A fine consultant

I make judicious use of consultants. I suppose that could appear ironic since I’ve done consulting, but that just means I know the game. There are situations where it’s wise to use one and there are consultants who are good to use, but neither is the predominant.

The situation I was facing was obtaining a certification for an organization I run. We could burn a few thousand personnel hours figuring out the prodigious manual and how to apply it, hoping our interpretations were congruent with that of the auditors, or I could just contract with an experienced consultant who had walked other organizations through the process. I’ll take door number two.

Now, which one? They all have glowing testimonials from clients. I called around to probe for some candid insights. This narrowed it down to a few and I involved my department heads in making the final decision. They outvoted me, so I harbored some doubts. I could’ve pulled rank, but they’re the ones who would have the most interaction.

Ray showed up today to begin his assignment. We made small talk, but that’s just the start of the ritual dance. He was looking for my expectations and I was still trying to figure out if he was a good choice.

Ray had some business in our county and knew the players. He laughed at some recent developments he had spotted in the newspaper (see the blog about the raid of the stripper bar). He went on to comment on how the politics were more comical and inept than any other place he worked. Then, he caught himself.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense to your home.”

“None taken. I don’t live in this county and I’m not from the area.”

“Where are you from?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Philly? That’s my favorite place.”

Am I being worked here? Ray’s a Midwesterner and I don’t know many who enjoy the more direct and candid culture. They installed a magistrate court in the football stadium for expeditious processing of the high volume of fights at Eagles games. The quote is attributed to several ballplayers, but I believe Leo Durocher was the first to say that when Phillies games get rained out, the fans go down to the airport to boo bad landings. It’s the town where the proper response to “Good morning” is “Good morning this!” Geez, I miss it.

But, I can’t see Ray warming up to it and I don’t think a sycophant is the right person to bulldog us through a critical operation. Maybe he craves the cheesesteaks. Or, the many historical buildings. Perhaps the proximity to ocean and mountains. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. “What do you like about Philly?”

“South Street.” Ah, the nightlife. “At Third.”

Huh? “I know the neighborhood, but can’t place what’s there.”

“Larry Fine’s birthplace.”

Rings a bell, but I can’t bring up the file. “Who?”

“Larry Fine. And, they have a Three Stooges museum there.”

Oh, that Larry. Yes, we had selected the right consultant.

Hats off to Ken Parsons

The world would be a better place if there were more Ken Parsons’. Yesterday, Ken Parsons stated, “As a law-enforcement professional, I am insulted that these counterfeiters think they can run their illegal businesses with impunity in plain sight.” Bravo.

Parsons is a detective on the diminutive Monroe (Ohio) police force. What he referred to was a bust at a large flea market, concerning those who sell trademark-counterfeited goods.

Forget about the nature of the crime. One could easily argue that it’s not the most dire plight afflicting mankind or that huge corporations are the only victims. That isn’t the point.

Focus on what Parsons said and then turn on your television, radio or internet connection. There are tens of thousands of scams operating brazenly in plain sight. Unless, of course, you’re among the many who believe a few FDA-exempt pills will cure your arthritis, shed fifty pounds or increase the dimensions of certain organs. Or, an expensive DVD will cut you in on the secrets of making millions in real estate, investing or ebay.

What aids and abets the scam artists is one unspoken thought. If this wasn’t legit, they couldn’t be advertising it out in the open.

I was a naïve businessman in his 20s when a friend of mine was taken by a crook operating from Florida, probably out of his back bedroom. He came to me because he thought I knew how business operated.

I discerned that the guy kept the amount of the sting under the cost of people around the country going after him. I contacted him and he laughed. I said if he didn’t make good, the only avenue left to me was to report him to the authorities. He laughed again and wished me luck. He was smart enough to keep his size under the radar and he knew it. More than one could say of me.

