The story line wrote itself. Greg Doyel of CBS Sports was among the throng to take advantage of that.
With TO and Chad, the Bengals lose. Take them away and the Bengals win. They rack up personal statistics, but destroy team chemistry. What they do best is lose, according to Doyel.
It’s too simplistic to blame them. My interest in the Bengals is much more of a lab for organizational dynamics than as a sports entity. I grant Doyel and the other observers some points, but disagree where they lay the final responsibility.
TO has had issues everywhere he’s been and I submit that Chad, if he had traveled, would’ve, too. Have issues one place and that’s understandable. Several, and the fault doesn’t lie with all of those different organizations where they butted heads. It becomes obvious where the problem lies. That’s the mark of a loser and the Bengals should’ve seen that coming with TOs public history, not to mention that he was heavily advocated by his stable mate in the problem child crib. See “birds of a feather.”
Organizations that let the inmates run the asylum stagnate and become losers like those who foment the bad chemistry. But, those inmates aren’t the ones in authority.
In business, you frequently have the prima donnas. It’s a balancing act. You have to keep them productive without allowing them to negatively affect the corporate culture. If they choose to play their trump cards or be a disruption, you must make the tough choices and come out ahead. As a successful business owner once told me, “If you don’t put out the garbage, it stinks up the kitchen.”
So, I don’t blame the receivers for making the team a loser. It was management that allowed it to happen.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Rewarded into submission
I’ve already caviled about rebate offers, so I won’t bore you with the evils of them. But, a close cousin is the so-called rewards program.
Some are good and some, not so much. But, I’m not going to carry around forty cards in my wallet, which already has enough IDs, insurance cards and other documentation to bloat it up to brick size. I am susceptible to the approach that I don’t have to have the card on me. They can credit the account from my name and zip code. That’s a good deal, providing you first check out the obstacle course you must negotiate to collect the reward. I don’t always do that, assuming they wouldn’t negate the good will with a pot of manure at the end of the rainbow. Oh wait, I assumed that with Skymiles.
Case in point, a manufacturer of outdoor clothing had a line of high end winter gear that just called my name. I kept waiting for spring clearance sales, but none of this particular line showed up. Then, about five years ago, they discontinued the it.
I didn’t know why they did that since it had a strong following. But, curtailing the products would benefit me since it moved the inventory to discount liquidators. In theory.
Unfortunately, the market also sensed the error in their ways and the high prices became astronomical for the rare commodity. I was reluctant to pay retail and sure wouldn’t go for the scalping.
Around November, I started getting requests from loved ones for potential gift ideas. That’s a tough one for me, but I began to pay attention to the spam from some of my favorite retailers. Bingo! The manufacturer reintroduced the line and it was carried by one I had a rewards deal with. I never checked, but I must have about a zillion dollars racked up with them in a rewards program. With the gift certificates and the rewards, I might be able to get off scot free.
When the time came, I called in the order, since the certificates and points would probably complicate ordering on line. That went fine until we came to the rewards redemption. I assumed they’d have the number right in my account information, but that’s a separate deal.
So, I called another office to get my rewards account number and to request the balance. The guy gave me the number and said he didn’t have a balance, but they’d know at the order desk. Fine. Had to call them back anyway.
Finally acquiring this product was supposed to be fun. It was starting to turn into a chore. I called the order number and worked my way through the automated choices. I got a different clerk and had to go through all the passwords and secret handshakes to continue the process. I gave her the rewards account number, but that didn’t work. She said the rewards people must issue a certificate number and I’d have to call back with that. She gave me a phone number to call. Great.
I called and was told that they would have to mail me a certificate and that would bear a number. I could expect that mid-January. C’mon! Oh well, if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. I asked for my balance, which was pleasing.
Except, she added that they dole it out periodically, ten dollars at a time. Say what? That’s my money. I earned it. Also, you have to use the certificates as you get them; no stockpiling. Huh?
“Didn’t you read the terms and conditions in the brochure?” Obviously not. I don’t think Walgreens sells reading glasses powerful enough to facilitate that.
So, get the thing now, while the outside temperature is still in the cellar, or wait for the rewards to trickle down over time. I’ll go with door number one.
And after I cash out all the points, I won’t be coming back.
In a macro perspective, if this is my biggest source of irritation, life is good.
Some are good and some, not so much. But, I’m not going to carry around forty cards in my wallet, which already has enough IDs, insurance cards and other documentation to bloat it up to brick size. I am susceptible to the approach that I don’t have to have the card on me. They can credit the account from my name and zip code. That’s a good deal, providing you first check out the obstacle course you must negotiate to collect the reward. I don’t always do that, assuming they wouldn’t negate the good will with a pot of manure at the end of the rainbow. Oh wait, I assumed that with Skymiles.
Case in point, a manufacturer of outdoor clothing had a line of high end winter gear that just called my name. I kept waiting for spring clearance sales, but none of this particular line showed up. Then, about five years ago, they discontinued the it.
I didn’t know why they did that since it had a strong following. But, curtailing the products would benefit me since it moved the inventory to discount liquidators. In theory.
Unfortunately, the market also sensed the error in their ways and the high prices became astronomical for the rare commodity. I was reluctant to pay retail and sure wouldn’t go for the scalping.
Around November, I started getting requests from loved ones for potential gift ideas. That’s a tough one for me, but I began to pay attention to the spam from some of my favorite retailers. Bingo! The manufacturer reintroduced the line and it was carried by one I had a rewards deal with. I never checked, but I must have about a zillion dollars racked up with them in a rewards program. With the gift certificates and the rewards, I might be able to get off scot free.
When the time came, I called in the order, since the certificates and points would probably complicate ordering on line. That went fine until we came to the rewards redemption. I assumed they’d have the number right in my account information, but that’s a separate deal.
So, I called another office to get my rewards account number and to request the balance. The guy gave me the number and said he didn’t have a balance, but they’d know at the order desk. Fine. Had to call them back anyway.
Finally acquiring this product was supposed to be fun. It was starting to turn into a chore. I called the order number and worked my way through the automated choices. I got a different clerk and had to go through all the passwords and secret handshakes to continue the process. I gave her the rewards account number, but that didn’t work. She said the rewards people must issue a certificate number and I’d have to call back with that. She gave me a phone number to call. Great.
I called and was told that they would have to mail me a certificate and that would bear a number. I could expect that mid-January. C’mon! Oh well, if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. I asked for my balance, which was pleasing.
Except, she added that they dole it out periodically, ten dollars at a time. Say what? That’s my money. I earned it. Also, you have to use the certificates as you get them; no stockpiling. Huh?
“Didn’t you read the terms and conditions in the brochure?” Obviously not. I don’t think Walgreens sells reading glasses powerful enough to facilitate that.
So, get the thing now, while the outside temperature is still in the cellar, or wait for the rewards to trickle down over time. I’ll go with door number one.
And after I cash out all the points, I won’t be coming back.
In a macro perspective, if this is my biggest source of irritation, life is good.
Just a bunch of kids from Philly
Over the past half decade or so, the web has facilitated the reconnecting of our high school class. While everyone is delighted by this, I think it is especially enjoyable for those of us who are scattered across the country, far from our roots.
The message traffic appears to pick up around the holidays, possibly powered by nostalgia. This year, a small subgroup coalesced in the web of communications and it was suggested that we have our own reunion. The group was an all-star team, of sorts. Suggestions were thrown out and batted around, and it began to take shape. Somehow, it was appealing less and less to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at first.
In a previous blog, I related how one thing I did to earn money during my high school years was to do maintenance on a fleet of boats and cars owned by a wealthy individual whose source of income wasn’t entirely clear. One day, he asked if I wanted a side job. He had a friend with a classic Egg Harbor cabin cruiser that needed its brightwork (varnished wood) refinished and he wasn’t entirely happy with the work done by his current vendor.
I said I’d do it. “You know I like your work,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder and looking me straight in the eyes, “but this boat means a lot to John and is one job you want to make sure you don’t cock up.”
“You mean, he’d stiff me.”
“More like you won’t walk or talk the same anymore.” Oh.
The boat was a beauty and I relished working on it. Periodically, a guy would show up when I was at it and ask when it would be done because Mr. Vitanza would like to inspect it. I’d give my best estimate. His suit and tie seemed strangely out of place in the boat yard. As the day drew near, I told him the job would be done the following Saturday.
