Are you a professional sweater?

Tis the season for re-gifting. Another wonderful contribution to our lexicon, courtesy of the writers of “Seinfeld.” The giftors, in this case, have been open about it. I have no problem, either way. A freebie is a freebie.

I am fortunate enough to know a number of people who work for or have retired from Procter & Gamble. They receive a gift basket of the company’s products this time of the year from P&G. What they care to share, I get.

This year, the passalongs ran heavily to deodorant sticks. Maybe it’s because the baskets were heavily laden with them. Or, because I’ve been working out more. I don’t care. The price is right.

A stick lasts me forever since I shower daily and don’t use that much chemical backup to deal with secretions. So, I haven’t been shopping for the product much or noticing the promotions. Now, I’m looking at the labels and recalling a scene from a book about the advertising business I read many years ago. I could be mistaken, but I think it was in “From those wonderful folks who gave you Pearl Harbor: Front line dispatches from the advertising wars.”

It takes place in a board room. A large pad of paper is supported by an easel at the front of the room (this predates dry boards and computer presentations by decades). On the facing sheet is the outline of the human form.

The executive at the head of the table addresses the group seated around the oval slab of walnut in the clipped cadence of a military strategist. “Men, we’ve convinced people that their breath stinks and sold them a product to combat it.” He circles the mouth area with a marker. “We made them self-conscious about their feet and gave them powder.” He applies the ink around the feet. “And then, we scared the crap out of them about their underarms.” He emphatically circles the armpits.

“My question to you is where can we attack next?”

There’s a buzzing in the room as speculation is bandied back and forth. One man rises and the room falls silent. He raises a finger in a eureka gesture and states, “The crotch.”

The hush continues while anxious faces turn to the leader for his reaction. His face is frozen for a moment before splitting into a smile. “Brilliant! Inside of six months, no one will dare walk out the front door, much less board an elevator, without dousing their genitals with whatever slop we come up with.”

Product tests were set up in the U.S. and Europe. The feminine products scored big here, but the masculine applications bombed. In Europe, the reverse was true. Read into that as you will.

It was supposed to be an accurate account of an actual meeting. I believed it. At the time, I was staring at people willing to pay a hefty premium for polo shirts just because an alligator was sewn on the breast, so why should this seem questionable?

Back in the present, I’m reading the labels on the deodorant sticks. One is designated clinical strength while the other is pro strength. Pro what? Are there professional sweaters?

For that matter, what’s with the clinical? Are there treatment centers dedicated to people who have body odor? Is that covered in the new health plan?

And, is anything “regular” strength anymore? Surely, we’re not all in the extreme end of the curve.

We are family

The coincidences of life sometimes amaze me. Today was a bit trying at work as the reality of our upcoming merger and my departure are affecting the employees and me.

I have no complaints as it is by my own hand. My strategic analysis revealed that the trend of shrinking funding to social services would continue and organizations like ours would no longer be able to serve our constituency without greater critical mass. We’re located in a depressed area outside of the political power sphere and usually get the dirty end of the stick.

The primary concern is the needy we serve, not the organization or my job. So, to ensure continued service, I initiated merger talks with a larger entity. A goal in such an alliance is to achieve economies of scale by eliminating duplicate positions. I’m a duplicate, but I knew that before I set the wheels in motion.

Such things are never easy on companies, but our culture makes it harder. We are family. Sometimes, a dysfunctional family, but what family isn’t?

The coincidence? I didn’t realize that it was almost exactly 20 years ago, someone else left the family. That family was a company (newspaper) I owned at that time. I came to recognize that with a message that arrived tonight on my social networking site. It asked if I was the same Henry Dorfman who wrote a column about Dan when he died.

Wow. Talk about a blast from the past.

I replied to Dave and we exchanged some more messages about Dan, who had worked for me. I like to think all the employees were special, and I’m still in touch with a number of them. But Dan was a little extra special.

And, not just to me. Dave told me about a tribute web site his friends had set up for Dan and I was touched that they had included my column (http://www.jimnasium.s5.com/kessler.html).

As difficult as it is for me to leave my current family, I am reminded that there are worse separations. Perspective.

Chutzpah redefined

In his recent lawsuit against his nephews, Larry Flynt charges that their use of his (their) name in their new venture tarnishes his image.

I spoke too soon

I didn’t even anticipate this is my recent blog about specialization. The maker of Peeps (the molded marshmallow bunnies and chicks that resemble and are almost as appetizing as Styrofoam packing peanuts) announced the opening of the first store devoted to them. I’m not kidding. It was reported by the Associated Press so there’s a good chance it’s somewhat accurate.

Company spokesperson Kathy Bassininski is quoted as explaining, “Our fans have been asking for years, what about a store?” I think we can all identify with that. How many times have you stood at the Easter endcap display in Walgreen’s and thought to yourself, “Oh no, an entire section is not enough to meet my Peeps requirements. It simply will not do. I need a complete store with at least 850 Peeps products.”

That line includes Peeps apparel, mouse pads and a whole slew of other items. They say that most of the products are of the inedible variety. I wouldn’t have argued with “all” in that sentence.

Where is the lucky mall located? If you were introducing a sun protection store, you might shop space in Phoenix. Natural foods might take you to the shadow of the Golden Gate. But, if it makes no sense and is a total waste of money, your target market is metro Washington DC.

There’s got to be stimulus money behind this, if not the ADA lobby.

Holiday party season

They’re starting to build into a pile on my desk. Seasonal party invitations. Too much of a good thing isn’t good. I have more latitude in my choices this year since I’ll be retiring in a few weeks, at least from what I do now. So, I can pitch the less enjoyable professional events.

The givens are the family and relationship tied festivities, which I enjoy anyway. There’s the office party, which is usually fine, but takes on more weight since it’ll be my last.

That leaves the professions, organizations, acquaintances and friends categories. There were business, networking, and other types of considerations to factor into the triage in the past. But, I’m pretty much down to just deciding if it’ll be a good time.

Doesn’t take a lot to fire up a blast. A few days ago, it was a dozen fellow kayakers sitting around a table at a bar & grill, reliving the prior good times. The laughter was non-stop for hours. But, the prior relationships aren’t required, as some of the people were relative newcomers to the fold.

That would also go for Thanksgiving. A holiday dinner, yes. But at Dave’s, it’s more like a big party.

Dave is related to my friend, which is how I got invited. However, it wasn’t limited to family, or even people who knew each other.

Dave has a large country home and invites people from various branches of his life, past and present. So, one minute you could be talking with someone he was in marching band with back in college and the next, one who shared in the Antarctic tour. It wasn’t like they were all fascinating, but they were all people you’d want to spend an evening with. I suspect Dave carefully selects the mix.

But, it isn’t as simple as the cast. You hear people say they don’t like New Years parties because people are trying too hard to have a good time. That may depend how it’s set up. I prefer a lower key format.

At the other end of that spectrum would be The World’s Largest Office Party. Or, so it was promoted (and may still be, for all I know). An annual fundraiser held in the ballroom of a downtown hotel. A good cause, but more like the world’ largest meat market. Thousands of dateless overindulging at the heartbreak hotel.

I did have a role in this and confess to enjoying it immensely. Celebrity bartenders were teamed at a dozen or so stations and rotated every couple hours. Drink tickets were sold at other tables, and the competition among the celebrities was how many of those tickets (plus tips) could you attract. The end product was to drive overall spending.

Put me behind a table of open bottles and some Bengal cheerleaders and I don’t even mind the drunks who get in my face and demand “Who the ____ are you?” Or, sometimes, when you met your co-celebrity, you’d hear that. Did I mention they were stretching the celebrity definition a bit?

When the event was in its nascency, the organizers had a hard time attracting big names to serve as the bartenders. I had a TV show and newspaper column of targeted (read “minute”) audience. It sounded like a worthwhile endeavor, so I agreed to participate.

As the event skyrocketed in popularity, many of the true celebrities wanted in. Far more than there were spots for. To the credit of the organizers, they remembered those who helped in the beginning and we were accorded first refusal on the coveted spots.

The best time I had doing it was when I was matched up with some college football coaches. They got heavily into war stories and inside information, and maybe a little too much into the bar inventory. A lot of outgoing personalities in the group and we did better in the ticket competition than one might expect.

The opposite of that was when I was paired with Dr. Henry Heimlich, originator of the Heimlich Maneuver (that’s for clearing an air passage, not a dating technique). The middle-aged newspaper guy and elderly doctor. Can you imagine the line of revelers in front of our bar? We were limited to the no-waiting market.

I was content to pass the time people-watching and doing quality control on our inventory, but the lack of attention did not seem to sit well with the good doctor. So, I suggested a marketing strategy. We would offer a Heimlich from Heimlich. That is, get your drink here and you’ll get the maneuver from the inventor and have that to brag about that. Would’ve probably been even better in an age of cell phone cameras.

The concept was not well-received by Dr. Heimlich. “Do you understand who I am?” he thundered. Duh, yeah. It’s not like it would have drawn well if he was, say, Jack Kevorkian.

Not my best holiday party. But, I’m not just trying to avoid the clunkers, now.

There is one other variable. I’m looking at a dozen invitations, with more coming in, applying to the next four weeks or so. Let’s project that will double. Being realistic, I’m working with about a half-dozen/month body. No, make that less.

Let the sorting begin.

Key statistic

A former classmate emailed me some links on Facebook that he thought were interesting. He asked me not to forward the message or otherwise divulge his observation regarding our alma mater because a few of our classmates tend to be sensitive. Apparently, I didn’t make the sensitive list.

Respecting his wishes, I’ll omit the name of our institute of lower learning. The one FB group was “I was a (blank) cheerleader!” The other, “I played powderpuff football for (blank).”