He may be out of the reach of civil remedies, I thought, but he wasn’t from the FTC, FBI, U.S. Postal Service, Attorney General and other defenders of the creed. Not to mention the media that carried his ads to an unsuspecting public. What a boob (me).

I amassed the evidence and contacted the appropriate authorities. With remarkable indifference, they deflected me to “the process.” I filled out and filed the forms. Nothing. I followed up. If I was able to get a response, it was that when they received enough complaints, they looked into it.

I said they didn’t understand, I had incontrovertible proof of fraud. They said they understood and had my forms. If action was warranted, they would take it. If proof of overt fraud didn’t warrant their action, what did? And where was their pride? This guy and his ilk openly traded under their noses.

So, I went to the media that ran his advertising. He paid his bills, which was all they cared about. Welcome to the real world.

And that is the real world. They can run their scams on national media, as long as they don’t reach critical mass or screw over the wrong person.

Or, they run into the rare Ken Parsons.

Love those people who hit you in the face with their Bibles

Rawnica last year, when running on the platform of Christian family values:
http://tinyurl.com/bwzezv

Rawnica in the “Middletown Journal” this week:
HAMILTON — Police here arrested five women early this morning, Feb. 24, at a local nightclub, and issued a summons on a former candidate for Butler County commission.
The Hamilton Police Department's vice unit conducted an undercover operation late last night at V's Nightclub, 1483 Millville Ave., after receiving tips the business was planning to offer erotic dancers to patrons, according to a department news release.
Posing as customers, detectives said they saw dancers wearing little or no clothing, offering erotic dances for $5 and touching patrons inappropriately, according to the release. Detectives also said they observed Eryka Huckins, a 20-year-old female from Cincinnati who was later arrested, expose her breasts and allow dancers to touch them.
Police said the nightclub touted it would have dancers from eXposed, a company that offers for-hire male and female dancers. Police said they did not know the business location of eXposed, but a company by that name operates out of Fort Wayne, Ind.
In addition to the dancers and customers, police said they issued a misdemeanor summons to bar manager Rawnica Dillingham for not having an area clearly defined and separate from the patrons area, according to the news release.
Dillingham, who was defeated during the March 2008 Primary by incumbent Charles Furmon, stumped on the slogan "The Real Republican." She is also the executive director of the nonprofit Mental Health Matters.

Now, if they would finally investigate what Mental Health Matters is…

I stand corrected. The Ohio Elections Commission fined Mental Health Matters $17,500.00 last month for infractions, and is adding $100.00 daily. The candidate's PAC is being pursued by creditors who were stiffed for $12,500.00. The newspaper did report these, if nothing else.

Project Greenlight

This morning I listened to an interview of J. J. Murphy, author of “Me and You and Memento and Fargo – How independent Screenplays Work.” His insights were intriguing, but may be too little, too late for me.

Project Greenlight was launched in 2000 as a contest, and I regret entering only one year because it went by the boards not long after. In its original version, it was simply a shot for unknowns to write and direct a film. The winner premiered at the Sundance Film Festival and enjoyed limited distribution.

Of course, if you won, you had to drop everything in your life for about a year to make the movie. I still jumped at the prospect.

In hindsight, I can discern the significant mistakes. The first was to read a couple books on screenwriting and follow them like recipes. This was independent film making, not Hollywood formula writing. I should’ve went with my creative instincts and gone off-road.

For instance, Murphy pointed out that “Fargo” employed shifting protagonists. Not something you see a lot of at the Showcase Cinema. It jumped the plot track to more graphically draw the characters. He exemplifies this with the scene where Marge meets up with Mike, a friend from high school days.

Mike fixates on her, and either deludes or outright lies about his relationships and other things. This digression adds dimension to her character. It shows she’s not only extremely supportive of her artist husband, but she maintains this focus even with her own challenging job and having to deal with an obsessive lunatic. We have a better sense of her depth.

From the title of his book, you can tell that “Fargo” is a good model to follow. I had seen it, but didn’t connect the dots.

