boys
It’s nice to be “the date” once in a while. I thought this was supposed to really take off with women’s lib, but that doctrine just never picked up a lot of momentum.
Anyway, last night it was dinner at Jeff Ruby’s Steakhouse and over to the Aronoff for the performance of “Jersey Boys.” I’m sure she selected Ruby’s for me because the man makes a mean cow. She probably overlooked the apropos connection. Jeff is a Jersey boy.
JB is a musical production about the life and times of the Four Seasons. Rick Elick wrote the book. It could’ve been a template for hundreds of street lamp, alley and subway groups that sprung up in Jersey, Philly and Brooklyn at the time. Like the movie, “Eddie and the Cruisers.” I think anyone who was in one of them feels more than one little tug at various turns in the stories. Who didn’t fight over play lists or get screwed by club owners?
Musicals can be just a little swishy. Appropriate for most of their subjects, but a band from Jersey? Well, the Four Seasons were a little soft, as rock goes, so it wasn’t too bad.
They slipped in some good detail, like a young Joe Pesci. He was a hanger-on back then. In fact, I believe his first screen appearance was in the movie “Hey, Let’s Twist.” Joe was an uncredited extra in the movie that made Joey Dee and the Starliters (Jersey boys), as well as the Peppermint Lounge. Jumping into the musical limelight with a JB is the Jersey version of an audition (see: Courtney Cox).
The musical score for JB kind of writes itself. I mean, it’s the story of the Four Seasons, right? The writers didn’t go the easy route and laced it with some period stuff. There’s an Angels number (“My Boyfriend’s Back”) that’s almost a footnote to the story, but is one of the gems. If the Angels had the benefit of modern choreography, they might still be around. These performers killed.
For some of the numbers, they’d drop screens of actual performances over the stage. So, when they were appearing on “The Ed Sullivan Show,” they were doing the numbers on stage, but you saw the actual footage overhead. Very nice touch.
Always a danger in trying to portray icons and sing their numbers. More so with the unique Frankie Valli falsetto. But, it was a decent shot. Better than some of the stage Jersey accents.
But, does the show hold together? And how! It captured the ambiance of the times and swept up the audience into dancing and clapping along.
True art evokes emotion. This is true art.
Anyway, last night it was dinner at Jeff Ruby’s Steakhouse and over to the Aronoff for the performance of “Jersey Boys.” I’m sure she selected Ruby’s for me because the man makes a mean cow. She probably overlooked the apropos connection. Jeff is a Jersey boy.
JB is a musical production about the life and times of the Four Seasons. Rick Elick wrote the book. It could’ve been a template for hundreds of street lamp, alley and subway groups that sprung up in Jersey, Philly and Brooklyn at the time. Like the movie, “Eddie and the Cruisers.” I think anyone who was in one of them feels more than one little tug at various turns in the stories. Who didn’t fight over play lists or get screwed by club owners?
Musicals can be just a little swishy. Appropriate for most of their subjects, but a band from Jersey? Well, the Four Seasons were a little soft, as rock goes, so it wasn’t too bad.
They slipped in some good detail, like a young Joe Pesci. He was a hanger-on back then. In fact, I believe his first screen appearance was in the movie “Hey, Let’s Twist.” Joe was an uncredited extra in the movie that made Joey Dee and the Starliters (Jersey boys), as well as the Peppermint Lounge. Jumping into the musical limelight with a JB is the Jersey version of an audition (see: Courtney Cox).
The musical score for JB kind of writes itself. I mean, it’s the story of the Four Seasons, right? The writers didn’t go the easy route and laced it with some period stuff. There’s an Angels number (“My Boyfriend’s Back”) that’s almost a footnote to the story, but is one of the gems. If the Angels had the benefit of modern choreography, they might still be around. These performers killed.
For some of the numbers, they’d drop screens of actual performances over the stage. So, when they were appearing on “The Ed Sullivan Show,” they were doing the numbers on stage, but you saw the actual footage overhead. Very nice touch.