The population of the latter group was 64 while there was just one woman in the former. My source of these links thought the 64:1 ratio was the significant statistic, but I lean toward the “just one.” In the long and storied history of our school, only one person will admit to having been a cheerleader. But, 64 females are proud to have laced up the cleats.

I like it.

Hostel environment

Someone who viewed my Youtube page asked where I stayed when I was on San Juan Island, which is off the coast of Washington, not far from Vancouver. I said that I was spending only one evening there (the other days, I’d be kayaking to and camping on surrounding islands), and didn’t want to spend a lot of money at the expensive hotels. So, I elected to stay at a hostel.

She was surprised and said she didn’t realize there were any hostels in the United States. I had never given it any thought. Maybe we usually call them boarding houses or something else.

Fresh out of college, she had hitchhiked across Europe and enjoyed her stays at hostels. She wanted to know what my experience was like. I doubt if it was near as glamorous as hers, but here it goes.

Disembarking the ferry from the mainland and weighted down by a large duffel bag, I trudged uphill through the few blocks of bars and restaurants that comprise the downtown of Friday Harbor. It’s a tourist area, with the main attraction being killer whale watching. But, this wasn’t the season.

Outside of downtown, it transitioned to older frame houses and some businesses. I turned at a corner bracketed by a fundamentalist church and a junkyard. Glamorous.

It was a potholed, dead-end street. Past the junkyard were a handful of shoddy frame houses. The hostel was one of them, a rambling ranch with a dumpster in the front yard.

To the right of the foyer was the master bedroom, which was the province of the owners. Going left, you walked through the living room, dining room and kitchen to the two other bedrooms. The smaller housed the owner’s children. The larger contained four bunk beds, which comprised the hostel.

I entered and gratefully dropped my heavy bag in the living room. A family was having dinner in the dining room and scrupulously ignored my presence. After some throat clearing and foot shuffling on my part, the mother told me to sign in (pointing to a book on the coffee table) and pick a bunk in the bedroom. I signed in and walked back to the bedroom.

The door was ajar and I just walked in without a second thought. There was a middle aged woman pulling on a pair of slacks. I froze. “Hi!” she said cheerily. She indicated two bunks that she knew to be unclaimed. I took the lower.

I fumbled around with my stuff until she left and then changed out of my travel clothing. Then, I went out to the living room to relax from the ordeal of travel. My bunkmate was there, engrossed in a book. But, as soon as I plopped down, she took the opportunity to reach out.

Her name was Betty and she was from San Diego. She came up here twice a year to listen to the whales talk through the hydrophone located at one of the waterside parks. She liked to keep in touch with them. Who doesn’t?

“This is a long way from San Diego. Can’t you do that through the web?”

“You mean like Facebook?”

Do whales post on Facebook? “I’m having seal for lunch. Yummy. This is a cell phone shot of me at buoy 43 waiting for a container ship to pass so I can cross the channel. Boring! Take this test and see what kind of mollusk you’d be.” I told her it was more like I assumed someone streamed hydrophones on the web. She said she’d look into that, but didn’t think it was likely. Probably more likely than Shamu posting on Facebook.

Before we could pursue that any further, Duffy arrived and shared the couch with me. In the physical sense. Mentally, I don’t know. My guess would be that Duffy had spent a lifetime using his body as a chemistry set. His responses ran toward the non sequitur.

Then, Cammy and Peter arrived. Cammy was a stunning Swede. Peter was an Australian who traveled the world doing nature photography. They had met in South America and he just trailed along with her after that. Few could blame him. Certainly not Duffy who unabashedly ogled her like a wolf stares at a pork chop.

In walked Conrad. We asked about his interest in being on the island out of season and made other small talk. His responses were a uniform, “Why do you want to know?” There were no further inquiries. At first I had him pegged for a backpacker. Now, I envision him assembling pipe bombs in a remote cabin in Montana.

Peter was using a laptop to share some of his photography when a tall couple walked in, clad in bicycle togs. The older man was Jim and his younger companion was Stephanie. The conversation got around to the cramped accommodations and Jim said that anything would do for unwinding after their long ride.

Duffy had been zoning out, but suddenly took an interest. He tried to focus on Jim and sneered, “I’m surprised you didn’t get a private room for what you must have in mind.”

Jim was quite poised. “I believe what you have in mind is illegal in this state and probably all the others.” I thought the family resemblance was apparent, but I wasn’t looking through Duffy’s foggy eyes.

“Oh, into the kinky stuff, eh?” There was an understandable lull in the conversation, mercifully ended by Cammy producing some wine bottles from her rucksack and offering to share.

Peter helped her serve, but I declined the grape, anticipating some demanding days of kayak camping. Peter tilted his head toward his own gear. “Ever try tequila?”

“Yes, I believe I have. But, I’ll still pass.”

We spent a couple more hours, mostly listening to Peter expound upon his adventures and Duffy answer questions that had probably been posed to him one or two or ten years ago. His interjections held no discernable connection to our conversation. Conrad’s eyes continuously flicked from face to face, trying to detect a conspiracy against him.

I was still wired from my trek and wanted to wait them out anyway, rather than engage in a rugby scrum of apparel changing in the confined bedroom. The participants fell off, until it was just me and the ever-vigilant Conrad. I don’t think he wanted to risk one of us slitting his throat while he slept. I was beginning to see his point.

I had an early launch and the benefit of my body still functioning a few time zones east. So, I was up and away before anyone else awoke. No matter. The previous evening’s experience sufficed.

They don't make pirates like they used to

The Somali pirates are at it again. And, I do mean again. They just attacked the cargo ship Maersk Alabama for the second time in seven months.

This time, they failed. News reports detail that they were repelled with gunfire and a high-decibel noise device.

Noise? They don’t make pirates like they used to. I checked out acoustic weapons and it’s legit. Even so, noise?

So, if you’re sailing the high seas, you might want to pack the latest version of an LCAD. Or, you could just borrow the neighbor kid’s car.

Timing is everything

A young man asked me how I afforded a good engagement ring when I was his age and got married. I didn’t. On our tenth anniversary, I gave my wife carte blanche to go out and get anything she wanted. I don’t think most people are in the financial position to prudently allocate that much to jewelry at the onset. Besides, look at the odds of the marriage lasting that long.

My thinking may be a little influenced by the imbalance. The woman’s ring set is usually elegant and expensive. The guy’s looks like something that came in a Crackerjack box.

I guess part of the tradeoff is the bachelor’s party, but the timing is wrong on that. The day before you leave on a honeymoon with your dreamgirl, you’re inundated with liquor and nubile strippers? Who needs it then? That would also fit better with the tenth anniversary.

In the same vein, at your funeral, they invite all your friends to laud you and throw a big feast. You’ve been accorded the most expensive accommodation in the house. What do you care on that day? I want that party, now.

Your china and good silver sit in a cabinet until some third echelon distant relative comes to town. Meanwhile your family eats off Melmac or whatever every day. Shouldn’t you get out the good stuff when those closest to you put their knees under the table?

Your kids can get their drivers’ licenses at the age of 16, which is after you’ve already done the lion’s share of the chauffeuring for teams, lessons, parties, shopping, appointments, etc., and the necessary waiting around. Too late to do you any good. Get them behind the wheel at nine and let them drag their own butts all over town.

Voting at 18. Is this a joke? How many teenagers know what’s involved in running a business or other substantial organization, eking out a profit and hitting deadlines? What percentage knows what it takes to manage a large group of people? Forget that scale, even. How many have supported a family, maintained an abode, negotiated contracts, paid toward tax levies or financed an education? Oh, but they know what it takes to run a city, state or country. Right. Is it any wonder the same standards are applied to voting as selecting the prom king and queen? When I need to add or replace a key department head, why do I go to the trouble of interviewing candidates when I could pull some kid out of the mall to do the screening for me?

The most obvious evidence of puerile thinking is the prevalent attitudes toward panacea services. When kids are in the toy store, it’s “I want, I want, I want.” No thought to if and how it can be afforded.

Christmas, Hanukkah or whatever. You receive new bikes, golf clubs, scuba gear or whatever. Hey, it’s the dead of winter. This stuff will rust before I get it outside.

You say it’s about religion? Tell me that when space and time about the spiritual side in media approach 10% of the ad wells. Anyway, you can keep the rituals in December. Just move the presents up to May.

By the same token, mowing and gardening in summer? I’ve got better things to do and who wants to work themselves into heat stroke? A civilization that can genetically engineer the tangelo or grapple can surely get the lawn to grow a few months later.

Year-end bonuses. They’re intended to inspire employees to make the extra effort that will generate a greater bottom line in which to share. How many employees start thinking about what they can do to break the threshold before November? Incentives should be weekly or monthly, depending upon the business cycle, so the goal is in sight all year.

Timing is everything.

Distracted driving

I was on an Interstate highway in Kentucky one night last week when I rounded a curve. Straddling the road overhead was a huge sign with the lettering comprised of a multitude of very bright individual bulbs. It blinded me momentarily and I almost rear-ended the guy in front of me, who had decelerated in the fast lane to let his eyes adjust to read it, or because it stunned him, or for whatever reason.

What did the sign say? “Distracted driving is deadly driving.”

Funny you should bring that up.

May the force be with you

I gave a speech last night and there was someone in the audience intent upon trying to turn it into a debate. Not unusual. If you have thin skin, don’t give speeches, write articles or columns or go on radio or television.

I’ve done all of these for years, so it’s not a problem. However, this individual introduced a new wrinkle. While some confuse parroting what they’ve read somewhere with cognitive process, they usually cite credible sources. This guy was effusively quoting Obi Wan Kenobi and Yoda.