The other big mistake I made was not starting from scratch. I had written two novels and dusted one of them off to convert it to a screenplay. If you ever loved a book and was disappointed in the subsequent movie, you’ll understand.

With a book, you have virtually unlimited space to develop characters, plot, etc. You have to gut that to fit the movie time frame. Grady’s “Six Days of the Condor” became “Three days of the Condor” on film, to exemplify. My book concept was pretty good, but it just didn’t develop in the screenplay.

My effort didn’t make the first cut of Greenlight. Mulling over the idea of entering something the following year, I sent the script to Steve for critique.

As adolescents, Steve and I collaborated to enter films in the old Kodak amateur competition and did pretty well. Steve went on to become a successful screenwriter.

“Did they give you a production budget?”

“I think it was a million dollars. Do you think I went over it?”

“In the first scene. The protagonist feels more than vaguely familiar. I assume you thought of playing yourself, like when you tried to cast yourself opposite Adelle Fizzano in our “Goldfinger” spoof. Were you trying to win this contest or just write some intimate scenes for you and Julia Roberts?” Not mutually exclusive and both worthy goals.

“What’s wrong with me as a character? I believe you used me in “48 Hours,” n’est pas?”

“No, I just said I needed to borrow some undesirable traits for one of the characters. I see this more as a book than a movie. Why don’t you rewrite it as a novel?”

Why didn’t I think of that?

I started a business shortly after the contest and Greenlight was gone before I had time to dabble again. But, that’s just an excuse. If it meant that much to me, I’d find a way.

Satisfaction

As karma would have it (blog about the smile), I located two outstanding kayaks for sale to chose from, both in New York. Transportation cost was going to be a factor and an LTL truck carrier was out of the question. They tend to munch long kayaks of light construction.

I could locate a company that specializes in this mode of transportation or make the trip myself and turn it into a getaway weekend. I called some prospects to ride shotgun. Negotiating the New York mountains in February with a pickup truck held surprisingly little appeal to them.

An idea occurs to me. I know a friend is looking for a boat similar to these kayaks. This could be his answer and maybe we could get a discount on shipping. All I have to do is work a deal on one boat, one between him and the other seller, and convince a transport company it’s worth a volume discount, even if the boat locations are different. Or, I could just turn around the world economy, whichever is less complex. Why complicate things by trying to structure a five-way deal? Same reason I do the puzzle page in the newspaper. The satisfaction of making it happen.

Yes, it sounds relatively simple. But, you have five parties involved and not everyone buys into the win-win philosophy. I don’t know most of them, but can surmise. The boat transport guy has chosen the lifestyle and freedom of a gypsy, accountable largely to himself. He’ll go good with the other buyer, an engineer who needs tons of details, diagrams, maps and updates. And, one of the sellers is a college professor, introducing the academic viewpoint. Nothing can go wrong here.

I manage to orchestrate the framework for the five-way transaction. As the process ensues, the inevitable snarls occur for me to unknot. I find myself wondering if this is worth a few bucks off the freight or should I just make the run solo and get some expense money from my friend. There’s something vaguely familiar about this.

It was my first professional job since graduating college. We sold a subsidiary to a company on the East Coast, not far from my hometown. A transition team was assembled and I was surprised to be included. Ah, but someone would have to do the grunt work.

One of my assignments was to get quotes for moving the company records to the buyer’s location, which was our responsibility in the contract. I bided my time through a long meeting and then had center stage. I presented three quotes, ranging from $2,400 to $2,800. Grumbling suffused the room. They were already irritated from the arduous session and I wasn’t the messenger of good news.

An argument broke out and a thought occurred to me. I could be a hero, make some money and get a free trip home to hang with my cousins. “I’ll do it for half. $1,200.”

The room fell silent and all eyes turned to me. “You? How are you going to do it?” I think the CEO’s unspoken question was, who the hell are you?

“I’ll rent a truck and drive it.”

“Did you think about loading and unloading, and other issues?”