On the appointed day, a black Caddy limo pulled up. Three guys emerged, one of them opening a rear door. A short, swarthy man in a double breasted suit came out and eyed me. “This the kid?” I had been laboring to put on the finishing touches but think I started sweating even more. Stefano, the guy who had been checking up on me, nodded.
Mr. Vitanza walked around the hull and then climbed the ladder into the cockpit. When he didn’t come back out after ten minutes, I also climbed the ladder.
Mr. Vitanza was just standing there, his hand caressing the shiny wood of the instrument panel. His eyes were glassy. “Beautiful, kid. Just beautiful.” He pulled out a roll of bills and paid me more than the agreed sum.
About a month later, I received a call from Stefano. I shuddered, thinking Mr. Vitanzo had discovered some overlooked flaw. “You like the shore, kid?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Mr. Vitanzo has a place down there. Wanted to know if you’d like to use it for a weekend when he’s outta the country.”
“Me?”
“No, your blanking grandmother from St. Louie. Who the blank do ya think I’m callin’?”
I said I would like to take up the offer. He said he’d send me directions. “You can bring a few friends. Just not a gang and no blankups, if ya get my drift.”
I couldn’t wait to tell Chick about this. He was one of our usual entourage in forays to the Jersey shore. But, this wasn’t usual. We frequented some of the shoddier towns who would tolerate wild teens cramming a dozen into a boarding house room. This was a classier town where we could get tossed in jail just for squinting. Civil rights weren’t real popular back then and seldom applied to adolescents.
The distinction wasn’t lost on Chick. “You know what this means, don’t you?” I shook my head, unsure where he was going with this. “We can’t blow this opportunity. We have to hand pick the crew.” His hypothesis was that this was our ticket for a shot at the bigs. We’d have the inside track to the spoiled rich girls who oiled up their well-tanned bodies on the private beaches of the area. They probably wouldn’t buy the same line of crap we routinely employed to troll for the fish belly white city tramps. “The Alley Oops would only hurt our chances if we took them.”
Alley Oops were handy when you encountered the many other male groups on the prowl, stoked with beer and testosterone. But, I got his point. I left it to him to select the other four in our all-star team, cautioning him to be discreet. That was like trying to contain a campfire’s smoke. Hardly a day passed before I was lobbied by numerous guys wanting to join in of this. And, anticipation of the untold pleasures we would partake of ran through the neighborhood like wildfire.
On a warm Friday morning, we all piled into Butch’s‘ shiny black ’61 Ford Starliner, which was sleek, sensuous and the best shot we had with the selected prey. We screamed across the midsection of Jersey and arrived at a frame house on an immaculately maintained street two blocks from the ocean. Oh yeah, this will be epic.
We found Yogi inside, drinking a beer and watching TV. A pair of horns and you’d approach him with a red cape and sword. He said Mr. Vitanzo appointed him to see that all our needs were met. I said we’d take care of ourselves but that didn’t seem to carry any weight with him.
No matter. We couldn’t wait to jump into our bathing suits and check out the inventory of babbage (plural of babe) on the beach.
Strike one. The beach population was incredibly sparse by the standards we were accustomed to. Yogi got us past the gatekeeper with a quiet word or two. So, he would come in handy. But, the pickings were mostly little girls with pails and shovels or hula hoops, along with their attendant mothers. Yuck. We cavorted around the surf until hunger set in.
I asked Yogi if he knew a good place for cheesesteak subs. He curled his lip. “Steaks, yeah.”
“How about pizza?’
“Oh, I know a good place for that.”
It was a bar replete with pool tables. Things were looking up. We awaited our pie when Chick decided to take a flier. He walked up to the bar and ordered a round of Ballentines. The bartender eyed him dubiously. Yogi quietly interjected that we were guests of Mr. Vitanzo’s and the attitude changed dramatically. He said he’d bring them to our table.
We figured we’d shoot pool until the women began to arrive. We shot pool until past midnight and then went home. Strike two. At least no check appeared. It was on the house for Mr. Vitanzo’s guests. That would be the case throughout the town. Tomorrow was Saturday and the girls would probably start arriving in droves. Or, that was the theory.
We were at the beach early and were the only ones. We spent the day waiting for the flood of lovelies while chucking around a Frisbee and body surfing. The anticipated bevy of beauties never materialized. Just the youngsters building sand castles. Strike three.
Back to the bar. It was a sullen group that ordered pizza and beers. No one even speculated about the possibility of girls showing up that night. We went to the pool tables and spirits began to rise. Beer will do that. We had a good time.
Butch observed, “Free beer and pizza, a posh pad and everyone in town going out of their way to cater to you; I could get used to this.” Hey Yogi, what do ya have to do to get into a setup like this?”
“Nothing you need to know.”
“Nah, c’mon. Supposed we wanted in. We can handle ourselves. How do we get a piece of the action?”
Yogi shook his head. “You’re just a bunch of kids from Philly.” The subject was closed.
The next day, we packed up and headed down to The Wood (Wildwood, NJ), our normal hunting grounds. But, this late in the weekend, the pairing up had already transpired.
The weekend was deemed almost a total loss. But, that didn’t mean that was the way it was related to all our excited friends back home who beseeched us for details about the orgies with the rich girls. Actually, I really enjoyed just hanging out with some interesting characters for the weekend.
So now, the “team” wants to reunite. I suggested the most apropos place would be Wildwood. The town implemented a “doo wop” development program to facilitate the renovation of the art deco motels and restaurants of the 50s, or new construction in like mode. That would be a way cool venue to relive the good old days.
One of the guys runs a casino in Vegas and suggested a weekend of gambling and the high life. Three are in Florida and one offered the use of his very exclusive country club on the Gulf Coast. The majority opted for a long weekend of golf there. Golf?
I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel appropriate. I understand everyone evolved. But, in my mind, we’re just a bunch of kids from Philly and that’s the way I’d like to remember the group. Don’t want to see them in Armani golf shirts, sipping Cristal champagne.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Depends how you look at it
Ray tracked me down on the web. We each launched our first businesses around the same time and became friends. Haven’t been in touch for a long time. He invited me to lunch.
The purpose of the lunch was a business proposition, but that’s another story. We spent some time getting caught up.
Ray was extremely successful with his first venture and has done well with subsequent ones. This has enabled him to enjoy an extravagant lifestyle, which includes flying. His current ride is a Cirrus.
He said he’d like to take me out flying soon, but appeared a bit disappointed that I didn’t recognize the brand of his plane. He explained it’s the one with the built-in parachute system for controlled descents, should a problem occur. I needn’t have any concerns since there are over 30 documented cases where the system saved the pilot and passengers.
I suppose that is one way to look at it. Mine would be to question why there were over 30 instances where that plane was going to crash.
The purpose of the lunch was a business proposition, but that’s another story. We spent some time getting caught up.
Ray was extremely successful with his first venture and has done well with subsequent ones. This has enabled him to enjoy an extravagant lifestyle, which includes flying. His current ride is a Cirrus.
He said he’d like to take me out flying soon, but appeared a bit disappointed that I didn’t recognize the brand of his plane. He explained it’s the one with the built-in parachute system for controlled descents, should a problem occur. I needn’t have any concerns since there are over 30 documented cases where the system saved the pilot and passengers.
I suppose that is one way to look at it. Mine would be to question why there were over 30 instances where that plane was going to crash.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Flips
I don’t know how the name plopped down onto the surface of my brain. The radio was playing in the background and someone in the news had a similar moniker. But, it wasn’t quite the same. And, no one I’ve met is the same as Kraig the K.
My freshman year at college, I finally landed in a housing situation that was economical and long-term. As I was settling into my room, someone behind me said, “You’re the new guy? Far out. Diggin’ that James Dean thing you got goin’ on, dude.”
I was still fairly fresh out of a blue collar background and am guessing I wore my customary black jeans, white tee and leather jacket. I turned around and was staggered by the kaleidoscope of colors painted on a large canvas. Kraig was a big, fleshy guy, topped with a bush of bright red hair. In descending order was a billowy shirt of psychedelic print, striped bell bottoms, and sandals made from old tires. The aroma of marijuana smoke wafted across the room.
We conversed a bit, getting to know each other. Outside of a whole lot of right-ons, far-outs and groovies, I can’t recall the content or even that I understood it.
For that matter, I’m not sure what we discussed over the next couple years that our lives overlapped. I remember that he was very amusing, but always seemed to be functioning in a different dimension.
With a grade point average roughly equating to his customary blood alcohol level, he never finished college and just departed for parts unknown. In this day and age, you don’t have to wonder whatever happened to. I Googled him and couldn’t believe the first few references. Had to be the wrong guy. I cross-checked and the hometown, high school and other data matched up.