Always a danger in trying to portray icons and sing their numbers. More so with the unique Frankie Valli falsetto. But, it was a decent shot. Better than some of the stage Jersey accents.
But, does the show hold together? And how! It captured the ambiance of the times and swept up the audience into dancing and clapping along.
True art evokes emotion. This is true art.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Another day the music died
I’m driving down I-75 between appointments and my cell phone buzzes. I glance at the screen to see if it’s a call I have to take. It is. I turn down the radio and take the call.
When I’m driving and have to use the phone, I try to go into a zone of focus on the road and keep that a priority. I’d rather miss something in the call than a lane changer in front of me.
It’s a listening call. A lawyer is reading off a skein of proposed changes to a complex contract. Like I need a challenge to my concentration.
Somewhere in the ninth paragraph, I become aware that the fingers of my right hand are twitching. No, it’s more of a rhythm. No, it’s a strumming. Some long dormant program is driving it. I know what it is and it doesn’t feel like a random recollection. Something triggered it and there’s a potent sentiment attached. “I’ll call you back in an hour,” I interject and hang up. The meaning is floating just below my conscious thoughts.
I turn the radio back up. Ellas McDaniel died.
The song was “Who do you love?” It was a number I sang lead on with the band I had in high school. It absolutely killed. You’ve heard it covered by many much more renown than our little alley band. Morrison does one of the best versions in a live recording on a Doors album.
I usually played autoharp when I sang lead. Not exactly. Our technogeek rigged one with a contact mike and reverb unit to provide that heavy bass guitar twang. We were low budget.
Not a lot of chord changes in many McDaniel numbers. He often got it done with one chord and a lot of rhythm. It got the job done. Oh man, did it get it done. Ask The Who, Yardbirds, Beatles, Animals, Quicksilver Messenger Service, The Clash, Creedence, Thorogood, Petty, Clapton and myriad of others who covered him.
We used to cut school and hop a train to New York to catch hot acts in Greenwich Village. The Village Gate at Bleecker and Thompson was where you could always pick up some hot licks to play at the dance that weekend. McDaniel had some of the hottest. He set the place on fire and rocked it to the ground. Without the benefit of special effects, I might add.
If you scan down his discography, you’ll recognize a whole lot of his work. One of the truly great. A piece of the music died with Ellas McDaniel today, a very big piece.
You knew him as Bo Diddley.
When I’m driving and have to use the phone, I try to go into a zone of focus on the road and keep that a priority. I’d rather miss something in the call than a lane changer in front of me.
It’s a listening call. A lawyer is reading off a skein of proposed changes to a complex contract. Like I need a challenge to my concentration.
Somewhere in the ninth paragraph, I become aware that the fingers of my right hand are twitching. No, it’s more of a rhythm. No, it’s a strumming. Some long dormant program is driving it. I know what it is and it doesn’t feel like a random recollection. Something triggered it and there’s a potent sentiment attached. “I’ll call you back in an hour,” I interject and hang up. The meaning is floating just below my conscious thoughts.
I turn the radio back up. Ellas McDaniel died.
The song was “Who do you love?” It was a number I sang lead on with the band I had in high school. It absolutely killed. You’ve heard it covered by many much more renown than our little alley band. Morrison does one of the best versions in a live recording on a Doors album.
I usually played autoharp when I sang lead. Not exactly. Our technogeek rigged one with a contact mike and reverb unit to provide that heavy bass guitar twang. We were low budget.
Not a lot of chord changes in many McDaniel numbers. He often got it done with one chord and a lot of rhythm. It got the job done. Oh man, did it get it done. Ask The Who, Yardbirds, Beatles, Animals, Quicksilver Messenger Service, The Clash, Creedence, Thorogood, Petty, Clapton and myriad of others who covered him.
We used to cut school and hop a train to New York to catch hot acts in Greenwich Village. The Village Gate at Bleecker and Thompson was where you could always pick up some hot licks to play at the dance that weekend. McDaniel had some of the hottest. He set the place on fire and rocked it to the ground. Without the benefit of special effects, I might add.