“I’ll take responsibility for figuring everything out.”

He looked at the head of my division who finally gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Okay, but one thing that you may not have thought of.”

“What’s that?”

“If you screw up, don’t bother coming back.” His reputation preceded him. I didn’t need to hear that.

First thing you may be thinking is why do all that for a lousy twelve hundred, less expenses? For perspective, my salary then was $11,250. This wasn’t bad money and was like a paid vacation.

I went to the location to eyeball the load before picking a truck to rent. It hadn’t been necessary before since I just had movers go over there to calculate their bids.

Holy crap! This company had been in business since the turn of the century. The records filled a cavernous, dank basement. Good lesson in having the relevant facts before opening one’s mouth.

The largest truck available, without moving up to a semi (out of the question) was 26’. It would hold about 1,400cf or four tons. I needed to estimate the load.

I measured a few boxes and hoisted them. From there, it was the floor footprint times the average stack height. I came up with about 20% over the truck capacity. Now what? Hmmmm. Were they really going to pore over records from 1908? Who does that?

I could deliver the most recent documents, up to capacity. If they squawked, I’d have to make good.

Another quick calculation. If I started loading the truck today, it would be filled by the time I made vice president. Of course, if the shipment took that long, I wouldn’t even make assistant manager. My margin was rapidly disappearing and I needed a way to minimize cost.

On a friend’s advice, I went to government agencies. Yes, they could hook me up with some workers to load the trucks. Recipients of unemployment and other funds were required to accept work assignments or show good reason why not. I can’t imagine it’s still like that.

I had calculated that five could do it in a reasonable amount of time, but requested six. Three ragged men showed up. One arrived by cab. Yeah, that’s cost-effective for him.

So, I pitched in and spent half my time loading and the other half tracking down their hiding places and prodding them back to work. By the time I left the lot, I was two hours behind schedule. Big deal, you say.

It was. Another miscalculation came into play. When I was in college, I had made this run almost a dozen times. Radar wasn’t prevalent, then. I would leave around ten on a weekday evening, dial in warp drive and be crossing the Philadelphia city line a little after five in the morning.

I wasn’t expecting this behemoth to snake through the mountains of western Pennsylvania, but I did think it would clip right along once it got up a head of steam in flat Ohio. Think again.

Loaded down to the axles, it couldn’t even hit the speed limit (70) under ideal conditions. Most of the time, conditions weren’t ideal. Any headwind, bump or hill robbed me of already meager momentum. I had it floored climbing out of the river valley in Wheeling and didn’t let up until I hit New Stanton. Never broke 55 and thought I’d have to perform CPR on the steep upgrades. The blinker got a workout.

I had called ahead, but they still weren’t happy. Instead of arriving at the opening whistle, I’d be limping in not that long before quitting time.

I had already asked if they would mind unloading the truck and they had agreed, without asking questions. Two guys were waiting for me and they weren’t happy when I rolled up the door. They weren’t happy? I had been wrestling boxes and the truck’s balky steering for almost 24 hours. I was sore, exhausted and red-eyed. I really didn’t give a black rat’s butt if they were happy or not. I found an empty skid and went to sleep.

They woke me up in a few hours and I dropped off the truck. Drives a lot better without eight thousand pounds of cargo. My cousins picked me up and we had a few days of fun before I worked the economic magic of standby flying for the leg home.

Not the big net profit I anticipated and more complicated than Chinese algebra, but it made some points back at the office. And, there was the satisfaction of making it happen. Which brings me back to the present.

The boat hauler stopped returning calls and emails a little way into the coordinating process. You always got his answering machine because he was out on the road. I suspected he was finding the personalities and logistics more than he dealt with in his core trade (volume shipments from manufacturers to dealers) and a good deal more than he wanted to put up with. I felt like I could iron it out if I could get him on the phone. But how?