Almost every photo showed him dressed in camo and looking like a backwoods mountain man. Camo? A guy whose former outfits could be seen from outer space? He was even on a web site called Camospace, a site where you apparently post photos of yourself attired in camo with your foot planted in the ear of some deceased quadruped.
His Facebook page lists his interests as country western music, hunting, fishing and “Debbie does Dallas.” Talk about your metamorphoses.
If Kraig was the hardback edition, then Keith was the paperback. Keith was his younger brother and shared his flair, along with the shock of red hair. He drove around in one of those pink Jeeps with the striped canvas top that you usually saw at Caribbean resorts. He seemed to strive to eclipse his brother by being even further far out.
Back to the Google. Up pops someone who looks like an accounting professor I had and is a software consultant. It’s Keith. Unbelievable.
I had seen flips like this, but it was typically in the other direction when someone tautly wound snapped and slingshotted in the other direction. One diligently pious divinity student I knew wound up addicted to pornography and alcohol. An over-the-top zealous ROTC student, overcompensating for inadequacy issues, went into the army to become an MP, dropped off the radar for a while and then reappeared as a social worker. But, I never envisioned the brothers doing one-eighties.
Well, if Jerry Rubin could go Wall Street…
My freshman year at college, I finally landed in a housing situation that was economical and long-term. As I was settling into my room, someone behind me said, “You’re the new guy? Far out. Diggin’ that James Dean thing you got goin’ on, dude.”
I was still fairly fresh out of a blue collar background and am guessing I wore my customary black jeans, white tee and leather jacket. I turned around and was staggered by the kaleidoscope of colors painted on a large canvas. Kraig was a big, fleshy guy, topped with a bush of bright red hair. In descending order was a billowy shirt of psychedelic print, striped bell bottoms, and sandals made from old tires. The aroma of marijuana smoke wafted across the room.
We conversed a bit, getting to know each other. Outside of a whole lot of right-ons, far-outs and groovies, I can’t recall the content or even that I understood it.
For that matter, I’m not sure what we discussed over the next couple years that our lives overlapped. I remember that he was very amusing, but always seemed to be functioning in a different dimension.
With a grade point average roughly equating to his customary blood alcohol level, he never finished college and just departed for parts unknown. In this day and age, you don’t have to wonder whatever happened to. I Googled him and couldn’t believe the first few references. Had to be the wrong guy. I cross-checked and the hometown, high school and other data matched up.
Almost every photo showed him dressed in camo and looking like a backwoods mountain man. Camo? A guy whose former outfits could be seen from outer space? He was even on a web site called Camospace, a site where you apparently post photos of yourself attired in camo with your foot planted in the ear of some deceased quadruped.
His Facebook page lists his interests as country western music, hunting, fishing and “Debbie does Dallas.” Talk about your metamorphoses.
If Kraig was the hardback edition, then Keith was the paperback. Keith was his younger brother and shared his flair, along with the shock of red hair. He drove around in one of those pink Jeeps with the striped canvas top that you usually saw at Caribbean resorts. He seemed to strive to eclipse his brother by being even further far out.
Back to the Google. Up pops someone who looks like an accounting professor I had and is a software consultant. It’s Keith. Unbelievable.
I had seen flips like this, but it was typically in the other direction when someone tautly wound snapped and slingshotted in the other direction. One diligently pious divinity student I knew wound up addicted to pornography and alcohol. An over-the-top zealous ROTC student, overcompensating for inadequacy issues, went into the army to become an MP, dropped off the radar for a while and then reappeared as a social worker. But, I never envisioned the brothers doing one-eighties.
Well, if Jerry Rubin could go Wall Street…
Monday, December 20, 2010
And a little child shall lead them
People in our paddling group often refer to it as “family.” We share food, lodging and good times, and the upshot is a lot of strong friendships that extend beyond the activity.
I don’t think I fully appreciated what they meant until last night. We had the last indoor pool practice session of the year. One of the guys had been bringing his eight-year-old daughter to teach her rolling and she put on quite a show last night. We watched her strut her stuff, cheering like so many aunts and uncles. Okay, maybe great aunts and uncles in some of our cases.
The feeling of the family bond extended into our party afterwards, as I sat with another member and his young son. I had understood what people meant by family, but the little girl and boy raised the intensity to the point where it became feeling; a very nice feeling in this holiday season.
I don’t think I fully appreciated what they meant until last night. We had the last indoor pool practice session of the year. One of the guys had been bringing his eight-year-old daughter to teach her rolling and she put on quite a show last night. We watched her strut her stuff, cheering like so many aunts and uncles. Okay, maybe great aunts and uncles in some of our cases.
The feeling of the family bond extended into our party afterwards, as I sat with another member and his young son. I had understood what people meant by family, but the little girl and boy raised the intensity to the point where it became feeling; a very nice feeling in this holiday season.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Ask, don't tell
A few years ago, I led a client company through its strategic planning process. As an adjunct to the service, the owner asked me to assess and coach Allan, a young up-and-comer in the business. He was also the owner’s son, which helped his up and didn’t slow down his coming.
I did some of that and Allan was receptive. He was very eager to prove himself on his own merit.
Recently, the company was approached to buy one of its suppliers. Going vertical in your market can be a significant move and just because you buy that product doesn’t mean you know the business. I was asked to sit in on the sales presentation.
I did and was happy to see Allan again. That is, up until assailed what he thought was fallacious in the seller’s presentation. I had some knowledge of the product line and could see how what was stated could appear incorrect to the uninformed. The seller also erred by responding in the same manner, which was unfortunate.
After the meeting, I took Allan aside. I told him that he would frequently encounter things that seemed out of kilter and I knew he wanted to be viewed as competent. But, he’d come off better by seeking to understand it than attacking. Ask, don’t tell.
You would think this would be common sense, but it isn’t. I can think of as many instances as not.
A few weeks ago, I was invited to a planning meeting for a big outdoors activity festival. They were looking for proposals of demonstrations of various sports. I was representing kayaking and brought along video of playboating. When that concluded, one of the panel members said that if we were chosen, he hoped we’d use “real kayaks” instead of those little toys.
I asked him what he meant and he said he’d seen pictures of kayaks and those weren’t them, getting even more sarcastic. From his description, I gleaned his perception of a real kayak was something Eskimos paddled.
I explained that there were different kinds of kayaks. The short ones in the video were whitewater kayaks that are designed for difficult conditions and playing, and were not toys. They were the best suited for the kind of exhibition they wanted. He was undeterred and continued to argue the point acrimoniously. I could see how he thought the small kayaks weren’t congruent with his expectations, but he would’ve been better served by listening. His fellow panel members understood and studied their manicures as his tirade went on. I wouldn’t want to be that guy.
I ran a mental health treatment center. One day, a woman stormed in and alleged malpractice in regard to her son’s therapy. I tried to explain but she would have none of it and stomped out. Then, she showed up at a meeting of the mental health board to complain and publically “expose” us.
Her complaint was that we put her son into group therapy and that the group was exactly the kind of people who he hung around with and had gotten him into trouble. Actually, I can understand the perception. Her son was mentally ill and gravitated to a like group who validated and encouraged each other’s aberrant behavior and thinking. So, when we put him in with other mentally defective teens, she went ballistic.
The difference is the dynamics of the therapy. Instead of allowing the participants to play each other and perpetuate their issues, the therapist leverages their mutual influence to create healthy perceptions and behavior. A psychologist on the board explained that to her but she swept it aside and demanded group therapy for her son with normal people or she’d sue. If participants didn’t have the issues germane to that group, why would they be in it? I wouldn’t want to be her.
Years ago, I was promoting a product to local businesses through direct mail. A partner in a CPA firm complained that he had bought it and later discovered that a friend of his had received the same promotion except it offered a gift as a bonus for buying before a deadline date. He thought it was an unethical business practice to make different offers and that he had been screwed.
A fundamental rule of direct mail is that you always test. About 90% of the mailing is uniform, but the rest is set aside for testing different lists, prices, promotion packages, etc. That’s why your order forms and cards carry a printed code. If something is found to work better, it’s used as the main mailing in the next round.
In this case, we tested the bonus gift and, in another panel, a discounted price. I explained this to Seymour (the CPA) and told him every competent direct marketer in the world did the same thing in every mailing. It was standard practice and equivalent to test marketing in select stores and markets done by retailers. He could check any marketing textbook if he doubted it. I offered him the choice of the gift or discount so he wouldn’t feel taken.