If you scan down his discography, you’ll recognize a whole lot of his work. One of the truly great. A piece of the music died with Ellas McDaniel today, a very big piece.
You knew him as Bo Diddley.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Is it wrong to be Wright?
Last week, I took a trip to western Pennsylvania to enjoy the many delights of the Laurel Highlands. This was to include Fallingwater, the famous Frank Lloyd Wright creation. It’s worth seeing, but strikes me more as a lesson in managing specialized talent, or ego, than the epitome of residential design.
For context, my base of operations was Nemacolin. This resort provided contrast to Wright’s organic architecture. Joe Brady is more of the school, “whatever the best costs, we can spend more.” If you don’t find yourself on the short list to weekend at Buckingham Palace, Nemacolin is a good way to salve your wounds. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t lavish naked opulence upon myself, but the occasion merited it.
Fallingwater is right up the road from Brady’s homage to excess. It’s a windy, mountain road, which puts you in the proper frame of mind. From the visitors center, you follow a wooded path to Fallingwater, which you catch sight of from the opposite bank of Bear Run.
The view bodes well. The horizontal layers fairly cascade down the side of the gorge. That was almost the case, as I was to learn.
Our group met the guide on the foot bridge over Bear Run. She launched into a history of the house, addressing the obvious question. If you had purchased property with a waterfall, as Edgar Kaufmann had, why not build a house just downstream of it, instead of hovering over, so you’d have a great view? That was Kaufmann’s intent, but Wright talked him into the cantilevered approach on top of the falls, which precludes a dramatic view.
To “enjoy” the falls, a platform was suspended from underneath the lowest deck. I don’t know if I’d be less inclined to dip into frigid mountain water in a permanently shaded area or plunge into moving water just above a falls.
The guide transitioned into the rules and regs. The doorways were intentionally designed to be tight, so take care that your buckles, buttons, etc. didn’t scratch the wood. Also, Wright designed most of the furniture, which was largely veneer over plywood and somewhat fragile. Do not touch anything, much less sit or lean on it. A member of the group wondered aloud why you would go to this extent and then elect plywood furnishings. I was struggling to fit plywood into the organic scheme of things.
The guide had not exaggerated about the diminutive doorways. She went on to explain that Wright wanted you to feel like you were exploding into a room. That might be novel up to the point where you wanted to change some furniture around or just walk through a doorway without carefully lining up your trajectory.
To maintain the part-of-nature ambiance, the interior is stone and wood. Also, limited by a 6’ ceiling with elevated, slot-like windows in areas. Natural feel, if you’re a bat. Welcome to the bunker. The furniture was built low, because Wright wanted you to see nothing but trees if you looked out the high windows. Or, if you were standing, the design forced you to look outside. If I want to look outside, I’ll look outside. How about some light, in case I’m inside and want to look inside?
Yes, I know Wright’s hailed as one of the greatest architects of all time, but if I’m cutting the check, I draw the line where art butts heads with lifestyle. In this vein, Kaufmann wanted four garages. Wright pooh-poohed that, saying that doors and walls were unnecessary because the cars were going nowhere without drivers. He gave Kaufmann open carports instead. Nothing says “organic” like an exposed brace of Buicks.
All of this is a matter of the artistic eye. What isn’t is that the house cost $115,000 to build, and a hundred times that to prevent it from breaking up and sliding into the creek. It started to list almost before it was done.
It’s not like the flaws in design weren’t obvious. Kaufmann’s engineers warned him that it was structurally unsound. Experienced construction workers refused to knock out temporary wooden supports when some sections were completed. Instead, they winched them out from a safe position off to the side. Maybe it’s just me, but if I’m having a house built and the people putting it together refuse to stand under the roof, I’m going to have some serious reservations.
The engineering flaws manifested themselves as cracks and fissures. These were portals for snakes and rodents, as well as the water running down the walls of the gorge. Nothing sets off a vacation retreat like a field mouse splashing through a puddle in the living room.
It does have its touches, especially incorporating the existing rock structure. And, I would allow that it is a work of art. But, my idea of architectural genius is something that requires less than ten million bucks to prevent it from collapsing under its own weight.