In researching haulers, I had found some favorable mentions of him on the web from happy customers. If they had been customers, they had to have coordinated the time and place of the handoff. That wasn’t done through the office phone. They had his cell number.

I made a couple contacts and no one had hung onto the number. I asked a woman if she had received it by email and, if so, please check her inbox around the date of the delivery. That worked.

I reached him on his cell, much to his surprise, and hooked everything up again. He got a double sale, a couple guys in New York converted their boats to cash and we got some very nice kayaks for a good net cost. Everybody won.

And there was the satisfaction of making it happen.

Chains

The recent blog about “Blue Highways” alludes to chains of events. Life is a huge, interwoven tapestry of chains of events.

I was listening to an interview with an acquaintance of someone who allegedly had said, “Hey Lee, did you see where Kennedy is going to be in Dallas?” I wouldn’t want that etched in my memory banks.

This was fresh in my mind when Jim called from Boston. I hadn’t spoken with him for years.

Our freshman year of college, five of us came together in a bond that would endure through graduation and beyond. The only common thread I can come up with is that we all emanated from blue collar backgrounds. One of them was Rick.

“So, how’s Rick?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since his divorce.”

“Rick and Sarah split? Hard to believe. Why did they get divorced?”

I pondered that in the context of the radio interview. “Because I didn’t drive a Ford Fairmont to Tony’s picnic.”

There was a noticeable pause. “I’m afraid I’m going to need more information.”

I guess this domino chain started in the late 70s and early 80s. I had gone to work for a company, increased its sales about 400% in five years while boosting profits 800%. The owner was pocketing additional millions while my annual income had gone up about $50,000. What’s wrong with this picture?

Nothing really, except I learned a lesson. The one who takes the risks is entitled to the spoils. So, I left to start my own business.

At the time, I drove a Chevy Suburban, long before SUVs came into vogue. It was great for hauling around kids and canoes.

But, it would be an albatross for running around town on sales calls, which is what I’d have to do to get the business off the ground. So, I looked around for a nimble beater and found it.

A farm girl in Indiana had inherited her grandfather’s base model Ford Fairmont and wouldn’t be caught dead in it. She said her friends would think she worked for the water department or something. My gain.

I got the business going, but was not growing as quickly as I had anticipated. Prospects kept saying that they wanted to make sure I’d be around for a while before committing. If they didn’t start committing, I wouldn’t be around.

There was a business event one night and Jeff offered me a lift. He was a partner in a large CPA firm and was well-networked around the business community. He asked how it was going and I told him.

“Want a piece of advice?”

“I’m wide open.”

“Lose that car.”

“The car?”

“Yeah, that’s why people wonder if you’ll be around for long. It looks like you’re in hock up to your eyebrows.” For good reason, I might add.

So, I got a spiffy ride and things came together. I have no way to confirm a cause and effect, but I wouldn’t bet against it in future similar situations.

About two businesses later, I was driving a Lexus to project the required image. Tony invited us to a picnic. He was getting together the old gang, at least those who still lived in town. Rick was one of them.

As we sat around on folding chairs, Sarah’s eyes fixed on my car. She got up, walked over to it and ran her hand over the fender in kind of a tactile awe. “Rick, why don’t we get one of these?”

“We’ve had that conversation, honey.” A little too much emphasis on the last word.

“Yes we did and we’re still clunking around in that ratty Dodge.”

I glanced at my watch, but it was too soon to say that it was getting late. The burgers weren’t even done.

“And you know why. We’ve talked. Now, let it go and come sit down.”

“I don’t know why. You graduated with Henry and they have a Lexus.”

Rick glared at me. “Nothing to do with it.” But, he didn’t take his eyes off me.

“Oh, I think there is. Henry, how come you can afford a car like this and Rick can’t?”

“Hey Tony, how are those burgers coming?”

The dispute continued through the meal and apparently after. They left early with Rick shooting me a look over his shoulder. What did I do?

I gave Jim the short version, but the whole chain of events began the day I went to work for someone. “So, he never talked to you after the picnic?”