I thought that would placate him, but he showed up at a talk I was giving and chose to use the Q&A session to level his accusations of unethical practices. Even though most of the businesspeople in the room were completely aware of the common practice, I took the time to explain it again. He ranted on and many exchanged looks with each other. Wouldn’t want to be that guy.
Moral of the story, know what you don’t know and ask, don’t tell.
I did some of that and Allan was receptive. He was very eager to prove himself on his own merit.
Recently, the company was approached to buy one of its suppliers. Going vertical in your market can be a significant move and just because you buy that product doesn’t mean you know the business. I was asked to sit in on the sales presentation.
I did and was happy to see Allan again. That is, up until assailed what he thought was fallacious in the seller’s presentation. I had some knowledge of the product line and could see how what was stated could appear incorrect to the uninformed. The seller also erred by responding in the same manner, which was unfortunate.
After the meeting, I took Allan aside. I told him that he would frequently encounter things that seemed out of kilter and I knew he wanted to be viewed as competent. But, he’d come off better by seeking to understand it than attacking. Ask, don’t tell.
You would think this would be common sense, but it isn’t. I can think of as many instances as not.
A few weeks ago, I was invited to a planning meeting for a big outdoors activity festival. They were looking for proposals of demonstrations of various sports. I was representing kayaking and brought along video of playboating. When that concluded, one of the panel members said that if we were chosen, he hoped we’d use “real kayaks” instead of those little toys.
I asked him what he meant and he said he’d seen pictures of kayaks and those weren’t them, getting even more sarcastic. From his description, I gleaned his perception of a real kayak was something Eskimos paddled.
I explained that there were different kinds of kayaks. The short ones in the video were whitewater kayaks that are designed for difficult conditions and playing, and were not toys. They were the best suited for the kind of exhibition they wanted. He was undeterred and continued to argue the point acrimoniously. I could see how he thought the small kayaks weren’t congruent with his expectations, but he would’ve been better served by listening. His fellow panel members understood and studied their manicures as his tirade went on. I wouldn’t want to be that guy.
I ran a mental health treatment center. One day, a woman stormed in and alleged malpractice in regard to her son’s therapy. I tried to explain but she would have none of it and stomped out. Then, she showed up at a meeting of the mental health board to complain and publically “expose” us.
Her complaint was that we put her son into group therapy and that the group was exactly the kind of people who he hung around with and had gotten him into trouble. Actually, I can understand the perception. Her son was mentally ill and gravitated to a like group who validated and encouraged each other’s aberrant behavior and thinking. So, when we put him in with other mentally defective teens, she went ballistic.
The difference is the dynamics of the therapy. Instead of allowing the participants to play each other and perpetuate their issues, the therapist leverages their mutual influence to create healthy perceptions and behavior. A psychologist on the board explained that to her but she swept it aside and demanded group therapy for her son with normal people or she’d sue. If participants didn’t have the issues germane to that group, why would they be in it? I wouldn’t want to be her.
Years ago, I was promoting a product to local businesses through direct mail. A partner in a CPA firm complained that he had bought it and later discovered that a friend of his had received the same promotion except it offered a gift as a bonus for buying before a deadline date. He thought it was an unethical business practice to make different offers and that he had been screwed.
A fundamental rule of direct mail is that you always test. About 90% of the mailing is uniform, but the rest is set aside for testing different lists, prices, promotion packages, etc. That’s why your order forms and cards carry a printed code. If something is found to work better, it’s used as the main mailing in the next round.
In this case, we tested the bonus gift and, in another panel, a discounted price. I explained this to Seymour (the CPA) and told him every competent direct marketer in the world did the same thing in every mailing. It was standard practice and equivalent to test marketing in select stores and markets done by retailers. He could check any marketing textbook if he doubted it. I offered him the choice of the gift or discount so he wouldn’t feel taken.
I thought that would placate him, but he showed up at a talk I was giving and chose to use the Q&A session to level his accusations of unethical practices. Even though most of the businesspeople in the room were completely aware of the common practice, I took the time to explain it again. He ranted on and many exchanged looks with each other. Wouldn’t want to be that guy.
Moral of the story, know what you don’t know and ask, don’t tell.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
I stand corrected
The previous blog may not be entirely precise. Stan is legally blind. That is, he can see a computer screen with the aid of a device.
In our correspondence, he asked about some of our former classmates and, among other things, I gave him a link to some photos from our last reunion. He followed up with some detailed questions about the women, their behavior at the reunion, etc.
In the previous blog, I had included this topic under things we used to discuss back in the day. Hey, we’re old. We’re not dead.
In our correspondence, he asked about some of our former classmates and, among other things, I gave him a link to some photos from our last reunion. He followed up with some detailed questions about the women, their behavior at the reunion, etc.
In the previous blog, I had included this topic under things we used to discuss back in the day. Hey, we’re old. We’re not dead.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Be careful what you wish for
I was in high school and sitting around at Alvino’s, knocking back some slices with the guys. I could probably start a hundred stories like that, but this one comes to mind because of a recent communication.
It was a little unusual in that it exceeded our usual range of intellectual topics; girls, sports and cars. We were approaching graduation and speculating on life paths. Jeff wiped the grease off his lips with the sleeve of his varsity jacket (not the first time, if stains are valid indicators) and threw out, “If you could switch places with anyone in our class, who would it be?”
The vast majority of responses favored two candidates, depending upon priority. If it was athletics, Jimmy C. He lettered and starred in everything you could name and already had the frame of a professional athlete. He also had the ego and sense of entitlement of one, which was his undoing. But, I seem to recall blogging on that a few years back.
I’d like to say the other guy was one of the brains in the class, but we were what we were. What can I say?
Stan was also an athlete; a gymnast. He was totally buff and had Tom Cruise looks with the panache to match. This made the legend of his many conquests very credible, which earned him the votes in this cerebral discussion.
Among those, and what buoyed his ranking, was Gwen. Being one of the most developed of the wasp-waisted girls in the class, she was deemed the Holy Grail of back seat grappling. Size mattered then although I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to see her coming out of the shower, now. But, back in the day, she was more than enough reason to want to swap places with Stan.
I hadn’t seen Stan since graduation when he contacted me via the web several years ago. He went on at length about leading the glamorous southern California lifestyle, especially in regard to the opposite sex. When you’re good at something, go with it. He emailed a photo of himself to show me he was still as cut as ever, I suppose. It was obviously a professional studio shot, although he wore a tank top and jeans. A bit odd, I thought.
We exchanged a few messages over a month or so, but then it petered out. Until yesterday.
He found me on the web once again, but was less effusive about what he was up to. I noted he had relocated to a much less enchanting locale and asked him about that. His sister lived there and was taking care of him. He had gone blind shortly after the last time we corresponded.
I thought back to that day in Alvino’s and wondered if anyone would’ve switched places with him had they known what the future held. Be careful what you wish for.
It was a little unusual in that it exceeded our usual range of intellectual topics; girls, sports and cars. We were approaching graduation and speculating on life paths. Jeff wiped the grease off his lips with the sleeve of his varsity jacket (not the first time, if stains are valid indicators) and threw out, “If you could switch places with anyone in our class, who would it be?”
The vast majority of responses favored two candidates, depending upon priority. If it was athletics, Jimmy C. He lettered and starred in everything you could name and already had the frame of a professional athlete. He also had the ego and sense of entitlement of one, which was his undoing. But, I seem to recall blogging on that a few years back.
I’d like to say the other guy was one of the brains in the class, but we were what we were. What can I say?
Stan was also an athlete; a gymnast. He was totally buff and had Tom Cruise looks with the panache to match. This made the legend of his many conquests very credible, which earned him the votes in this cerebral discussion.
Among those, and what buoyed his ranking, was Gwen. Being one of the most developed of the wasp-waisted girls in the class, she was deemed the Holy Grail of back seat grappling. Size mattered then although I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to see her coming out of the shower, now. But, back in the day, she was more than enough reason to want to swap places with Stan.
I hadn’t seen Stan since graduation when he contacted me via the web several years ago. He went on at length about leading the glamorous southern California lifestyle, especially in regard to the opposite sex. When you’re good at something, go with it. He emailed a photo of himself to show me he was still as cut as ever, I suppose. It was obviously a professional studio shot, although he wore a tank top and jeans. A bit odd, I thought.