A few miles down the road is Kentuck Knob, another Wright creation. It is a lot more livable. My opinion is that the livability is a credit to I. N. Hagan (the original owner) digging his heels in when it came to making some design calls.
Wright set out to design one of his Usonian creations and the original drawings called for a 1,200 s.f. structure. Usonian was Wright’s movement to design housing that almost anyone could afford.
That might be fine if you’re wedging a few hundred prefabs into a Levittown plat. But, if I’m laying out the kind of jack it takes to secure one of the prime mountaintops in the range, I might want to splurge a wee bit. The Hagans appear to have agreed with me and coerced Frank into doubling the space.
They didn’t hold firm enough, however. The knob summit overlooks the spectacular panorama of the Youghiogheny River Gorge. However, Wright said that you don’t build houses on a mountaintop because it ruins the mountaintop. You build in its side.
Excuse me, Frankie, but I just coughed up a mountain of currency for this mountaintop with the whole point of the exercise to have a mountaintop view. I did not pay the premium to look at the unspoiled knob. I paid it for the view from the knob, so put it up there. Thank you very much.
Mrs. Hagan did take on Wright in at least one area, the kitchen. Many of his kitchens seem to be an afterthought, if not something designed for a lowly retainer. You may not be far off course to link this to Wright’s numerous wives and paramours. While Kentuck Knob’s kitchen is somewhat spare in area, it resembles a World’ Fair exhibit in advanced gadgetry of the time. And, everything is still functional, attesting to the quality.
And, the present owner of Kentuck Knob still uses the home on occasion, especially for guests. This speaks to the more pragmatic nature of this creation.
Fallingwater is a sight to see if you’re a fan of art. Or, Howard Roark.
For context, my base of operations was Nemacolin. This resort provided contrast to Wright’s organic architecture. Joe Brady is more of the school, “whatever the best costs, we can spend more.” If you don’t find yourself on the short list to weekend at Buckingham Palace, Nemacolin is a good way to salve your wounds. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t lavish naked opulence upon myself, but the occasion merited it.
Fallingwater is right up the road from Brady’s homage to excess. It’s a windy, mountain road, which puts you in the proper frame of mind. From the visitors center, you follow a wooded path to Fallingwater, which you catch sight of from the opposite bank of Bear Run.
The view bodes well. The horizontal layers fairly cascade down the side of the gorge. That was almost the case, as I was to learn.
Our group met the guide on the foot bridge over Bear Run. She launched into a history of the house, addressing the obvious question. If you had purchased property with a waterfall, as Edgar Kaufmann had, why not build a house just downstream of it, instead of hovering over, so you’d have a great view? That was Kaufmann’s intent, but Wright talked him into the cantilevered approach on top of the falls, which precludes a dramatic view.
To “enjoy” the falls, a platform was suspended from underneath the lowest deck. I don’t know if I’d be less inclined to dip into frigid mountain water in a permanently shaded area or plunge into moving water just above a falls.
The guide transitioned into the rules and regs. The doorways were intentionally designed to be tight, so take care that your buckles, buttons, etc. didn’t scratch the wood. Also, Wright designed most of the furniture, which was largely veneer over plywood and somewhat fragile. Do not touch anything, much less sit or lean on it. A member of the group wondered aloud why you would go to this extent and then elect plywood furnishings. I was struggling to fit plywood into the organic scheme of things.
The guide had not exaggerated about the diminutive doorways. She went on to explain that Wright wanted you to feel like you were exploding into a room. That might be novel up to the point where you wanted to change some furniture around or just walk through a doorway without carefully lining up your trajectory.
To maintain the part-of-nature ambiance, the interior is stone and wood. Also, limited by a 6’ ceiling with elevated, slot-like windows in areas. Natural feel, if you’re a bat. Welcome to the bunker. The furniture was built low, because Wright wanted you to see nothing but trees if you looked out the high windows. Or, if you were standing, the design forced you to look outside. If I want to look outside, I’ll look outside. How about some light, in case I’m inside and want to look inside?