“No. I’m driving a four year old car now and hope to run into him. Maybe he’ll forgive me.”

Valentine's Day falls in February this year

I ran into Kim, who used to work for me in the magazine business. As we were parting ways, I wished her a happy Valentine’s Day.

“Yes, isn’t it nice to celebrate holidays with everyone else?”

Few people outside the business give that any thought. Back in the days of manual cut and paste, a monthly magazine was often put to bed two or three months before issue date. You knew people didn’t realize that because you’d get editorial submissions a couple weeks ahead of newsstand time. The printed publications were already on the trucks.

The creation process began well before that. Imagine sitting around a hot office in July, coming up with Christmas article ideas. I had also been in the greeting card business, and that might’ve been more challenging. When you come in with sweat on your brow, it’s a real change of gears to evaluate snowy artwork.

There’s more to it than product work. You’re also ramping up with seasonal marketing and sales. By the time the holiday rolls around, you’re about burnt out on it. Everyone else is celebrating Christmas and you're already reviewing Easter copy.

I enjoy Valentine’s Day and look forward to it even more this year, thanks to Kim. It will be nice to celebrate it with everyone else.

The smile

I was having dinner with a friend when she judged the time right to broach a subject. “Since you won’t be paddling your racing kayak for a while, why don’t we bring it over to my place? I’d like to use it for workouts.”

“I sold it. How about one of my other boats?”

“Sold it? I thought you just got it.”

“Depends upon your perspective on the passage of time. That was a few months ago. Almost a generation on my boat calendar.”

“I thought you liked it. Why did you sell?”

“Loved it. Sold it because the girl next door got a new trumpet.”

A pained expression clouded her face. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “If this is another Charlie Crews thing, I don’t want hear it.” It’s her contention that the producers of the television series “Life” owe me royalties. As such, I had little choice but to stay in character and explain over her protestation.

I got home from work one night and saw one of the girls next door shoveling snow. “Congratulations on the new horn.”

If she smiled like that much harder, there’d be no snow to shovel. I understood. “Thanks! How did you know?”

“I was outside the other night and heard. I used to play.”

When you start out, you often do so with a small bore trumpet. This enables you to focus on fingering and mouth technique. Breath force and control come later. You can’t wait to graduate to a “real horn.” A small bore lacks in tone. Worse, especially for youngsters, it kind of marks you as a novice.

When you’re ready to make the leap, it’s a big deal. So, I could relate to her smile and it was a joy to see. She had worked for it and was ready to move up.

I went inside and checked the web boards I moderate. A message on a paddling board from the previous day now caught my eye and took on added meaning. A fairly young man was looking for a kayak like the one I had recently acquired, wanting to advance to the next level. He would have a tough time finding it.

First of all, they aren’t made in large numbers. While not a full out race class, this design is more specialized than most desire. Manufacturing of them just ceased, so they have become an even scarcer commodity. Likewise, this jacked up an already substantial price and might put it out of the young man’s reach. Will would have a tough time making his leap.

I got to thinking about the smile I had just seen and emailed Will a price I’m certain was much lower than he’ll find on the market, assuming he could even locate one within striking distance. In my search, most were further away than the Andromeda Galaxy or more costly than a Faberge’ egg. Ahh, he may be just tire kicking anyway.

He’s not. He looks it over well and takes the deal. He doesn’t have the proper racks and asks if I would deliver it across town. In for a penny, in for a pound.

I had a long drive to try to avoid second guessing myself about the decision to do this. He opened his garage, took the boat from my truck and placed it upon the pedestal he had carefully arranged for it. He took a couple steps back and then came that smile.

Yeah, it was the right decision.

Shortly after my good deed, a painkiller prescription ran out and I’m staring at the open space in my garage previously occupied by my water rocket. Whiskey, tango, foxtrot. What was I thinking?

Oh well. Good karma for a replacement search.