As a rule, I don’t debate with fictional entities, especially about public healthcare policy. I didn’t point this out in an effort to spare him further embarrassment. However, I couldn’t help but think of this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=94MMOhIcf5A

Specialization

In the heyday of “Saturday Night Live,” they spoofed the emerging mall specialty stores. Dan Aykroyd managed one that sold Scotch Tape and nothing but. In the last couple weeks, I’ve come across real life examples that rival that.

This past weekend, I attended a dinner party. The hostess isn’t known for her culinary interests, so I assumed it would be catered. I was right.

I arrived and found the caterer’s van in the driveway. And the caterer. He was employing a gas-fired wok to make paella. I chatted with him a bit and he asked if I would take his card for future reference. I agreed and he gave it to me. He’s the Paella Chef.

“That’s all you do is paella?”

“I am the Paella Chef.”

“So, this is a hobby or what?”

“No, this is my job.” You can make a living catering nothing but paella. Who knew? As I approach retirement (again), I wonder if I could do something like that. Might not be as much demand for the Grilled Cheese Chef.

A couple weeks prior, the post of my mailbox finally rotted through. I’m not the original owner of the house, but I’d guess it was there from the beginning. I had never given it any thought until it was time to replace it.

Where I grew up, we didn’t have mailboxes. You had a slot in your front door. After college, I had an apartment with the community lock boxes in the foyer. Later, my houses had boxes mounted next to the front door. This was my first streetside apparatus.

I had noticed sprinklings of new identical plastic mailboxes popping up in the neighborhood. Maybe someone had been going door-to-door selling them. I’m never home and would’ve missed that.

But, how difficult or expensive could it be? It’s an aluminum can on a stick? Yes, I am a city boy.

I do a web search and am mildly surprised by the cost. There just isn’t that much to these things and they’re hardly unique in attributes, unless you’re trying to pose as the Hearst Castle. They’re a commodity and should be dirt cheap.

Then, I investigate installation. Apparently, I’d have to buy or rent a post hole digger and then gnaw away at the impacted clay that is my front yard. There is no single definitive way to then prep the hole. Some swear by drainage gravel while others eschew it. There’s a camp for those who advocate concrete filler and another for those who warn against it. The heck with it. I have better things to do with my life and there seem to be people who do this kind of thing.

Back to the web search. I find three sources that look promising. The last one has no website that I can find, so I phone. It’s called “Mailbox Installers” or something like that.

A gravelly voice answers, “Yeah?” like I’m imposing.

From the scant information on line, I don’t know if they do this type, the multiple wall units or what. “Do you sell and install the residential curbside mailboxes?”

“That’s what the name says.” This was punctuated with a hacking cough.

“Do you have a website where I can look at your boxes?”

“No, I don’t have any damned website. You can’t see quality on a website. You wanna see them, you come in. I’m open till two on weekdays.” I heard him mumble something that was indistinguishable except for “jerk.”
There was clearly only one course of action. I went to see him.

It was one large, dark room, bristling with a dense mailbox forest. They were stuffed into barrels, pails, boxes and about anything else that could support them at all angles of lean. To one side was a raised platform, dominated by an old desk and a corpulent senior citizen. He was framed by high piles of paper, yellowed and curled at the edges with age. Precariously perched on one was a plastic clock radio, circa 1960s. A coat hanger was being used to amplify reception.

“I’m here about a mailbox.”

“I assumed that, what with what the sign outside says and all.” Yep, this was the guy.

“I don’t want anything fancy.”

“I’ll show you our most popular model.”

With great effort, he stood up and waddled and wheezed down a narrow aisle through the clutter. They all looked alike to me but he stopped abruptly and leaned on one. “This here is stainless steel with a powder coating.” He quoted the price, which was more than I would’ve thought.

“What else do you have?” There were only about 300 others on display. “I was looking for something a little less expensive.

“You don’t want any of that shit and I won’t sell it to you.” Easy to see why this was the most popular model.

Given no alternatives, I agreed to the deal. We trundled back to the desk and wrote up the order on an old multipart form.

Before I could stop myself, I heard me asking, “This is all you do, sell mailboxes?”

Silently, I replied along with him, “That’s what the sign outside says, doesn’t it?”

I journey into darkest customer service

I find it paradoxical that customer service has become a science and one hears more complaints about its poor practice than ever before. There are other forces at work. Cutbacks of staff create work overloads. There’s more stress on standardizing responses than thinking, etc. Or, maybe the idiots are just breeding faster than others.

Nonetheless, I set my expectations low and am seldom disappointed. Likewise, I ratchet down my irritation threshold, because that can cause you to lose sight of the ultimate goal. It helps to go in knowing that you will be tested. There may be some other lessons in this of value to you.

And, I’ve been tested several times in recent history. The most challenging was in regard to returning a camera for warranty service.

The first step was finding the maker’s website and drilling down through all the screening steps. I understand the reasoning, but I know what’s wrong and don’t need to run the gauntlet of their FAQs. But, I fight through the maze and am rewarded at the end with the pellet of instructions for making the shipment.

It’s not easy or cheap, and it’s on my dime. I’m not wild about that, but go along to get along. I have experience in these matters, so I strip off anything that isn’t necessary to function and load it with the cheapest battery and smallest memory card I possess. Repair facilities are notorious for stocking their parts bins with your stuff. By accident, of course.

The website says that upon receipt, they will send a postcard with my work order number and password, so I can check on the progress. Postcard. That’s high tech. While I’m on the site, I access their predictions of typical repair times and add 20%. Keep expectations low and you’re less likely to get irritated. Life’s too short to allow yourself to become irked by the shortcomings of others.

I had the Post Office notify me of delivery and awaited the postcard. And awaited. And awaited. Nothing.

I run the customer service gauntlet again through their website and finally get an email address. Noting I have received no postcard, I request the numbers that I can use to check up on the repair progress.

After a few days, I receive an email with the work order number. No password, just the number. I try it without the password and it doesn’t work. The email informs me that if there are any further problems, just reply to it. I reply and get a bad address error message. The same is true for the next three attempts.

Once again, I plunge into the customer service maze to unearth the hidden phone number. I assume that will yield an automated phone answering ziggurat to negotiate, which does turn out to be the case. I hang in and am finally rewarded with a living being. Well, Tobey.

Tobey listens to my tale of woe with something approaching mild interest. When I wind down to a halt, he sweeps away my narrative with an impatient request for my address. Obviously, he’s using it to call up my record.

“You have water damage. That’s not covered by warranty. You’ll have to give me a credit card number.”

“It’s a waterproof camera.”

“It is?”

You must understand that the majority of responses are coming from prompts on the customer service rep’s screen. You have to attempt an override by inducing a cognitive process.

“Tobey.” Put it on a personal basis. We’re human beings, not avatars in some computer game. “You advertise this as a waterproof camera. So, wouldn’t water damage come under the warranty?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, we agree on that. So, give me the password.” He does. “Thank you.”

“Won’t do you any good if you’re thinking of using it on our site.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I was thinking. I know I’m going to regret asking this, but why won’t it do any good?”

“Because we started subbing out the repairs two months ago.”

“But, it’s still on your site.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t work.” I got that. My point was more directed at why it’s still on there, but walking Tobey down that road is going to lead to a deadend.

“So, how can I track it?”

“You could go to the site of the company we sub it to.”

Pause. Pause some more. It’s not coming. Oh well, I gave him the chance. “And what might that be?”

I check the status. There’s a standard blurb advising what the normal time of repair is. It’s two weeks longer than what the company’s website says. My camera is on hold, awaiting parts shipment from the factory. They note this isn’t predictable. I recall the factory customer service site that promoted itself as the best solution since that have technicians and parts under roof.

I check the site every day for progress. Okay, maybe every hour. Finally, it’s classified repaired and shipped. Expect delivery within five to seven days. When it’s at my expense, I have to ship the premium route. Not so on their end.

Six days later, I receive an automated call from the carrier, informing me a package is scheduled for delivery the next day and the shipper requires signature. When I bought the camera new, that wasn’t even required. I call the shipper and advise I will not be home and want to arrange an alternative. I’m told that can be done, but not until after the first attempt.

If I know I won’t be there, why can’t we do it now instead of waiting? Because that’s the procedure. Oh, and here I thought they didn’t have a good reason.

I arrive home from work the next day and there’s the notification stuck on my front door. It lists my options. One is not that I can sign it and leave it for the next attempt, taking my chances. Per the notification, I go to their website and elect to pick it up at their terminal the next day. It confirms this, and responds with their address, office hours and notification that I must bring a government-issued photo ID and the delivery notice number. Whatever.

The next day, I zip down to the terminal on my lunch hour. The package is out on the truck for delivery. How can that be? I took the option of picking it up there.

They overtly express doubt. Then, how I could I know where, when and how to pick it up? They have no idea, but there’s nothing in their computer so I must be mistaken. They pronounce “mistaken” as in “making it up.”

Arguing that isn’t going to go anywhere. I suggest I sign something now and they can just deliver it the next day. They can’t do that. They can’t deliver it unless I’m home (for some nebulous time frame) and sign for it. They can’t do this. They can’t do that.

One might think that they would be equipped with more than what they can’t do. One would be wrong. I shift the focus by asking what they can do. They don’t know but will have someone call me.

I’m driving back to work when the phone rings. It’s a supervisor with an extended list of what they can’t do. I redirect her to what they can do and help her venture into the realm of creative problem solving. We arrive on the solution that I might be able to intercept the driver enroute. She’ll call me back.

She does and asks if I know where a particular street is. If I can get there, call the driver and arrange the meet. I u-turn and punch it. As I’m approaching the street, I call the number. I get the “call cannot be completed message.” Sure, why not?

He’s got to be here somewhere. I burn down the street, see a truck with the right logo up ahead, blow the horn and cut him off with a squeal of rubber. I jump out and the driver’s eyes are about the size of dinner plates. I adjust the expression on my face. “I believe you have a package for me.”