We exchanged a few messages over a month or so, but then it petered out. Until yesterday.
He found me on the web once again, but was less effusive about what he was up to. I noted he had relocated to a much less enchanting locale and asked him about that. His sister lived there and was taking care of him. He had gone blind shortly after the last time we corresponded.
I thought back to that day in Alvino’s and wondered if anyone would’ve switched places with him had they known what the future held. Be careful what you wish for.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Everyone talks about the weather, but...
I already blogged about when to call off work because of inclement weather. If anything, I’m less likely to do that for personal endeavors.
Recent correspondence with Bill reminded me of the first time this decision confronted me. We were good friends during our childhood. In junior high, we found ourselves locked in an intense, albeit friendly competition for the hand of “Lady Lydia.” It made no matter that Lydia, by all indications, had no interest in either of us. She was probably faking. Right.
The battlefield was primarily the weekly night dance at the school. Every Saturday, Bob and I donned our armor (English Leather and Dixie Peach pomade) and went off to do battle. We usually carpooled via parents.
One Saturday, it snowed all day. Bob and I called back and forth to discuss the advisability of going to the dance. Our parents had already refused to drive, supplying an assessment of our intelligence for even suggesting it. Bob and I debated hiking through the drifts and driving snow, and agreed it wasn’t worth it.
I immediately wrapped myself in every outer garment I owned and pulled on my galoshes. As I expected, I spotted Bob hotfooting it out his front door. Neither one of us would allow the other an opportunity to gain an edge in the race for Lydia.
After an hour of leaning into the biting wind, we arrived at the school, which was completely dark. They assumed everyone would have the good sense to anticipate that. And they deal with adolescent males on a daily basis?
On to college. The first break would be Thanksgiving. It being our freshman year, we were feverishly anxious to get home and see family and friends. For the four of us, the Philadelphia metro area was home.
As the day approached, a blizzard was forecast to cover Pennsylvania. We had a brief meeting, deciding to go. We had amassed too many college stories with which to regale old friends. It was the 60s.
It was snowing heavily when we piled into Harv’s Rambler to depart Cincinnati. By the time we entered the Pennsylvania Turnpike, it was almost whiteout conditions in the foothills of New Stanton. That being the case, Harv dropped the speed below 80. It didn’t take long for us to skid into a turn and, but for a stout guard rail, would’ve careened down a steep hillside.
However, the rail took its toll. One headlight now aimed hard left while the other looked moonward. We pushed the car out of a drift and made the mistake of taking the next exit in quest of tools to correct the situation. It was getting dark.
That was actually two mistakes. First, any shopkeeper with any sense had closed for the day. Every shopkeeper in the small town had sense, by all appearances. Secondly, they wouldn’t let us back onto the Turnpike with a vehicle that was obviously unsafe for driving.
Being four teens from Philly, we didn’t have enough grey matter among us to construct a fully formed brain and seek lodging. Instead, we took to the back roads. It was almost twenty hours of skidding and sliding across the state.
Fast forward to a couple years ago. I had planned a group kayaking trip to an island off the coast of Georgia. The day we departed, they were forecasting monsoons and possible tornados. Do we call it off? Planning and excitement had been building for over four months. We went. Windshield wipers almost proved inadequate. The campground was partially protected from the howling wind by pine forest, but was almost under water. No matter. We spent a good part of the evening in a roadhouse.
I had a whitewater trip planned for Costa Rica, even though my paddling skills were barely adequate for the steep mountain rivers. It rained daily for two weeks, turning them into roaring torrents by the time I arrived. Prudence indicated that I should just enjoy some of the nature tours and let it go at that. But, prudence and I aren’t always on speaking terms. I paddled and came home with a body like a POW who had been interrogated by North Koreans.
I’m thinking of this because we have a getaway weekend planned with departure in about an hour. We’ve been looking forward to it but snow is forecast beginning tonight and continuing throughout tomorrow. With all I’ve learned, am I going?
Heck yeah!
Recent correspondence with Bill reminded me of the first time this decision confronted me. We were good friends during our childhood. In junior high, we found ourselves locked in an intense, albeit friendly competition for the hand of “Lady Lydia.” It made no matter that Lydia, by all indications, had no interest in either of us. She was probably faking. Right.
The battlefield was primarily the weekly night dance at the school. Every Saturday, Bob and I donned our armor (English Leather and Dixie Peach pomade) and went off to do battle. We usually carpooled via parents.
One Saturday, it snowed all day. Bob and I called back and forth to discuss the advisability of going to the dance. Our parents had already refused to drive, supplying an assessment of our intelligence for even suggesting it. Bob and I debated hiking through the drifts and driving snow, and agreed it wasn’t worth it.
I immediately wrapped myself in every outer garment I owned and pulled on my galoshes. As I expected, I spotted Bob hotfooting it out his front door. Neither one of us would allow the other an opportunity to gain an edge in the race for Lydia.
After an hour of leaning into the biting wind, we arrived at the school, which was completely dark. They assumed everyone would have the good sense to anticipate that. And they deal with adolescent males on a daily basis?
On to college. The first break would be Thanksgiving. It being our freshman year, we were feverishly anxious to get home and see family and friends. For the four of us, the Philadelphia metro area was home.
As the day approached, a blizzard was forecast to cover Pennsylvania. We had a brief meeting, deciding to go. We had amassed too many college stories with which to regale old friends. It was the 60s.
It was snowing heavily when we piled into Harv’s Rambler to depart Cincinnati. By the time we entered the Pennsylvania Turnpike, it was almost whiteout conditions in the foothills of New Stanton. That being the case, Harv dropped the speed below 80. It didn’t take long for us to skid into a turn and, but for a stout guard rail, would’ve careened down a steep hillside.
However, the rail took its toll. One headlight now aimed hard left while the other looked moonward. We pushed the car out of a drift and made the mistake of taking the next exit in quest of tools to correct the situation. It was getting dark.
That was actually two mistakes. First, any shopkeeper with any sense had closed for the day. Every shopkeeper in the small town had sense, by all appearances. Secondly, they wouldn’t let us back onto the Turnpike with a vehicle that was obviously unsafe for driving.
Being four teens from Philly, we didn’t have enough grey matter among us to construct a fully formed brain and seek lodging. Instead, we took to the back roads. It was almost twenty hours of skidding and sliding across the state.
Fast forward to a couple years ago. I had planned a group kayaking trip to an island off the coast of Georgia. The day we departed, they were forecasting monsoons and possible tornados. Do we call it off? Planning and excitement had been building for over four months. We went. Windshield wipers almost proved inadequate. The campground was partially protected from the howling wind by pine forest, but was almost under water. No matter. We spent a good part of the evening in a roadhouse.
I had a whitewater trip planned for Costa Rica, even though my paddling skills were barely adequate for the steep mountain rivers. It rained daily for two weeks, turning them into roaring torrents by the time I arrived. Prudence indicated that I should just enjoy some of the nature tours and let it go at that. But, prudence and I aren’t always on speaking terms. I paddled and came home with a body like a POW who had been interrogated by North Koreans.
I’m thinking of this because we have a getaway weekend planned with departure in about an hour. We’ve been looking forward to it but snow is forecast beginning tonight and continuing throughout tomorrow. With all I’ve learned, am I going?
Heck yeah!
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Grateful
For a long time, I dreaded the holiday season. Roads choked with shoppers, too many events I was obligated to attend, distractions in the office, etc. Now, I enjoy it. There was one Christmas I think of every time this year.
I’ll need to start a few years before it. I had decided to go the entrepreneurial route and launched my first business. It was off the ground and beginning to do well. I was rewarding myself with the fruits of my labor, trying not to go too overboard. Mainly, I was sticking to things I promised myself when I got out of the humble neighborhood of my youth, although I might’ve strayed a bit beyond.
I had just picked up a new Corvette convertible and was taking it for its first tank of gas. White-on-white with a red interior. Incredible.
It was still the era preceding full self-service. The attendant was an elderly gent in dirty coveralls. As he wiped the windshield, he stole some looks at me. “You’re the fella who publishes that business newspaper, aren’t cha?” I replied in the affirmative. “I read it when I can come across a copy. Guess you’re wondering why.” He ran a palm over his outfit. I didn’t have a good reply, but he didn’t appear to expect one. “See that building across the street?” It housed a large, well-known company. “I was the president.” Somehow, it had the ring of truth. “Things happen. You watch yourself.”
I had nothing to say to that, either, except to thank him for the advice. It never occurred to me that something like that could ever befall me. I was over the hump of getting something going and didn’t envision myself doing something too stupid.