Blue Highways

I came across this early tome of William Least Heat-Moon. He’s hammered out a sequel fairly recently, if the subject intrigues you.

Bill hit a rough patch and lost about everything of significance to him. With a few hundred bucks and a battered work van, he decided this would be the time to roam the country. The logic may not resonate with you, but I’d worked through similar equations two or three times.

The first time was a couple years into a position with a Fortune 500 company, which was also my first professional job. My marriage was about the same vintage. I wasn’t sure I belonged in either contract.

So, I announced to my spouse that for our next vacation, we would load the car down to the spring stops and just head out west. “No plans, no reservations, no discussions on this?”

“No, no and no.” I was wrong about the last no.

We headed out as soon as the whistle blew one Friday. Made it to a motel in Vandalia, IL. I remember that because I noted it held the same name as a burg not that far from our point of origin. I said that the trip was already taking on mystical qualities and Carol gave me a raised eyebrow look that I would encounter again for years to come.

The next stop was Abilene. Ah, Abilene. Home of Fess Parker and Tex Cobb. Cattle shipping point of the Texas and Pacific Railroad. All that Texas cachet.

Except, we were in Abilene, Kansas. Home of Dwight Eisenhower and a microscopic zoo. You read that right. They couldn’t afford a standard zoo, so they had a room full of microscopes focused on one-cell animals. Could’ve sold some campy tee shirts if they had given it any thought.

We checked into a cheap motel and went out to the pool. Standard procedure is that I would take advantage of this and go around and talk with people. Carol would tent a newspaper over her face and pretend to nap and have no knowledge of me.

I met some people heading to race stock cars in Wichita. Right up my alley. We talked the same language. They invited me to pit crew for them. I raced to share the good news with Carol. It did not impress.

I trudged back to decline. To make up some ground, or change the subject, they offered a piece of advice. Don’t eat breakfast on the interstate. Wait until you see a sign at an exit that says “Mouse Breath, 11 miles” or some such town. Go there. There will be a sign that says “Food” or “Eat.” Have your breakfast there.

We did and had the best breakfast, ever. People kept coming over and talking to us. We were invited to attend a barn razing later in the day. That also failed to impress.

So, we pushed on to Denver, cleaned up in a hotel and dined downtown. The Emerson Street East. One of the best steaks I ever had. Next morning, it was over to Golden and the Coors Brewery tour. I had my heart set on a cold, foamy one, but they only gave out purified spring water at the end. I was thirsty, not looking to iron a shirt.

Keeping the hood ornament pointing north, we came to Estes Park. It was idyllic and worth a few days. The exception was one day we parked at a trailhead. I was swinging my car door shut when Carol, screeched, for the hundredth time this trip, “Do you have your key?” If you think you know someone, take a long car trip with her. I slapped my pocket and continued the arc of the door. The split second before it closed, I heard the warning chime and knew the key I felt in my pants was from the motel.

I had to hike a ways down the road to find a wire hanger and then spend some time working it just right. Carol never touched cameras, but she saw fit to pick up mine and capture this for posterity.

North was working, so we continued up into Wyoming. After Cheyenne, I took to the back roads. Almost a big mistake. Towns were few and far between, and many didn’t have gas pumps. We arrived in Lusk and went to the diner after topping off the tank.

It was like a western movie, especially in contrast to the breakfast in Kansas. People just stared at us. We were seated and the unflinching stares persisted. Not a good place to be a stranger in town.

From there, we went east into South Dakota. Carol wanted to see Mount Rushmore and the Badlands. I had seen enough photos. She insisted and was right.

We also made a stop at General Custer State Park, which boasted you could see up to 123 animals. We saw two. Three, if you counted the cocker spaniel. We encountered sign after sign, “Do not molest the bison.” They were followed by one, “Bison burgers, two miles.”