As he’s rooting through his cargo, I dig out my driver’s license and the delivery notice. He waves it away. “Not necessary.”

Say again? All this crap about procedures and now you’re giving it away? I need an ID and shipping number to pick up at your terminal but you just cough it up to anyone on the street? Good grief.

Well, that about completes my day. Wait, no. I open the carton to check function of the camera. The memory card is missing. Now, it’s complete.

The workshop

He was 90 years of age when he died last week. With a friend, I helped look after him and his wife. They had outlived most friends and family.

After driving his widow to the funeral, I took her to lunch and then home. She asked if I would fix a couple things in the basement. She said tools were in the adjoining garage.

The first thing to grab my attention was the smell. It penetrated my memories as much as my olfactory senses. A heady mixture of old oil, solvents and adhesives.

The bench was a massive construction of heavy wood, bearing the gouges, burns and other scars of projects completed long ago. A large vise was mounted on one end, carrying a patina of rust and dust. At the other end stood an archaic belt driven table saw.

There was no pegboard behind it. Just a sheet of plywood with nails to support an assortment of hand tools. Like the vise, they showed no signs of recent use.

Nary a power tool among them. Anything with moving parts was driven by a hand crank. Most of the handles were wood, stained with the sweat of hundreds of jobs. Likewise, the clamps were wooden. The assortment included a spokeshave, drilling brace, draw knife, spiral screwdriver, non-electric soldering iron and a dozen other devices I couldn’t name.

A horizontal plank was mounted on top of this. On it roosted oil cans (the kind you used by depressing the bottom, from which we derive the term “oilcanning”), turpentine, kerosene, shellac, naval jelly and an assortment of other potions. Under it, were jars mounted by a screw through the lid. They contained a dizzying array of fasteners and unidentifiable components salvaged from God knows what.

I had been in this workshop a hundred times before. Not this one, but ones just like it an age ago. The memories came flooding back.

It was everything I recalled from my youth. I scanned the walls, drinking it all in. Wait, I stand corrected on the “everything.” There it was. The pinup calendar. Any bona fide workshop had to have one. I took the time to authenticate it. Yes, 1959 was a good year.

Another meeting I would've liked to attend

Lead story, second section of today’s newspaper: local village going after a developer about eyesore property. Nothing earth-shattering about that. Real estate developers are about change and that always ruffles some feathers.

Therefore, public relations is a critical success factor if you’re in that business. You want to project the image of being a positive element and that your work is good for the community.

So, I read the article, curious to learn how they got crosswise with people who should be receptive to any development in this economic climate. The official complaints are in the lead, but I think a contributing factor is in the third graph. There it is, the name of the developer. B.A.D. Properties.

How did that meeting go? The lawyer advises his client that he needs a name to file with the state and it should be something that connotes being a worthy asset and of quality, appealing to all the elements in the community.

“B.A.D. Properties.”

“B.A.D. Properties? Max, you’re a genius! How could anyone not love that?”

20 millions miles and 50 years ago

“20 Million Miles from Earth.” I literally shuddered involuntarily when I spotted it on the television schedule. Does anyone shudder voluntarily? Nonetheless, it was obviously still an open wound on my psyche.

Released in 1957, it was one of the scariest movies of my childhood. That was back when a movie was a rare treat and theaters were regal and cavernous with colossal screens. A child was dwarfed by the scale, adding to the effect.

There was no way I would miss this. And, I would need a mountain of popcorn with real butter and more salt than the Dead Sea to help recreate the experience.

I went in with my eyes open. I’ve been down this road before with several other things from the past. They’re not the way you remembered them. Yeah, but it’s worth a shot. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

The first thing I didn’t recall was that it was set in Italy. A spaghetti monster movie? Eastwood had a precedent to work from.

A spacecraft crashes off the coast of Italy. As it turns out, it’s of American origin and was on a secret mission to Venus. The beginnings of a proud tradition of self-flagellation.

The only one who survives is the handsome colonel. I didn’t remember that he was played by William Hopper. I now kept expecting him to start tailing a car for Perry Mason.

A mysterious canister washes up on shore and is retrieved by a young boy, who takes it to sell to the American biologist who is conveniently doing research in the area. Equally convenient is his stunning daughter who just happens to be the doctor who administers to the colonel. Already, this is a little contrived for my matured mind.

The canister contains a jelly egg. Naturally, the professor leaves it on the kitchen table of his trailer. A little later, he and his daughter return and discover it’s hatched and there’s a little lizard man running around the trailer. He puts on a pair of what appear to be gardening gloves and catches it. Cotton gloves are often underrated as a means of capturing aliens.

The creature is well done, especially for that era. It’s the creation of Ray Harryhausen who did other good movie monsters before turning to mythical creatures in “The 7th Voyage of Sinbad,” another of my old favorites.

The creature is deposited in a steel bar cage in the bed of his truck for transport to Rome. The next morning, they discover it has increased in size by a factor of five. Pretty impressive, what with a strange atmosphere and no food.

Anyway, they hit the road. In the meantime, the colonel has mounted a search for the canister, unaware that they have it. As soon as he traces the chain of possession, he’s hot on their trail. Quick work and probably got him the gig as Paul Drake.

Back to the professor and his lovely daughter. They’re bumping down a rough dirt road but still manage to hear that a corner of the tarp covering the cage has worked loose and is flapping. They stop to take care of that. Who doesn’t see this one marching down Main Street? Easy to see it coming, now.

The beast breaks through the cage and the tarp, having grown even more. Miraculously, it spares its captor. Even better, it doesn’t mar the alabaster complexion of the doctor. It takes it on the lam, seconds before the colonel and his entourage arrives. How’s that for timing?

The creature finds a farm and is perplexed by some of the agricultural animals. In the barn, it finds a hefty sack of fertilizer to feast upon. Space aliens are never portrayed as having sensitive palates.

The farmer’s dog isn’t too crazy about this and attacks the creature. Not a wise decision.

The farmer hears the ruckus and comes out with his lantern and shotgun. Luigi does Jed Clampett.

The colonel, et al arrives about then. He tells everyone to put down their guns because they didn’t find these creatures to be especially aggressive on Venus, unless provoked. He then, paradoxically, proceeds to poke at it with a pole. It does not react well. Just in case it’s not irritated enough, the farmer sticks a pitchfork into its back. Okay, game on!

The enraged monster is now beating the crap out of the farmer. The colonel’s entourage is shooting it, with little regard for the farmer, but the bullets have little effect. The colonel picks up a shovel and commences to whack at it, which drives off the creature. Rifle bullets don’t faze it but a Sears garden spade is too much? Go figure.

The colonel leads everyone outside and they close the barn door to trap the monster. Steel bars couldn’t hold it but an old wooden barn will? Even the creature noodled this one out and burst through the back wall and was gone.

Now they’re wondering how to deal with this alien who appears impervious to bullets. The colonel, of course, has a solution. He tells them that while on Venus, they accidentally discovered that these creatures were especially sensitive to electrical shocking. The mind grasps for the circumstances that led to this accidental discovery.

The creature is now approximately the size of Mighty Joe Young. The colonel’s plan is that they drop a conducting net on it from a helicopter and apply a controlling electrical current. In rural Sicily, how long do you figure it’ll take you to throw together the equipment and team for that? One, two hours, tops?

So, they track it down and do a perfect net drop. The soldiers run out to stake down the edges. I have to tell you, that’s one detail I’m not volunteering for. This thing ripped through steel bars when it was about ten percent of its present size and I’m going to be out there calmly hammering down some wooden stakes? Pass.

They have a small mountain of equipment cabinets humming away, probably obtained from a convenient Sicilian Radio Shack. They run some jumper cables over to the net and the lizard lets out a wail that I take to be Venutian for, “Don’t tase me, bro!” But, they zap him and he goes down like Paris Hilton on a television producer.

Fast forward and they’ve got the lizard on a slab at the Rome zoo. You can tell it’s alive because the abdomen is rising and falling with its labored breathing. It’s shackled, but unconscious. A scientist is explaining that they flew in one of the world’s leading anesthesiologists to administer just enough electricity to keep it under, but not enough to kill it. That’s a phone call I would’ve wanted to be in on.

“Hello, doc? We’ve got a 70-ton lizard from Venus we need to sedate. What’s your experience level with that?” Of course, they just can’t look for one who knows this stuff. He’s got to be on their PPO’s list.

The colonel wonders why the alien doesn’t succumb to bullets. The lead scientist explains that the creature has no heart or lungs, so you can’t hit a vital organ. Then you see it breathing because? Details, details. This is making Richard Heene seem credible.

Well, you can’t let it end here, so someone has to do something really inane. Cue the idiot. Someone has to move a transformer or other device using a small crane. Naturally, he swings it into the guts of the electrical setup and they lose power. The creature awakens and angrily rips off the shackles. Not a morning person.

The entourage draws their revolvers. You know, I think we’ve already covered this. I’d be making use of my shoe leather about then, not a sidearm.

On the other hand, if I’m the creature, I’d be opening up the industrial drum of whupass. But, he decides to go through the back wall. Apparently, they’re not big on doors on Venus.

That wall adjoins the elephant pen and the colonel yells to get the pachyderm out of there. Easy to say from my Barcalounger, but I think the welfare of the elephant is the least of your worries at this point. Dumbo and the creature throw down. Two zoo attendants are trying to prod the elephant away. The jobs can’t possibly pay that much. Predictably, they get smeared.

The rumble spills out onto the streets. Italians don’t do monster panic near as well as the Japanese. I guess it’s hard to run in designer shoes.