A little over four years later, I managed to pull that off. I had started a new business, primarily on the strength of a major investor. He was a big name in town and owned three prominent companies. He drove a Ferrari and had a huge house in Indian Hill. I was glad to have someone willing to invest so much money and didn’t balk at some of the control he insisted on having in the company. Majority ownership has its privileges.
As it turned out, he was a house of cards. He borrowed huge sums of money through the companies he invested in, blew it on safaris, women and what not, and then skipped town.
By that Christmas, the banks had seized the company, I was maxed out on credit cards, two months behind rent on my cheap quarters, stretching to meet child support and alimony and driving a ratty car with north of 150,000 miles on it. The IRS, state department of taxation and banks were coming after me for the millions he had siphoned off. I was being sued for $43 million by an enormous competitor who didn’t really have a case, but was trying to drive me into the ground with legal fees. It was working and I was way behind in paying the lawyers.
I sat in the cold, dark room, thinking I was at rock bottom and envisioning a very bleak future. I opened an envelope I received that day. It was a card made from a photograph of a former customer, showing him and his wife with their luxury German cars in front of their mansion. Merry Christmas. Okay, now I was at my nadir.
It was then the gas station episode occurred to me. Was that where I was heading? Maybe a tatty rooming house, heating up franks & beans on a hotplate? As horrible as that was, something worse swam into view. My children were coming up on college age. Had I failed them as far as my promise for an education?
No. Hell no. I wouldn’t let any of that happen. I felt like I was buried under oppressive tons of debt and legal problems with no apparent end or solution, but I knew at that moment I would fight my way out. I vowed that this was the last Christmas I would ever spend like this.
The next year, I was sipping single malt scotch in my penthouse condo overlooking the Ohio River, watching the colored lights dancing across the waters. Not even close, but it would’ve made this a good story.
It took a few difficult years to dig out of that cavernous hole, with hardly a day I wasn’t scrapping and agonizing to see the distant light at the end of the tunnel. But, I made it and never spent another Christmas like that.
And, never fail to think about it this time of year.
I’ll need to start a few years before it. I had decided to go the entrepreneurial route and launched my first business. It was off the ground and beginning to do well. I was rewarding myself with the fruits of my labor, trying not to go too overboard. Mainly, I was sticking to things I promised myself when I got out of the humble neighborhood of my youth, although I might’ve strayed a bit beyond.
I had just picked up a new Corvette convertible and was taking it for its first tank of gas. White-on-white with a red interior. Incredible.
It was still the era preceding full self-service. The attendant was an elderly gent in dirty coveralls. As he wiped the windshield, he stole some looks at me. “You’re the fella who publishes that business newspaper, aren’t cha?” I replied in the affirmative. “I read it when I can come across a copy. Guess you’re wondering why.” He ran a palm over his outfit. I didn’t have a good reply, but he didn’t appear to expect one. “See that building across the street?” It housed a large, well-known company. “I was the president.” Somehow, it had the ring of truth. “Things happen. You watch yourself.”
I had nothing to say to that, either, except to thank him for the advice. It never occurred to me that something like that could ever befall me. I was over the hump of getting something going and didn’t envision myself doing something too stupid.
A little over four years later, I managed to pull that off. I had started a new business, primarily on the strength of a major investor. He was a big name in town and owned three prominent companies. He drove a Ferrari and had a huge house in Indian Hill. I was glad to have someone willing to invest so much money and didn’t balk at some of the control he insisted on having in the company. Majority ownership has its privileges.
As it turned out, he was a house of cards. He borrowed huge sums of money through the companies he invested in, blew it on safaris, women and what not, and then skipped town.
By that Christmas, the banks had seized the company, I was maxed out on credit cards, two months behind rent on my cheap quarters, stretching to meet child support and alimony and driving a ratty car with north of 150,000 miles on it. The IRS, state department of taxation and banks were coming after me for the millions he had siphoned off. I was being sued for $43 million by an enormous competitor who didn’t really have a case, but was trying to drive me into the ground with legal fees. It was working and I was way behind in paying the lawyers.
I sat in the cold, dark room, thinking I was at rock bottom and envisioning a very bleak future. I opened an envelope I received that day. It was a card made from a photograph of a former customer, showing him and his wife with their luxury German cars in front of their mansion. Merry Christmas. Okay, now I was at my nadir.
It was then the gas station episode occurred to me. Was that where I was heading? Maybe a tatty rooming house, heating up franks & beans on a hotplate? As horrible as that was, something worse swam into view. My children were coming up on college age. Had I failed them as far as my promise for an education?
No. Hell no. I wouldn’t let any of that happen. I felt like I was buried under oppressive tons of debt and legal problems with no apparent end or solution, but I knew at that moment I would fight my way out. I vowed that this was the last Christmas I would ever spend like this.
The next year, I was sipping single malt scotch in my penthouse condo overlooking the Ohio River, watching the colored lights dancing across the waters. Not even close, but it would’ve made this a good story.
It took a few difficult years to dig out of that cavernous hole, with hardly a day I wasn’t scrapping and agonizing to see the distant light at the end of the tunnel. But, I made it and never spent another Christmas like that.
And, never fail to think about it this time of year.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Will always be known as...
A college friend of mine took a job in a small town in New England shortly after graduation. The culture was both fascinating and frustrating to him. One thing he noted was that a property would always be known by the name as its original owner. That is, the Newton place would always be the Newton place, regardless that Newton built it in the 18th century and it’s had numerous owners since.
I recalled this last night at our annual end-of-season party for kayak rollers. Beginning in the fall, we use an indoor pool to practice kayak technique, or that’s ostensibly the purpose. We mostly just love to get together and have a good time. The party after the last session caps off the fun.
As the festivities ensued at the party, so did the stories of good times and exchange of information. There was some discussion and questions pertaining to Henry’s (insert kayak model here). A relative newcomer to the group turned to me and said he thought the boat belonged to Dave. I told him it did, but I had been the original owner, at least in this group, and it had passed to a couple others before Dave. But, since I had introduced it to the progression, it was still attached to my name. That’s when the analogy to the Newton place occurred to me.
I explained that many of us had started out with various boats. But, some wanted to ratchet up to more capable and demanding craft. So, the original boats found their ways around the group, often to those entering the sport.
He equated that to hand-me-downs. Not quite. You usually don’t have much choice in that situation. Here, you do and the previous owners provide you with helpful assessments about the appropriateness of the boat for you.
I would also add that the change of boats isn’t always progress. There are almost always boats you regret selling.
The process provides a good and relatively economical way for those who want to find a proven performer and stick with it. And, a mechanism for those of us who enjoy the search for the Holy Grail.
The good boats seem to hang around the group forever. The dogs somehow drop out of sight.
I recalled this last night at our annual end-of-season party for kayak rollers. Beginning in the fall, we use an indoor pool to practice kayak technique, or that’s ostensibly the purpose. We mostly just love to get together and have a good time. The party after the last session caps off the fun.
As the festivities ensued at the party, so did the stories of good times and exchange of information. There was some discussion and questions pertaining to Henry’s (insert kayak model here). A relative newcomer to the group turned to me and said he thought the boat belonged to Dave. I told him it did, but I had been the original owner, at least in this group, and it had passed to a couple others before Dave. But, since I had introduced it to the progression, it was still attached to my name. That’s when the analogy to the Newton place occurred to me.
I explained that many of us had started out with various boats. But, some wanted to ratchet up to more capable and demanding craft. So, the original boats found their ways around the group, often to those entering the sport.
He equated that to hand-me-downs. Not quite. You usually don’t have much choice in that situation. Here, you do and the previous owners provide you with helpful assessments about the appropriateness of the boat for you.
I would also add that the change of boats isn’t always progress. There are almost always boats you regret selling.
The process provides a good and relatively economical way for those who want to find a proven performer and stick with it. And, a mechanism for those of us who enjoy the search for the Holy Grail.
The good boats seem to hang around the group forever. The dogs somehow drop out of sight.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
Snow day
I got up this morning to check the anticipated snowfall. Not that much. Last night, my date for this evening called to discuss the impact on our plans. “Why don’t I just make dinner, you build a fire and we’ll spend the evening here? Would that be okay?”
How can one object to that? There’s something about being snowed in. Even for married folk. I remember the crippling blizzards of the late 70s. I was married and have fond memories of those days. Of course, we didn’t have kids bouncing off the walls at the time.