We continued across the state and the sun was dipping, along with our energy levels. Carol was lobbying for a stop. But, none of our recent lodging had had air conditioning and I doggedly held I wouldn’t do another night without it. We drove and squabbled on and on. Finally found a place and it was a dump. In the morning, I caught Carol taking pictures for the record. The woman doesn’t pick up a camera her whole life and all of a sudden she’s Ansel Adams.

As we crossed the Minnesota line, I realized I had a friend from college who lived there. We paid a visit and it was fun, but not the magic of the wanderlust. In Illinois, Carol suggested we visit some of her family in Chicago. That pretty well finished off the magic. Good trip, though.

My next ramble started out similar to Heat-Moon’s. A major investor I had in my business turned out to be a fraud. He looted the companies he had some control in and skipped town, leaving others to the creditors, which included taxing authorities.

If this was a Hollywood movie, a cadre of government agents would amass, make some clever deductions and track him down. In reality, they saw it easier to pounce upon those of us who were easily accessible and already his victims.

I fought them off for a year. In the event you didn’t know, when it comes to government agencies, you are guilty until proven innocent. In their tax courts. There is no level playing field.

I managed to beat back the tax jackals, but other debts and legal fees took me down. I was left with a Harley, Kawasaki sport bike and a few hundred bucks. Road trip!

In the movies, I’d do the Harley thing. Peter Fonda. But, I felt the need for catharsis before picking myself off the mat for another round. I needed the raw speed and acceleration of the Kawasaki. So, I packed a few duds and a small tent and rocketed out of town astride the Ninja.

The bike is also a master of the curves, so I followed the winding Ohio River through Indiana and Illinois. I stopped in a small town, just across the Mississippi River and located a rough looking bar. An hour till they opened, so I cruised around and was pulled over.

I had been taking in the sights and told the officer I knew I wasn’t speeding. He said he just wanted to see who I was. They don’t get a lot of people on Jap crotch rockets around here. So much for probable cause and the wisdom of not riding the Harley.

I returned to the bar and it was already doing some business. I watched a spirited game of pool. A few gimlet-eyed regulars stopped and said something like, “You’re the guy been riding around on that rice burner.” It wasn’t a question.

“Word travels fast,” I mentioned to the bartender when he refilled my draft.

“Yep.”

“Friendly town.”

“Wait till you meet Gayle.”

“Who’s Gayle?”

“You’ll see.” Chatty fellow.

A half hour later, Daisy Duke made her entrance. Actually, it was Gayle. From this crowd, I expected unabashed leering and some construction site commentary. But, she was greeted with deference and maybe a hint of fear. She was the owner.

She made a quick trip to check the register and then fixed a baleful eye on me. “What the hell are you doing here?” The consummate hostess.

We exchanged pleasantries until closing time. She lived on a houseboat moored on the river. So did I, for the next two weeks. A little bit of heaven, but not a long term solution. Also, not the cross country jaunt I set out to do, but served the purpose. I returned home and began conjuring up a new business venture.

That process was interrupted a few months later. Laura called and said she didn’t want to spend the holidays in town and wanted to roam the desert. Did I want to ride shotgun? Sounds like a deal.

We were flying into Phoenix and would grab a car there and just head south. I asked if she had made a reservation. What for? Who goes to Phoenix for Christmas?

Three bowl games, that’s who. We wound up taking a cab to a suburb just to find a rental car.

She was hungry, but I insisted we wait until we were well out of town and could find a genuine Mexican restaurant in a small village. As it turns out, there’s nothing like a small village in southern Arizona for a good Vietnamese dinner. I don’t know where the Mexicans went, but the Vietnamese were immigrating here en masse.

We meandered around for a few days and found ourselves at the border. I crossed at Nogales so we could get our genuine Mexican meal. Good move. That would stay with us for weeks to come. But, it was a great rambling trip with many unique experiences. Met a lot of interesting people along the way.

So, I could relate to and enjoy “Blue Highways.” And, I look forward to the author’s recently published sequel. May be time for another road trip for me, as well.