The elephant is dispatched and the alien dives to the bottom of the Tiber River. Naturally, the colonel has a plan. Lob grenades off the two bridges and drive the creature out of the riverbed. Aside from the facts that it is impervious to projectiles and nothings says it’s going to be hunkering down by a bridge, I have to ask why we want to stampede it down Via Flaminia, smushing up the citizenry. If it wants to burrow into the mud and mind its own business, fine by me.

The plan works (surprise!). The creature is off and running. The colonel says it’s heading for the Coliseum and the troops should amass there. How does he know? Was it highlighted on the alien’s tourist map?

So, they show up at the Coliseum with some troops. They don’t see the monster, so the colonel tells the squad to fan out. By now, the monster is the size of John Madden’s head, so how can he hide? And, you’re sending some riflemen out to freelance? Again, count me out. I’m on break.

They find it and use their weapons to drive it to the upper walls, where it picks up stone blocks and lobs them at the army. You gotta like a lizard who suddenly develops the intellect to employ tools.

But, the colonel doesn’t, so he drills it with a bazooka. It’s a gut shot and the creature goes down. Never mind that tanks and artillery haven’t managed to raise a welt. The creature plummets to its demise in the street.

The colonel and the doctor, who have been playing grab butt throughout the movie, stroll off arm in arm. Hey, wait a minute! You just dumped a hundred tons of dead lizard meat in the middle of the street and you’re just going to leave it there?

The flick closes with the scientist looking meaningfully into the camera lens and intoning, “Why is it always, always so costly for man to move from the present to the future?” He ought to see our current budget.

Well, I didn’t relive the terror of my youth. But, it more than made up for it with humor.

The next fad

I predict a new product. Maybe there’s time for you to get the jump on it and make some good dough.

Picture the two-wheel trailer you see hitched to the back of some touring motorcycles. Now, scale it down a little and hook it up to the back of someone’s belt. You got it. A people trailer.

I see it as an inevitable trend extension. I believe we started with a minimalist perspective. I clearly recall streaking out of the house clad only in t-shirt and jeans with my mother bellowing to put on a jacket. That mode of dress would continue through college. Who needed more?

About a decade ago, people began to tote water bottles everywhere they went. Like there isn’t ample water supply in virtually every building in this country? Like you’ll dehydrate if water isn’t three seconds away? You’re going to the mall, Sparky, not crossing the Sahara.

Then came the propagation of cargo pants and fanny packs. But, that wasn’t enough. Apparently you need to be prepared for every possible eventuality from an impromptu bivouac up to and including a tsunami.

Enter the backpack. Oh, I bought one years ago, but limited its use to backpacking. No imagination.

I recently took a plane trip and everyone had one, bouncing off each other in the halls of the terminal and bludgeoning those in aisle seats on the plane. Who could survive terminal to terminal without half their worldly possessions? Worse yet was a visit to one of my favorite outdoors stores. The daypacks had proliferated like kudzu, choking out many of the desirable product lines.

And the final harbinger revealed itself when I was downtown for a meeting. People are using wheeled luggage in lieu of attaché cases. Can the people trailer be far behind?

I think not.

Adventurers

I recently posted some photos of a kayaking trip I took off the coast of Washington (San Juan Islands). Someone responded that she wished she was an adventurer like me. I said that I didn’t put myself in that category and she replied that she hadn’t meant like a Sir Edmund Hillary or Jacques Cousteau, but up there, for an amateur.

I’m not even sure I would consider them the epitome of the genre. If my yardstick was living on the edge, millions of dollars in sponsored equipment and ample time on the champagne lecture circuit wouldn’t do it. I have met the real adventurers and they don’t have sponsors. They don’t even have addresses. They are the guides of the out-there variety.

I first encountered a diluted version of the breed when I started rafting the West Virginia whitewater rivers. I talked with some guides and learned that they summered there as raft guides and wintered on ski patrols in Colorado. At the time, that seemed footloose to me.

I was beginning a family then and this struck me as a radically nomadic life. But, Aspen and a relatively short drive to Pittsburgh aren’t exactly the far corners of the earth. I had yet to meet the truly free spirits.

The first one might’ve been Chewy. I nicknamed him that because he resembled Chewbacca from “Star Wars.” He was the assistant guide on a week-long kayak trip I took in Glen Canyon (UT).

Toward the end of the week, I commented to the lead guide that I had thought I knew how to pack light, but had learned something from Chewy. He wore the same things all week, as far as I could tell. “Those are his clothes,” was the reply.

“I know they’re his. Or, at least I assumed that.”

“No, those are his clothes. His only clothes.”

That was pretty accurate. Aside from what he wore on that trip, he owned a parka. During warm and moderate weather, that resided in the trunk of a friend’s car.

The guided trips and Chewie were based in Page, AZ, which is 300 miles from either Phoenix or Las Vegas. Which is to say, in the high desert and the middle of nowhere. Between trips, which supplied meals and a tent to Chewie, there was maybe a day in Page to clean and restock equipment. On those occasions, Chewie slept in the barn with the kayaks.

Chewy declined to talk about himself. The other guide said that the young man had been part of a strict Mormon family up north and it became too much for him. Chewie was essentially hiding out.

He had no house or apartment, no car, no anything. Everything he owned, he wore. He might’ve had a toothbrush. I know he didn’t own a razor. That’s life on the edge. The closest I came was when I went off to college and carried all my possessions in a laundry bag.

Francisco was a more sophisticated version. He was the guide I had on a kayak trip on the Sea of Cortez off Baja Mexico. He was an extremely personable Chilean and had been a lawyer, TV news anchor and a few other glamorous things he told us about in entertaining fashion.

Ten months a year, he lived out of the kayaks on the tours. There, he cultivated the guests for the other two months when he would travel the world from one to another, availing himself of their hospitality. He was a charmer and few could resist.

The true nomads strike me as the ultimate adventurers. But, I’ve always been too dug in to see myself living that way. Maybe now that I’m coming up on retirement. Nah.

Heaven on earth for hounds

“I know you’re not big on repeat locations for vacations.” I braced myself. “But, I’d like to go back to Asheville. We spent most of the time at the Biltmore and I felt like we shortchanged the town.”

Relief. No, make that jubilance. I don’t usually do encores. There are way too many things out there to see and experience in this world. But, Asheville would be an exception.

Not for whatever reasons she has. I’m an outdoors gear and clothing hound. To me, Asheville is a Mecca.

That’s where the footprints of REI and Mast General Store overlap. In other words, heaven on earth to anyone with a hankering for the great outdoors and unplumbed limits on the credit cards.

REI is the quintessential store for the hounds. Not only do they carry depth in the major lines, but they’ve private-branded some good stuff. True, I can shop there online any time I feel like it. But, there’s nothing like hefting the stuff.

If you have REI, why do you need Mast? What Trader Joe’s is to Kroger, Mast is to REI. While their web site reflects a somewhat conventional approach, the store is funkytown. That’s where you find the esoteric brands and products.

So, I agreed to the "concession" of a repeat, and got points for that. Points are good.

Bumper sticker of the day

"Honk if I'm paying your mortgage." I wonder if there's a "Honk if I helped buy your car." Or, "Honk if I paid off your student loan" (Sallie Mae bailout).

Confessions of a fast food purveyor

With fast food under attack, I cannot help but feel some responsibility for the blight. Yes, in the mid-60s, I played a role in advancing its cause and am coming clean about it.

It was the end of my senior year in high school and I was on the cusp of having to finance a college education. My job at an auto parts store was winding down and I needed additional income. So, I took a job at Gino’s.

That was an east coast burger chain. In addition to burgers, we carried the KFC franchise.

A newbie, I drew the worst shift, four to close. While close could be midnight or one, depending upon the day, you were there long after the sign was turned off for an extensive cleanup. That was a messy and arduous task. Coupled with the dinnertime rush, this was not the desirable tour of duty.

It was different back then. You had to have the menu and prices memorized so you could ring up orders quickly. Also, you needed the ability to make change, God forbid.

The employee pool was almost all teenage guys. In our case, it was understandable. In an inner city location, only the swift and strong would survive. Attacks by irate customers and gang clashes enveloping the facility weren’t infrequent.

When I started there, the layout was the original walk-up design. That is, there was no eat-in area. You walked up to the windows and ordered to-go.

But, as McDonald’s or whoever initiated the “glass cube,” we modified our building. While this is now commonplace, it was a new concept at the time. The first couple weeks, we had to use masking tape to put big Xs on the windows to make them noticeable. People were walking into and through them.

The construction once provided an unanticipated mode of communication. Approaching busy times, we built up inventory of some items; burgers in the heater box and shakes in the freezer. One night, the shake man had allotted too much lead time. An unhappy customer returned to the window with his shake and a two-by-four he had picked up in the construction area. Without a word, he used the shake to drive a nail into the board. Point taken.

While most of us were callow teens, George was a lifer. That is, he was around 25, an anomaly among us at the time. What kind of guy did this at that age when there were good factory jobs around? George did most of the chicken frying. One night, someone asked him for the time. He turned his wrist to check it. It was the wrist that held a pot of scalding fat. They had to take him to the hospital.

I was called off the bench (or the window) to make chicken. You dumped raw chicken parts into a tub of beaten eggs. Then, you transferred them to a tub of the Colonel’s mixture of flour and the secret herbs and spices, and tossed it around. I’m guessing one of the secret ingredients was pepper, because that induced sneezing. And, obviated the need for the egg mixture, if you must know the truth. I haven’t eaten fried chicken since then.

Another one of the dirty secrets was what happened to the leftover chicken. During cleanup, you stripped the meat and dumped it into a pot in the heater box. It contained meat from prior days, along with barbeque sauce. It was the pork barbeque for succeeding days. How long that witch’s brew fermented, I couldn’t tell you. I never knew it to be cleaned out, just added to. There were probably prehistoric bird parts at the bottom. Kind of the La Brea Tar Pits of fast food.