Yes, I know Wright’s hailed as one of the greatest architects of all time, but if I’m cutting the check, I draw the line where art butts heads with lifestyle. In this vein, Kaufmann wanted four garages. Wright pooh-poohed that, saying that doors and walls were unnecessary because the cars were going nowhere without drivers. He gave Kaufmann open carports instead. Nothing says “organic” like an exposed brace of Buicks.
All of this is a matter of the artistic eye. What isn’t is that the house cost $115,000 to build, and a hundred times that to prevent it from breaking up and sliding into the creek. It started to list almost before it was done.
It’s not like the flaws in design weren’t obvious. Kaufmann’s engineers warned him that it was structurally unsound. Experienced construction workers refused to knock out temporary wooden supports when some sections were completed. Instead, they winched them out from a safe position off to the side. Maybe it’s just me, but if I’m having a house built and the people putting it together refuse to stand under the roof, I’m going to have some serious reservations.
The engineering flaws manifested themselves as cracks and fissures. These were portals for snakes and rodents, as well as the water running down the walls of the gorge. Nothing sets off a vacation retreat like a field mouse splashing through a puddle in the living room.
It does have its touches, especially incorporating the existing rock structure. And, I would allow that it is a work of art. But, my idea of architectural genius is something that requires less than ten million bucks to prevent it from collapsing under its own weight.
A few miles down the road is Kentuck Knob, another Wright creation. It is a lot more livable. My opinion is that the livability is a credit to I. N. Hagan (the original owner) digging his heels in when it came to making some design calls.
Wright set out to design one of his Usonian creations and the original drawings called for a 1,200 s.f. structure. Usonian was Wright’s movement to design housing that almost anyone could afford.
That might be fine if you’re wedging a few hundred prefabs into a Levittown plat. But, if I’m laying out the kind of jack it takes to secure one of the prime mountaintops in the range, I might want to splurge a wee bit. The Hagans appear to have agreed with me and coerced Frank into doubling the space.
They didn’t hold firm enough, however. The knob summit overlooks the spectacular panorama of the Youghiogheny River Gorge. However, Wright said that you don’t build houses on a mountaintop because it ruins the mountaintop. You build in its side.
Excuse me, Frankie, but I just coughed up a mountain of currency for this mountaintop with the whole point of the exercise to have a mountaintop view. I did not pay the premium to look at the unspoiled knob. I paid it for the view from the knob, so put it up there. Thank you very much.
Mrs. Hagan did take on Wright in at least one area, the kitchen. Many of his kitchens seem to be an afterthought, if not something designed for a lowly retainer. You may not be far off course to link this to Wright’s numerous wives and paramours. While Kentuck Knob’s kitchen is somewhat spare in area, it resembles a World’ Fair exhibit in advanced gadgetry of the time. And, everything is still functional, attesting to the quality.
And, the present owner of Kentuck Knob still uses the home on occasion, especially for guests. This speaks to the more pragmatic nature of this creation.
Fallingwater is a sight to see if you’re a fan of art. Or, Howard Roark.
Monday, May 26, 2008
More displacement writing
Still chaining myself to the keyboard. See prior blog.
I can be a bit of a Luddite in some respects. Okay, a lot of respects. I still carry a Daytimer (bought in 1984) instead of a PDA. My favorite touring paddle (kayak) is wooden. And “American Pie” had it right about the day the music died.
But, photography is one area where I tip my fedora to new technology. Sure, it’s impossible to beat the subtleties of black & white print making. But digital is so much easier (and cheaper).
In days of yore, I would pack four or five rolls of film and use them somewhat sparingly. After the trip, it would take me a day or two to get them to a processor, and another couple to pick them up (forget about low quality one-hour services). I’d have maybe 100-150 prints and/or slides, and be pressed to remember details about 20% of them.
If they were slides, they’d be loaded into a magazine and viewed maybe twice before they were shelved. Prints went into albums and were stored in some remote corner of the basement. Out of sight, out of mind.