Upon further reflection, it didn’t start out well. I got up about four in the morning with the first wave of the snowstorm. My wife asked me where I was going. To work, of course. As an employee, my mindset was to produce results, not excuses. I would be at my desk, no matter what.
The greatest obstacle around here is the drivers, so I would leave early. We seldom get significant snow, so the drivers aren’t used to driving in it.
I arrived before six and sat in the cavernous downtown offices alone. And sat, and sat, and sat. My wife called and said that they had phoned and there was no work today. It took forever to get home.
While my attitude might’ve made me a good employee, it would later label me as a tough boss. In the first few companies I owned, I would show up without fail. I expected the same of my employees.
One snowy morning, it appeared that virtually everyone made it in. But, I walked by the telemarketing department and they were all sitting around gabbing. The manager and assistant manager hadn’t showed up.
There are two things wrong with that. First, you don’t recoup that day’s sales. When that’s gone, it’s gone. You’re paying out money but not bringing any in. The underlying principle of a business is to make money.
Secondly, people take their cue from the leader. If this isn’t important to the leader, it isn’t to them.
I called the department manager. He said his driveway sloped down toward his house, so he couldn’t get the car up the hill. The snow wasn’t that bad and what’s wrong with a shovel? He didn’t sound like he had done more than glance out the window and go back to bed. I silently counted to ten and then asked why he didn’t take a cab or bus. He was about one block from a major bus line. He said he hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t made the effort, he meant. If someone couldn’t figure out how to overcome that small obstacle, should he be in charge of a department? I asked if he knew there was twenty thousand dollars sitting on his desk for him, would he have thought of a way to get in. He said probably, but there wasn’t. That told me all I needed to know.
My next call was to the assistant manager. He said he didn’t think we’d be open. So, you couldn’t call or just come in? He said it just looked too perilous. He lived downtown and walked to the office every day. Not a lot of danger of losing traction in a turn.
I didn’t fire them over that, but did talk to them about the example they set for their people, not to mention how they were perceived by the other departments who all showed up. I wanted to make sure they understood the expectations.
The assistant got the message and became an enthusiastic role model for his department, the manager became more and more a negative presence and was soon gone.
However, my attitude would change. A few years later, I read about someone perishing in a weather related accident. The person was a parent. Yeah, a business is about making money. But, is it worth the price of a life and the impact on the person’s loved ones? No. After that, I’d call off work if the roads weren’t reasonably safe.
Snow is for playing in or snuggling up by the fire, not putting people at risk.
How can one object to that? There’s something about being snowed in. Even for married folk. I remember the crippling blizzards of the late 70s. I was married and have fond memories of those days. Of course, we didn’t have kids bouncing off the walls at the time.
Upon further reflection, it didn’t start out well. I got up about four in the morning with the first wave of the snowstorm. My wife asked me where I was going. To work, of course. As an employee, my mindset was to produce results, not excuses. I would be at my desk, no matter what.
The greatest obstacle around here is the drivers, so I would leave early. We seldom get significant snow, so the drivers aren’t used to driving in it.
I arrived before six and sat in the cavernous downtown offices alone. And sat, and sat, and sat. My wife called and said that they had phoned and there was no work today. It took forever to get home.
While my attitude might’ve made me a good employee, it would later label me as a tough boss. In the first few companies I owned, I would show up without fail. I expected the same of my employees.
One snowy morning, it appeared that virtually everyone made it in. But, I walked by the telemarketing department and they were all sitting around gabbing. The manager and assistant manager hadn’t showed up.
There are two things wrong with that. First, you don’t recoup that day’s sales. When that’s gone, it’s gone. You’re paying out money but not bringing any in. The underlying principle of a business is to make money.
Secondly, people take their cue from the leader. If this isn’t important to the leader, it isn’t to them.
I called the department manager. He said his driveway sloped down toward his house, so he couldn’t get the car up the hill. The snow wasn’t that bad and what’s wrong with a shovel? He didn’t sound like he had done more than glance out the window and go back to bed. I silently counted to ten and then asked why he didn’t take a cab or bus. He was about one block from a major bus line. He said he hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t made the effort, he meant. If someone couldn’t figure out how to overcome that small obstacle, should he be in charge of a department? I asked if he knew there was twenty thousand dollars sitting on his desk for him, would he have thought of a way to get in. He said probably, but there wasn’t. That told me all I needed to know.
My next call was to the assistant manager. He said he didn’t think we’d be open. So, you couldn’t call or just come in? He said it just looked too perilous. He lived downtown and walked to the office every day. Not a lot of danger of losing traction in a turn.
I didn’t fire them over that, but did talk to them about the example they set for their people, not to mention how they were perceived by the other departments who all showed up. I wanted to make sure they understood the expectations.
The assistant got the message and became an enthusiastic role model for his department, the manager became more and more a negative presence and was soon gone.
However, my attitude would change. A few years later, I read about someone perishing in a weather related accident. The person was a parent. Yeah, a business is about making money. But, is it worth the price of a life and the impact on the person’s loved ones? No. After that, I’d call off work if the roads weren’t reasonably safe.
Snow is for playing in or snuggling up by the fire, not putting people at risk.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Restraining orders
This must be my season for walking into altercations. Today, it was outside a bookstore.
A woman exited her car and was walking toward the store. A man jumped out of another car, ran over to her and forcibly grabbed her by the arm. They didn’t appear to be discussing the weather, so I made my way over to them.
Having run a mental health clinic that served some violent offenders, I have experience in defusing similar situations. It was fortunate that I was able to do that here because they are usually volatile.
The man stalked off and the woman wanted to know what she could do to thank me. I didn’t want anything except for her to do what she had to avert this happening again. She said there was a Starbucks in the bookstore and offered to buy me some coffee. There are only two occasions when I’ll patronize Starbucks; when they have the pumpkin muffins and when someone else is buying.
She said this guy used to work where she does (he was fired) and had always hung around her desk, even though she discouraged it. He asked her out and she declined, which made his whole attitude go sour, with him claiming she had “dumped him.” He still imposed himself on her at work and began to regularly haunt her various web pages. Still does, months later, and now he creates unwanted contacts. She was considering getting a restraining order.
I’m in the minority here because I believe most in the criminal justice system deem such orders to be largely effective. They deal with a broader spectrum of the population than I did.
I told her that many would recommend that and I would go along with it if it was a simple case of a jilted lover, child custody argument or some other dispute that could cause a brief flare-up between two average people. But, the lingering obsession with her web presence, unwelcome contacts and delusions about a nonexistent relationship indicated a sick mind.
A restraining order would probably be a deterrent to normal thought process. But, it’s rejection to a defective one and could well cause him to prolong and/or increase his efforts to insinuate himself where he clearly wasn’t welcome.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t offer her a better solution. Except, to keep this in mind the next time a mental health levy showed up on the ballot.
A woman exited her car and was walking toward the store. A man jumped out of another car, ran over to her and forcibly grabbed her by the arm. They didn’t appear to be discussing the weather, so I made my way over to them.
Having run a mental health clinic that served some violent offenders, I have experience in defusing similar situations. It was fortunate that I was able to do that here because they are usually volatile.
The man stalked off and the woman wanted to know what she could do to thank me. I didn’t want anything except for her to do what she had to avert this happening again. She said there was a Starbucks in the bookstore and offered to buy me some coffee. There are only two occasions when I’ll patronize Starbucks; when they have the pumpkin muffins and when someone else is buying.
She said this guy used to work where she does (he was fired) and had always hung around her desk, even though she discouraged it. He asked her out and she declined, which made his whole attitude go sour, with him claiming she had “dumped him.” He still imposed himself on her at work and began to regularly haunt her various web pages. Still does, months later, and now he creates unwanted contacts. She was considering getting a restraining order.
I’m in the minority here because I believe most in the criminal justice system deem such orders to be largely effective. They deal with a broader spectrum of the population than I did.
I told her that many would recommend that and I would go along with it if it was a simple case of a jilted lover, child custody argument or some other dispute that could cause a brief flare-up between two average people. But, the lingering obsession with her web presence, unwelcome contacts and delusions about a nonexistent relationship indicated a sick mind.
A restraining order would probably be a deterrent to normal thought process. But, it’s rejection to a defective one and could well cause him to prolong and/or increase his efforts to insinuate himself where he clearly wasn’t welcome.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t offer her a better solution. Except, to keep this in mind the next time a mental health levy showed up on the ballot.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Karma
If you look in the classifieds, you’ll see any number of bicycles, exercise machines, golf clubs, etc. changing hands. Up to the bulge in the bell curve, it’s pretty easy to make a fit, and buy and sell. The specifications just aren’t that critical. But, when you get beyond the dilatants, everyone gets a little persnickety.