Rush hours brought on tension and short tempers. We applied condiments to buns with caulking guns. They were the weapons of choice in settling our issues. After the hectic dinner hour, it wouldn’t be unusual for a window man to greet you covered with stains of special sauce or catsup.

The managers were old guys. Some of them as advanced as their doddering thirties. Sentenced to a life of corralling feral teens, their attitudes were generally grim resignation. Bud was the exception.

He had recently mustered out of the Marines and was over-the-top and all full of false bravado. Bud was extremely dismayed by our failure to be impressed by the hourly accounts of his exploits in a stateside motor pool. He was unable to distinguish between his changing oil and others raising the flag at Iwo Jima. We had signed on to make a lousy buck an hour, not take a course in pseudo-macho for the inadequate. We didn’t need his theatrics or abuse. He provoked the fast food version of fragging.

One night, Bud had ridden Nick particularly hard. Not a good move, since Nick was already "apprenticing" in collecting high-interest/short-term loans. During cleanup, Nick went into the basement and broke the valve on a large tank of bug spray. The roaches were plentiful and robust, and not to be trifled with. We needed the heavy ordnance.

Nick quickly came up and told Bud that something was wrong in the basement. Bud called him a few choice names, as was his custom, and descended the steps. George locked the door behind him. Bud whipsawed George on a daily basis.

The opening crew found him the next day. He was alive, but a little green around the gills. Not as roach-like as we thought. We never saw him again.

Who we did see, on occasion, was Gino. That was Gino Marchetti, whose name we bore. Gino was at the end of his legendary career as a defensive lineman for the Baltimore Colts. He and Alan Ameche (another Colt) started Gino’s and built it up to over 300 units. It was later purchased by Marriott and became Roy Rogers.

Gino was huge, especially by the standards of those days. He would show up unannounced and stomp around inspecting things with little more than a grunt or two. Sometimes, he’s thrust a mammoth paw into the fry tray and stuff a wad into his maw. A charmer.

Our odd hours tended to separate us from family and friends, drawing us closer together. We’d work to the wee hours of the morning and then go out to play after work. It was my first exposure to the “night people.”

It’s a term I would recognize much later in the field of mental health. People afflicted with some forms of mental illness tend to stay up late and sleep late. Now, many spend their nights on the internet (find an acrimonious posting in a chat room or social networking site and chances are good the time stamp is after midnight). Back then, it was on the streets, where we’d encounter them.

It was a whole other world out there that most people didn’t know about. And, could sleep better for not knowing. The city was somewhat like the mutant section of town in “Total Recall” at those hours and we had many weird adventures. Fodder for another blog.

The chain grew quickly and they were strapped for resources. I was among those tapped to do training for opening new stores. There was the standard procedure stuff, but I tried to add the practical. I recall one of my first assignments in Allentown (PA). I advised the new window recruits to dive into the stainless steel shelves under the counter when a gang fight broke out for protection against stray bullets. They stared at me blankly. Allentown wasn’t Philly.

The end of the summer approached and I prepared to go off to college. The district manager showed up one day and the store manager asked me to join them in his office. They wanted me to go into the management training program. I politely declined, saying that I was on an engineering career path (subject for another blog). I can look back and know that I left the door open for Dave Thomas. Hope he was grateful.

So yes, I shoulder some of the blame for the porkier profile of the average American. But, a lot of lessons learned and experiences that can’t be duplicated.

End of an era

Nancy Minson died yesterday. About 20 years ago, she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and given six months to live. She obviously fought it off much longer. No surprise to me.

She was one of those relatively rare people who recognized problems of the community and did something about them. She conceived solutions and drove them to fruition. We didn’t always agree on these matters, but I highly respected her for the contributions. She accomplished more than I care to list. She advocated for gays, Jews, the mentally ill and others in need of it. No easy routes for her.

A couple months ago, a friend of mine from high school emailed me a few names of classmates and asked what my recollection was of their defining moments. Her theory was that that’s how we primarily remembered each other. She also asked what her defining moment was in my mind. As incentive, she offered her perception of mine. I didn’t want to know it.

With this lurking on the fringe of my mind, Nancy’s defining moment emerged. I’d known her for almost 30 years, so there was a lot of material to work with.

But, we originally met as classmates in Leadership Cincinnati in the early 80s. Programs like this select active leaders from different segments of the community and educate them on the bigger picture over the course of a year or so. There’s also the benefit of cross pollination.

One of the sessions spanned a weekend. On Saturday night, after the program, we sat around in the lounge of the posh hotel where we were staying and discussed the subject matter of the day.

More accurately, a couple wealthy women were holding forth on the state of the lower strata of society. One of them finally turned to me and said that I was being quiet. What did I think?

I was being quiet because they had little idea what they were talking about. There’s nothing to be gained arguing with such people.

In this case, they rendered an inaccurate analysis of the indigent population, and how they should be housed, fed, clothed and educated. Of course, not in their neighborhoods (Indian Hill and Hyde Park) or with their money. They assured us they had intimate knowledge of these people and were quite comfortable with them.

I politely suggested that possibly most of our group lacked first-hand knowledge and could benefit from interfacing with the population in question. She replied that she was certain I possessed that kind of knowledge, with the clear implication that I was a member of the great unwashed. Lucky guess.

Admittedly, my direct contact was of limited scope. I worked my way through college as a store detective for a department store in the area. Arresting them tends to produce interface. That led to me volunteering for working with the youth on weekends.

After college, I worked on a plan to serve that community with mass transit. And then, as an organizer with the Youth Collaborative, with the goal of lowering the dropout rate. Maybe not intimate knowledge, but more than you get at the Camargo Country Club.

So, late that Saturday night, I invited the group to accompany me to a neighborhood bar in one of the depressed areas and we could discuss the issues with the locals. That should be no problem, if everyone felt comfortable with them. There were about 40 in our class. Three took me up on it, and Nancy was one of them.

Nancy fervently advocated positions on issues. But, she was willing to stare the truth in the eye, factor that in and do something about it. To me, that defined her.

Tomorrow is her funeral. Yesterday was the end of an era in Cincinnati.

The hard part of an expedition

The die is cast. I’ve committed to going on a kayaking trip among the San Juan Islands, located offshore of the northwest corner of the continental United States. It’s a treacherous journey, fraught with dangerous creatures, challenges to the body and soul and numerous chances to make the fatal error. No quarter is asked and none is given.

And then, you get to paddle. The kayaking is fine. It’s getting there and back that tests your mettle.

My approach is to start with a list of the known and work out the unknowns. Item one, I know I have to be at the docks on San Juan Island and ready to paddle at 8:00 am on a Thursday. Item two, ….uh, that was quick. My lists of knowns are frequently concise.

I don’t even know for sure when we’ll return. The outfitter gives you the day, but time is nebulous. I understand it’s subject to conditions and the collective speed of the undetermined group, but that doesn’t help me with the scheduling. I’ll begin with the easier stuff and get back to this later.

How does one get from mainland to the island? I can fly in on a commuter airline or take a ferry (with or without car). I check the airfare. Okay, that was easy. It’s the ferry.

The simplest way, with the least layovers and opportunities to miss connections, is to rent a car at the Seattle airport, drive to the ferry (a hundred miles or so) and take that to the island. Of course, you’re paying ferry tolls both ways and for a car that will sit idle for much of the week. I have to look at the alternative of using the bus service from the airport to the ferry.

The bus service has to synchronize with airline arrival and ferry departure, and it’s not like any of them run on the hour. So, I now have to bring the airline into the equation, while everything else is still a variable, and optimize the whole thing. I’m getting flashbacks of cranking through quadratic equations.

I call up a list of Delta flights to Seattle and then apply my Skymiles balance to see when I can get a free flight. I already know the answer, but have to go through the self-flagellation just to be thorough. Sure enough, I roll craps. Either I don’t have enough points or the flight is “unavailable.” That’s airline terminology for “thanks for playing.”

My next stop is one of the all-inclusive travel sites. I get an array of times and fares, don’t especially like it and exit the site. Then, I re-enter and get a slightly different selection. You keep doing this until you get something you want at the right price. I can only guess why it varies. Bear in mind, when you select the flight, you will receive a polite message that the fare has increased since it was posted (must’ve been five seconds ago).

It’s a house game and you’re not the dealer. Live with it. I make the buy and get the message that it’s not final until the airline confirms. Isn’t that why you have computers? This is supposed to be an instantaneous deal, not move at the speed of smoke.

I should wait for that confirmation, but I’ve got my momentum going and the lineup in my head (somewhat). I call up sites for the ferry and bus schedules, departing and arriving. Now I’ve got more screens going than a lanai in Orlando. Can’t handle the toggling, so I copy and paste to a single document. I’m a visual learner.

As usual, I’m faced with choices of either multiple hour layovers or connection spans that are a matter of mere minutes. Do ya feel lucky punk? Well, do ya?

Not only did Murphy enact a law about this, but the footnote is that the problem will occur early in the chain and mess everything up down the line. I’ll go with a cushion and take a book to read. Bus and ferry depots have to be a gold mine of people watching, anyway. I take a guess at the ending time for the kayaking and make the ferry and bus reservations both ways.

To make an 8:00 am tee time, I’ll have to be on the island the previous evening. The search is on for lodging. It’s a mecca for killer whale watching, so there’s got to be a lot of choices. Right?

An island, by definition, has a finite supply of land, which affects pricing. See Manhattan, Singapore or Hong Kong. This turns out to be a model of the disappearing middle class. Either you’re a spendthrift world traveler or an itinerant kayak bum. I know my type casting.

Eschewing the posh resorts with champagne flowing through gold-plated fixtures, I narrow it down to a hostel with dorm-style accommodations. I’ll arrive late and leave early, so I don’t need a mini-bar. And, after 18 hours of travel, I won’t be hankering for HBO.