By contrast, I’ll probably shoot over 300 pics in the next three or four days. There’s no cost for being thorough. The day I get back, I can select and upload them to my photo site before I forget the significance of anything. At that point, they’re only a mouse click away for me and any of my friends or relatives. I can go back and enjoy the moment again anytime I want.
I’ll stick with my cellulose calendar and paddle, but I’ll take all the digital visuals available.
I can be a bit of a Luddite in some respects. Okay, a lot of respects. I still carry a Daytimer (bought in 1984) instead of a PDA. My favorite touring paddle (kayak) is wooden. And “American Pie” had it right about the day the music died.
But, photography is one area where I tip my fedora to new technology. Sure, it’s impossible to beat the subtleties of black & white print making. But digital is so much easier (and cheaper).
In days of yore, I would pack four or five rolls of film and use them somewhat sparingly. After the trip, it would take me a day or two to get them to a processor, and another couple to pick them up (forget about low quality one-hour services). I’d have maybe 100-150 prints and/or slides, and be pressed to remember details about 20% of them.
If they were slides, they’d be loaded into a magazine and viewed maybe twice before they were shelved. Prints went into albums and were stored in some remote corner of the basement. Out of sight, out of mind.
By contrast, I’ll probably shoot over 300 pics in the next three or four days. There’s no cost for being thorough. The day I get back, I can select and upload them to my photo site before I forget the significance of anything. At that point, they’re only a mouse click away for me and any of my friends or relatives. I can go back and enjoy the moment again anytime I want.
I’ll stick with my cellulose calendar and paddle, but I’ll take all the digital visuals available.
The power of semantics
I blame the banking industry. During my impressionable years, they inundated me with the concept of Christmas and college accounts, along with other earmarked funds. Now, I’m writing this as displacement activity, to prevent myself from transferring my luggage from my car to the truck. I might’ve lost some of you, there.
Tongue-in-cheek, anyway. I take responsibility for my own actions, so the banks are off the hook. The internal conflict is that I’m leaving tomorrow for western Pennsylvania for a mini-vacation. There are some nice streams to paddle there, so I had considered taking a kayak. If I take a kayak, I’ll drive my truck.
There are also some very nice outfitters (paddling retailers) over there. If I take the truck, my kayak might multiply. I could come back with more than I went with. This is due, in part, to my kayak account.
Years ago, I started a consulting firm, specializing in strategic planning and marketing services. It was a cash cow from the start, but something stuck in my craw. The businesses that booked us were mostly encountering difficulties. No big surprise there, but I hadn’t thought that through in advance. They were malfunctioning because they were sick, from the standpoint of organization dynamics. It was seldom a case of a strategic issue. The flawed strategy was the symptom, not the underlying malady.
We could do the analysis and walk them through new strategies and procedures. But they would revert to the unproductive, because that’s what sick organizations do. The same with mentally ill people, except you can prescribe some Epival, Lexapro or other appropriate drug and attain some behavior and thought modification. There isn’t an organization pill and it’s all but impossible to untwist the aberrant thinking.
It wasn’t enough to me to run them through a program, cash the checks and leave them to their own devices. I wanted to produce results. That was the paycheck, as far as I was concerned. So, I modified my business plan.
We wouldn’t tell you how to get better results. We would get them for you. Within six months, your bottom line would increase by at least five times our fee. Guaranteed, or you owed us nothing. You can’t lose.
At first blush, that might seem like an offer you can’t refuse. But, I anticipated that it would reduce our bookings, and it did. The inherent condition to the agreement is that all control of the pertinent operations was turned over to us. It’s a given and only logical. If they could do it better, they would be, wouldn’t they?
Logic and veracity are not the friends of the dysfunctional. If the decision makers hired consultants, they could delude themselves that it was primarily the employees who were responsible for weak results. But, if the reins were taken from them for a turnaround, there was no way to rationalize away where the responsibility resided.
Were there business owners and executives who cared more about this than generating more profits? As a matter of fact, a lot of them. We booked less business than we could’ve otherwise, but felt better about what we were doing.