I call the hostel and make the reservation, which consists of me reciting the date and her saying “Yup.” I ask if there’s a confirmation number or something, not anticipating what a hilarious question that turned out to be to her. No one ever asked her that. Can’t wait to meet my bunkmates.

A sit back and take a big breath. The second hardest part is done. The most difficult is the wait.

Birth of an Expedition

The San Juan Islands are a scattering of rocky nuggets offshore of the northwest corner on the continental United States. In my kayaking life, I’d heard references to them as a desirable paddling area. But, I envisioned them as bleak and barren, so they didn’t hold much interest.

A couple years ago, a paddling friend of mine took a trip there and posted his photos on the web. Wow. All kinds of wildlife and stuff going on. Nothing like I thought and I understood why the area merited frequent mention in paddling circles. It went onto my list.

This month a sea kayaking magazine carried a feature article about paddling the San Juans. My eye fell to a photo of a killer whale breaching. That sealed the deal. If not now, when? When you arrive at the end of life, what do you have to show for it except your memories?

The first step is selecting an outfitter. To keep it simple, three parameters: competency, the right route at the right time and the boat.

The first, you take your best shot at web surfing and what you can read between the lines of their web site. Even then, it will depend somewhat on the guides you draw.

Then, it’s got to be soon and it’s got to cover some territory. I want to see some variety and get out to the prime areas.

Finally, I’m going for a sea kayaking experience, so I want to paddle a sea kayak. This requires some background.

For financial reasons, most outfitters target a market broader than existing kayakers. They include those who want the experiences, but aren’t necessarily good paddlers. Or, maybe they haven’t paddled at all.

So, the outfitters favor tandem kayaks. They’re fairly stable and it cuts the number of boats they have to key an eye on in half.

If they do offer solo boats, they tend to be beamy (more than 22” wide). More like stretched recreational kayaks.

Not for me. In my inquiries, I specified what I wanted. The outfitters who had them put out the hoops for me to jump through.

I don’t blame them. Someone overmatched by a boat could easily mess up a trip. But, laying out my experience and skills runs contrary to what I’ve learned.

Whereas some overstate their abilities on the registration forms for such things, I go the other way. I quickly learned that guides have an eye out for experienced kayakers in the group and tend to delegate to them. I don’t mind keeping an eye on one or two people who might encounter problems in high seas, but I’m paying to enjoy the trip, not work it.

With that settled, I’m going about the business of arranging travel to the islands. It’s about as simple as Chinese calculus. But, what place worth going is within easy reach?

I’ve already completed the first step, with predictable results. That is, I tried to buy the airline ticket with my Skymiles. You’ve got a better shot with beads and trinkets.

With that finger exercise out of the way on to the rest.

Karma

Karma. As ye sow so shall ye reap. What goes around comes around. Etc., etc., etc.

I wasn’t thinking this as I agreed to sell the “Mad Cow,” one of my favorite kayaks. I was just doing the good deed.

The kayak first popped up on my radar a couple years ago on a classified ad site. It was a Dagger Outburst, an old school boat. And, it was in a unique swirled black and white pattern that was way cool. I immediately called but it was already gone. Drat!

About six months later, it showed up again on the same site. This time, I was quick enough.

I enjoyed the boat’s old school design and handling for a change of pace experience. I have a stable of kayaks and paddle the crisp modern designs most of the time, but this was fun for a diversion. Kind of like taking out your old MG roadster on a hot, sunny day.

This summer, I became friends with a new paddler who was struggling with the kayak she had acquired without benefit of much knowledge. It was a playboat and suitable for an experienced paddler.

I offered her a choice of some of my boats to borrow until she could ramp up her skills and confidence. She selected the Mad Cow. Not a bad choice for a neophyte, considering its soft and forgiving edges.

She quickly advanced and gained a fairly solid roll. A few weeks ago, I began to wonder how she would react when she had to return the boat. We paddled together and she had added cow bells to the deck and horns to her helmet. Then, we were at a pool practice a few days ago and I noticed that she and the boat moved as one. This wasn’t going to be easy for one of us.

What it came down to was that the boat was an occasional date to me, but a spouse to her. I offered to sell it and she jumped on it.

Not an hour later, I’m working at the computer, mostly as displacement activity to avoid brooding about the loss. A message pops up on my email. It’s from the sales manager at the largest kayak seller in the country, from whom I’ve bought a few boats.

It’s the end of his season and he’s attaching a list of boats he’s got left over with some prices I won’t be able to resist. “LOL.” Okay, I’ll take a look.

On the second page, it jumps off the screen. I was looking for a particular playboat a couple years ago, but couldn’t find one at a good price. I settled for another one at the time. Here it was in the perfect color at a killer price. I called him right away.

Karma works.

When everything comes together

As the faithful readers know, I lead a number of kayak camping trips. You stick your neck out when you do because there are numerous variables that can derail things, especially with wilderness camping (no facilities). Some people don’t deal with adversity well, nor do they want to endure the griping if things go south. To me, it’s just part of the deal with organizing this, or anything you try to accomplish.

Monroe Lake is almost 11,000 acres of surface water located in southern Indiana. Weather is variable one. I can’t do anything about that, so I don’t worry about it, other than prepare the participants for the possibilities.

Since it’s a manmade body of water, it incorporates many fingers, marshes and other backwaters. They provide interesting paddling potential, but also opportunities to get lost in a variety of blind alleys. The best you can do is a lot of advanced homework, including maps and satellite views. It’s still a roll of the dice. Things never look the same at water level, especially when you’re in the labyrinth of a swamp.

The final piece was the campsite. You cannot reserve in this wilderness. I had researched to identify the prime spot. But, the lake is popular and there are no guarantees.

The weather cooperated, clear and hot. I had warned participants to bring plenty of water. There were many places to take a refreshing swim, for those who didn’t have the ability to roll their kayaks as a cooling off method.

There were a couple blind alleys in the navigation of the marshes, but no significant problems. That was a good thing since the heat sapped energy and there wasn’t a lot in reserve for feeling our way around.

That leaves the campsite. As we approached the desired location, it became apparent that others had already staked out some of the prime sites. So, when we encountered a good vacancy about a quarter mile before my target, I was tempted to jump on it before someone else did. But, why settle for less when you’re shooting for the perfect weekend? I paddled on.

As we rounded the final point, my heart sank. The site was nirvana. It was flat, shaded and had an exquisite beach that featured a crop of geodes for collecting. It also had a canoe, tent and two occupants. Drat!

However, I engaged them in conversation and they pointed out how far the site extended, saying there would be more than ample room for our large group. They had no problem with us digging in. It proved to have more than enough space and was one of the best camping sites we’ve ever encountered. The stage was set for a perfect weekend. And, it was.

When you do this kind of thing, you accept that everything seldom turns out as you expected. But, it’s great when everything comes together.

The Co-worker List

“I Hate People!: Kick Loose from the Overbearing and Underhanded Jerks at Work and Get What You Want Out of Your Job” It’s a book written by Jonathan Littman and Marc Hershon. It was also the subject of today’s luncheon speaker.

Among their ten least wanted co-workers are:

“Switchblade – Today they may be trashing your cubemate. Tomorrow they’re dishing you.

Liar, liar – Technology has made it easy for workers to lie about not getting that email or voice mail.

Stop sign – Devil’s advocate is another term for these naysayers. The larger your company, the more likely you’ll run into Stop Signs who strangle your innovative ideas like weeds.”

Etc., etc., etc.

I applaud their initiative for being among those who repackage long standing organization theory with common sense and make a buck off it. But, the classifications seem more generic than tied to the workplace.

After all, habitual gossips and liars are generally deemed loathsome, whether it be in the office or the family, church or neighborhood. And, who has any regard for those who rain on every parade, but never pull off one of their own?

If I were putting together the workplace list of most abhorrent, it would include:

The Phantom – You need to make a copy in a hurry, but discover the last user left the machine jammed. Just disappeared and left it. This person is a kissing cousin to the one who takes the last cup of coffee from the urn and doesn’t make any more.

The Spoiler – A flexible manager tries to accommodate special needs of the employees (payroll advances, having to come in late, etc.). These favors have to be universally available, but can only be viable if they aren’t abused. The spoiler abuses them and ruins it for everyone.

The Merchant of Menace - It always seems there’s one person who has four kids, and each kid has 27 teams to raise money for. You are constantly imposed upon to buy candy bars, greeting cards, and numerous other goods you don’t really need. Let the kids learn how to earn their way and keep the unnecessary pressures out of the workplace.

Now we have the beginnings of a workplace list.

Joey's still paying me

Subsequent to the aforementioned shopping trip, I got to select the movie on pay-per-view. She accused me of retribution, but I was simply applying the “Boggy Principle.” You can pick your own symbol of the genre, but “The Legend of Boggy Creek” was a movie so horrific in every dimension that it achieved cult status. And, unintentional hilarity.

This flick showed great potential. Set in the 1800s, it melded cowboys and aliens (aluminum foil grade special effects), with a dose of self-righteous preaching about the evils of nuclear power, sexism and profiteering. Yes, I did say the 1800s. And nothing says 19th century Colorado like 21st century Romanian countryside. My last vacation had a bigger budget than this film and probably lasted longer than the shooting. There’s no way this couldn’t soar to a new low.

My companion had her finger poised on the button as the closing credits scrolled. Couldn’t wait to kill this one. The screen switched back to a cable channel and she prepared to banish reception altogether, but I grabbed the remote. “Just give me five minutes of this.”

It was Mecum’s Muscle & Classic Car auction. What Sotheby’s is to some, this is to me.

She knew five meant twenty, but sighed in resignation and tried to get into it. “That’s the same car as the last one. Why is it selling for $20,000 more?”

The same car? How could she be so unfeeling? “Because this one has the big block. Someone was smart enough to go a few hundred more back then that turned into five figures, now.”

Her eyebrows knit in calculation. “So, another five cubic inches a cylinder makes a difference.”

“No, it doesn’t make a difference. It makes all the difference.”

I did some work for Joey during my teenage years. He’d pay me a decent hourly wage to work on his personal cars and boats. Sometimes he’d come out to the warehouse to check on progress and would hold forth on his philosophies. Years before, I had been an avid reader on the life of Benjamin Franklin and had decided that one secret of life was learning from people who achieved things.

Joey was no Ben Franklin. But, he was a guy who started with nothing and built a small empire of car dealerships and racing enterprises. When Joey spoke, I listened.

One of the things he said was that you always buy a high ticket item as though you were going to sell it tomorrow. That is, maintain value. So, if you were ordering a new car, as an example, you would go for the most desired options and colors. If you were buying something used and maybe a bit esoteric, you paid bottom dollar so you wouldn’t lose anything, should you decide to liquidate.

The lesson in the auction was that people who buy muscle cars usually want muscle. Period. A few extra bucks in more muscle yielded a fantastic return on investment.

“And you apply this now, when you buy your kayaks?”

“Yeah, I can think of four right off the bat that people already have dibs on, should I decide to sell. I also bought a Harley in the 80s, rode it for five years and sold it for about double what I paid.”

“Why didn’t you do that for a living?”

“I thought about it at one point, but decided my preferences would get in the way. I probably should’ve done it on a smaller scale as investing.”

“What? What’s that look?”

“Let’s fire up your computer. I want to see something.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you start doing that this minute.”

I wasn’t thinking that, but this line of thought tugged at something that had barely registered during the movie. We went up to her computer and I did a quick search of a certain kind of auction site.

“What is that?”

Many years ago, I received firearms training. Subsequently, I joined a sportsmen’s club to maintain the edge with some target shooting. One of the revolvers I acquired wasn’t well suited for plinking, so it has resided in the bottom of my safe for a long time. “That is a Colt Python .357 Magnum.” Among the many things in the movie that was an anomaly in its time frame was a gun that wasn’t manufactured until past the midpoint of the following century.

“It’s a bit expensive.”

“Now it is, but I didn’t pay near that back when.” Cha-ching! “I did go some extra bucks for stainless steel. Let me find one of those.”

“Wow, that’s outrageous.”

“Yes, it is.” Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching! I figure the investment in the stainless option returned about 1,000-1,200%. Not bad as ROIs go.

She elbowed me playfully. “You could sell that and take me on a few more shopping sprees.”

“Sure.” Or, I could buy a few more kayaks.

Joey may have thought we were square back in ’66. But, as far as I’m concerned, he’s been paying me ever since.

Death Row

The row of chairs before me was dotted with men’s faces that reflected impending doom. I selected one to await my fate.

Not the waiting room of an IRS auditor. Nor, the booking desk at the local police station. Your hint is that each chair occupant was weighted down with bags of merchandise, plus a purse.

Yes, it was the row of guy chairs located close to the dressing rooms of a women’s fashion shop. All of these men appeared able to easily handle the rigors of a police booking or tax audit. But, who among us knows the correct answer to “What do you think of this one?”

You don’t know the right answer because there isn’t one. You are wrong by definition. And don’t think you have the mental agility to sidestep the question with a vague or noncommittal response. That will only provoke focused follow-up queries to pin you down on specifics. You will die by degrees instead of by one merciful blow.

But, you can avoid walking into the common pitfalls. For instance, the answer to which of these two looks good is “both.” That won’t get you off the hook, but it does lessen what you will have to do to make up for lost ground.

Beware the test question. If you have been too adroit with your reactions, there will be a question to test your sincerity. Try to finesse that one and you’re back to ground zero.

So, here I sit, neck deep in fancy plastic bags. Trying to figure out what dinner location will best atone for the errors I am about to commit when that door opens.

Money Angel

I led a kayaking trip to Tennessee over the weekend. The first night, we were enjoying the evening on the deck of our cabin when one of the participants asked if I planned to perform any miracles this year. Miracles?

“Yeah, like last year on the Tuck,” she replied and everyone laughed. She meant two years ago, but we knew what she was talking about.

On this annual trip, we usually append an option of paddling rivers in North Carolina, which is on the way home. In this case, the river was the Tuck, which is a little off the beaten path.

I was discussing shuttle arrangements with the group there. That is, how we would drop vehicles at the termination point of the trip, so we’d have a way of returning to where we put in. A spouse of one of the paddlers volunteered to simplify the process. Since she wasn’t paddling, she’d just pick us up at the end and shuttle us back up to our vehicles, so all we had to do was just dump the boats in and go. Great!

Except, about halfway down the river, her husband mentioned something that made all our heads spin around. Without getting into detail, it was revealed that her understanding (as related by her husband) wasn’t the time and place we would end the trip. Someone has better do something or all kinds of ramifications could result.

Someone would be me. I’m the trip leader and people expect a solution for anything and everything.

There was absolutely no cell phone coverage so I began to look for any sign of civilization as we continued to paddle. Finally, I saw a few ends of trailers atop a steep bank. There were some youngsters peering over the edge at us. “Are there any adults up there?” I yelled. They just continued to stare, Deliverance-like.

I climbed out of my kayak and clawed my way about halfway up the steep and slippery clay. “I said….” Ponk! One of them had chucked a clod at my head. And people ask why kayakers wear helmets.

“I said, are there any adults up there?”

“I’m thirteen,” called one of the tallest.

“Anyone older, like your parents?”

“My mom’s in Alabama.” Yeah, that helps.

It appeared I’d have to find out for myself. I continued my climb, keeping head down, in case of further bombardment. When I emerged at the top, I stood in a semicircle of five barefoot girls, ranging from about six to fourteen in age.

We studied each other for a minute when the door of the nearby rusty trailer burst open. “What the hell’s goin’ on out here?’ Oh good. Granny Clampett in a tube top and cutoffs. My day just keeps getting better.

Whys and wherefores would only confuse the issue, so I got right to the point. “I’ll give you $30 to take me to (whatever the name of the bridge was where we put in).”

“Whaaaa? How come? Why you dressed funny?” I’m the one dressed funny?

“We’re paddling down on the river and something has come up. I need to get back to my truck and I’ll give you $30 to take me there. Cash.”

Something came over her, along with a huge smile. She pointed a bony finger. “The lord done sent you to deliver me!”

“Perhaps I didn’t explain it quite right. You see…”

“I heard ya plain enough. I was prayin’ for some money to feed my grandchildren and the lord done sent an angel. Praise the lord and all his glory. Praise his angel and my salvation, praise…”

“Can I tell my friends I have a ride?”

She got her keys and we climbed into an old minivan that listed about 20 degrees to starboard. Thelma (her name) fished a crumpled pack of Luckies out of her top. She lit up, hacked heartily and bellowed for the kids to jump into the van.

The three youngest eagerly complied, now seeing me as a fascination. What, with me being sent by the lord and all.

However, the older ones resisted. “Y’all can stay but keep yer dern snouts outta the whiskey!” Thelma turned to me. “I don’t like them gittin’ sh##faced without me around.”

“Very commendable of you.”

“Lord knows I tryin’. That’s why he sent you when all this happened. Course, you already knowed that.”

“Well, he doesn’t always tell me everything, so why don’t you fill me in.”

Thelma lives with her daughter and her five daughters in Alabama. They have access to this trailer in North Carolina. Thelma’s daughter couldn’t get away from work, so she gave her a hundred bucks and told her to take the girls up to North Carolina and she’d join them the following weekend.

Thelma did that, but somehow got sidetracked to an Indian casino where the money “disappeared.” None of them has eaten for the past two days, except for Cheetos and potato chips. Go good with whiskey.

The few miles seemed interminable. I got out of the van, walked around to the driver side and held out three tens with my thanks. Thelma’s eyes snapped open with delight as she grabbed for them. A little too wide.

I didn’t let go of the bills. “It’s for food, not the casino.”

“Oh yes, I know. I learnt my lesson.”

I had some doubts and hung onto the bills until she made eye contact. “Good, because if you haven’t and spend this on anything but your grandchildren, the next angel won’t be nice like me.”

That seemed to register, so I added a twenty. Being an angel of the lord can have significant overhead.

Neo-Doo Wop

End of a long day and I settle into the recliner to wind down with one of the esoteric channels that are worth the cost of electricity. And there it is, the Doo Wop Preservation League.

Ah, my kind of sound, with all it evokes. But wait, it’s not about that. Even better, it’s about a place that engendered all that was good and fun about the era. Wildwood, New Jersey. Or, “The Wood,” as we referred to it in my callow youth.

For a summary, listen to Bobby Rydell’s “Wildwood Days.” Bob Ridarelli, as he was known around the neighborhood where he played with a number of street corner groups. He would know about The Wood.

I previously blogged about The Wood and it’s nice to know that it holds a special place for many. Special enough for them to bring it back from the brink. I was there three years ago and the old magic was beginning to lose out to weekend condos.

But, the art deco/50s architecture is back with renovated and new motels. Not that we ever stayed in them. We were more the ten teenagers in a $10 boardinghouse room types. But, who stayed in the room?

Days were for the beach and nights were for parties. “Under the Boardwalk” (The Drifters) was a celebration of the weekend down the shore, far from the bonds of adult supervision. The spirit was somewhat recaptured by “Eddie and the Cruisers” and the rendition of “Wild Summer Nights.”

I don’t know if the movement (http://www.doowopusa.org/) will register enough with more recent generations to sustain the effort. But, I’ll be making the pilgramage to this beachside mecca and a contribution to their economy.

This time, in a motel.