The relevance is that I get approached about doing consulting jobs, now. I can take a few days off work, analyze the situation, whip out an action plan and cut an invoice. But, I don’t have time to do it for them. I knew that going in and resolved that I can do a great job on the analysis and strategy, but it’s entirely on them to implement it or not. I don’t get the payoff of seeing the results, but that’s not the business I'm in this time around. It’s just “kayak money” to me.
Which brings us full circle. If I walk into a large outfitter in the next few days with a pocketful of kayak money (more like a bathtub full), I could easily walk out with a truck full of boats. Don’t tell me I'm wrong. I’ve seen me do it.
It’s the power of the semantics. I made it my kayak account and the die was cast. Unless I exercise control. I could go outside and move my stuff over to the truck. Or, I can coherently decide that the kayak money could just as easily be investing money, just by the power of changing a word in a label. Or, I can sit here and think of something else to keystroke so I don’t have time to change my mind.
Anyone want to bet? I can always use more kayak money.
Tongue-in-cheek, anyway. I take responsibility for my own actions, so the banks are off the hook. The internal conflict is that I’m leaving tomorrow for western Pennsylvania for a mini-vacation. There are some nice streams to paddle there, so I had considered taking a kayak. If I take a kayak, I’ll drive my truck.
There are also some very nice outfitters (paddling retailers) over there. If I take the truck, my kayak might multiply. I could come back with more than I went with. This is due, in part, to my kayak account.
Years ago, I started a consulting firm, specializing in strategic planning and marketing services. It was a cash cow from the start, but something stuck in my craw. The businesses that booked us were mostly encountering difficulties. No big surprise there, but I hadn’t thought that through in advance. They were malfunctioning because they were sick, from the standpoint of organization dynamics. It was seldom a case of a strategic issue. The flawed strategy was the symptom, not the underlying malady.
We could do the analysis and walk them through new strategies and procedures. But they would revert to the unproductive, because that’s what sick organizations do. The same with mentally ill people, except you can prescribe some Epival, Lexapro or other appropriate drug and attain some behavior and thought modification. There isn’t an organization pill and it’s all but impossible to untwist the aberrant thinking.
It wasn’t enough to me to run them through a program, cash the checks and leave them to their own devices. I wanted to produce results. That was the paycheck, as far as I was concerned. So, I modified my business plan.
We wouldn’t tell you how to get better results. We would get them for you. Within six months, your bottom line would increase by at least five times our fee. Guaranteed, or you owed us nothing. You can’t lose.
At first blush, that might seem like an offer you can’t refuse. But, I anticipated that it would reduce our bookings, and it did. The inherent condition to the agreement is that all control of the pertinent operations was turned over to us. It’s a given and only logical. If they could do it better, they would be, wouldn’t they?
Logic and veracity are not the friends of the dysfunctional. If the decision makers hired consultants, they could delude themselves that it was primarily the employees who were responsible for weak results. But, if the reins were taken from them for a turnaround, there was no way to rationalize away where the responsibility resided.
Were there business owners and executives who cared more about this than generating more profits? As a matter of fact, a lot of them. We booked less business than we could’ve otherwise, but felt better about what we were doing.
The relevance is that I get approached about doing consulting jobs, now. I can take a few days off work, analyze the situation, whip out an action plan and cut an invoice. But, I don’t have time to do it for them. I knew that going in and resolved that I can do a great job on the analysis and strategy, but it’s entirely on them to implement it or not. I don’t get the payoff of seeing the results, but that’s not the business I'm in this time around. It’s just “kayak money” to me.
Which brings us full circle. If I walk into a large outfitter in the next few days with a pocketful of kayak money (more like a bathtub full), I could easily walk out with a truck full of boats. Don’t tell me I'm wrong. I’ve seen me do it.
It’s the power of the semantics. I made it my kayak account and the die was cast. Unless I exercise control. I could go outside and move my stuff over to the truck. Or, I can coherently decide that the kayak money could just as easily be investing money, just by the power of changing a word in a label. Or, I can sit here and think of something else to keystroke so I don’t have time to change my mind.
Anyone want to bet? I can always use more kayak money.
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