So it is with kayaks. As you develop your skills and do more things, only the exactly right equipment for you will do. You have to have precisely the correct length, width, volume, rocker, etc., etc. And, in spite of what some will tell you, color matters. There is even an enlightened few who claim that different color plastics produce minute dimension variations that make a difference to them. And, in the realm of the ethereal, the esoterics avow that a red boat is always faster.
So, I spent some time, effort and no small amount of money zeroing in on a big water boat just right for me. I went the new route as the task is that much more difficult in the used market. I did manage to find a closeout deal, being unwilling to pay the full tariff on a kayak that wasn’t my primary ride.
Okay, fine and dandy. Mission accomplished. Except, shortly after finally acquiring the right boat, I began training for a swimming competition. In the process, I lost weight. Yes, it does make a difference. After all that, I had a boat that didn’t respond with the precision I wanted.
I just stopped paddling it, lacking the motivation to go through all that again, not to mention trying to liquidate my current kayak. As luck would have it, I was paddling with a group a couple weeks ago and, at one point, we swapped boats around to try out each other’s craft. The one I got was a perfect fit.
In an ideal world, I’d sell my boat for what it would cost to buy this model, assuming I’d find one priced accordingly and in good condition. And, in the right color, of course. The odds weren’t in my favor.
Switching channels, someone I know had a problem. I volunteered to take care of it for her, knowing it was an unpleasant task, but I was better suited to deal with it. Another acquaintance had a tough week of which losing his job was only a part of it. I took him out to lunch to buck him up and offer help.
Returning to the original topic, I ran an ad for my oversized kayak, not holding out a lot of hope. I had four serious inquiries within hours and sold it. Almost simultaneously, a friend mentioned he knew of the availability of a demo kayak at a very good price. Not only was it exactly what I wanted, it was in a rare, kick-butt, limited edition color. I grabbed it.
Now, I’m not one to fully embrace the concept of karma, but I’m starting to come around. I mean, would everything have fallen into place so perfectly if I hadn’t extended myself to those people earlier?
So it is with kayaks. As you develop your skills and do more things, only the exactly right equipment for you will do. You have to have precisely the correct length, width, volume, rocker, etc., etc. And, in spite of what some will tell you, color matters. There is even an enlightened few who claim that different color plastics produce minute dimension variations that make a difference to them. And, in the realm of the ethereal, the esoterics avow that a red boat is always faster.
So, I spent some time, effort and no small amount of money zeroing in on a big water boat just right for me. I went the new route as the task is that much more difficult in the used market. I did manage to find a closeout deal, being unwilling to pay the full tariff on a kayak that wasn’t my primary ride.
Okay, fine and dandy. Mission accomplished. Except, shortly after finally acquiring the right boat, I began training for a swimming competition. In the process, I lost weight. Yes, it does make a difference. After all that, I had a boat that didn’t respond with the precision I wanted.
I just stopped paddling it, lacking the motivation to go through all that again, not to mention trying to liquidate my current kayak. As luck would have it, I was paddling with a group a couple weeks ago and, at one point, we swapped boats around to try out each other’s craft. The one I got was a perfect fit.
In an ideal world, I’d sell my boat for what it would cost to buy this model, assuming I’d find one priced accordingly and in good condition. And, in the right color, of course. The odds weren’t in my favor.
Switching channels, someone I know had a problem. I volunteered to take care of it for her, knowing it was an unpleasant task, but I was better suited to deal with it. Another acquaintance had a tough week of which losing his job was only a part of it. I took him out to lunch to buck him up and offer help.
Returning to the original topic, I ran an ad for my oversized kayak, not holding out a lot of hope. I had four serious inquiries within hours and sold it. Almost simultaneously, a friend mentioned he knew of the availability of a demo kayak at a very good price. Not only was it exactly what I wanted, it was in a rare, kick-butt, limited edition color. I grabbed it.
Now, I’m not one to fully embrace the concept of karma, but I’m starting to come around. I mean, would everything have fallen into place so perfectly if I hadn’t extended myself to those people earlier?
A tale of two cities
Last night, I was coming home from a get-together with some friends and decided to pick up something at a convenience store. While it’s not the best of neighborhoods, I’ve never encountered any significant problems.
I was browsing the goods when a vociferous argument broke out between two of my fellow shoppers, and I eavesdropped to assess the possibility of escalation. Weapons came out, obviating the need for further analysis.
As they were blocking the exit, I thought it would be prudent to take up a defensible position and stepped behind the canned goods aisle and reached for my cell phone. I noticed that the store clerk was already on the phone in a semi-crouch behind the counter, so discontinued my call.
The melee ensured and the first cruiser arrived in minutes. Two more arrived on its heels and the melee was quelled. Then, two rescue vehicles to deal with the wounded.
I emerged from my position as the police and EMTs were administering to one of the combatants. His eyes fell upon me. “That (insert uncomplimentary term for Caucasian) didn’t see s##t.” A couple responses sprang to mind but he didn’t seem to be one to approach discourse in a rational manner.
They hauled him outside and the officer took my name and contact information. He wasn’t interested in details about the incident and said it was unlikely I’d be contacted. They were regular “customers” and would cop a plea for a favorable resolution. I recalled reading an article the previous week about an arrest of a guy in his 20s that had over forty previous arrests. Yeah, the system works.
As I drove home, my mind correlated this to an incident a couple months ago. We were staying in a waterside inn in Cedar Key, Florida. It’ a remote, sleepy community that’s more Caribbean than Floridian.
As my companion dressed for dinner, I had a yen for a soft drink. There was no vending machine in the small inn, nor one on the block that fronted the Gulf. How’s that for laid back?
I walked the few blocks into town and found the only market, which was more like a convenience store. I encountered the final phase of an altercation between the proprietor and another woman. It appeared to be over, so I went to the refrigerated case and extracted a Diet Coke. When I was checking out, the proprietor asked me to stay until the police arrived. I hadn’t seen much more than a little shoving, but how long could it take to wait?
I waited and waited and waited. Earlier that day, we had easily walked the length and breadth of the island, so I wouldn’t have guessed the police were that far away. I made this observation and was told that they travel by golf carts. Yeah, right.
A few minutes later, the official police golf cart arrived. Okay, she wasn’t having fun with me.
I told the officer I had only seen the end of the incident and that there wasn’t much to it. Nonetheless, he questioned me in detail, as though it had been the Kennedy assassination. Whatever.
He asked if I was available to be a witness concerning the strangling. I didn’t see a strangling. But, if someone wanted to fly me down to Florida to say that I saw them shoving each other, fine by me. Try to make it during a winter month. He didn’t appreciate me making light of their crime wave.
I don’t see myself relocating for retirement. But, if I did, you could do worse than a community whose biggest problem was a cat fight.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Foreigners
In the previous blog, it could be construed that I was alluding to foreigners. True, but not entirely. But, as long as we’re on the subject…
I’m not sure I was exposed to that term until I got into high school. We were told that the school would be receiving some foreign exchange students and were provided some guidelines in regard to that.
I can recall the conversation around the lunch table, which wasn’t exactly the GE College Bowl. What was so special about them? Weren’t most of our parents or grandparents immigrants? This was Philadelphia, PA, not Barnsburg, IA. And, since when did we follow guidelines?
The girl was from the Netherlands. Prior to her arrival, there was a lot of speculation on what kind of exotic love tricks she might bring. However, one look at her and no one was volunteering to be the test pilot.
The boy was from Samoa, Fiji, Bali or someplace like that. One of the guidelines was to treat them just as we treated each other. You mean, like captured spies?
He was a smallish guy named Elpidio. He told us he liked to be called “Super.” How many ways can you ask for it? About every tired practical joke was dusted off for the naïve fellow and he didn’t disappoint. I can think of at least two good scars he took home. Our pranks tended to oversteer.
My next encounter was in college at the University of Cincinnati. They were distributing foreign students among the various campus organizations. I was surprised they included us. We were an aggregate of blue collar types from New York, Jersey and Pennsylvania who probably would’ve thought “The Sopranos” was a sit-com.
We were dealt Johnny, who came from a wealthy and apparently not all that virtuous family in the Philippines. Johnny was anxious to set up shop here and recognized talent when he saw it. He involved us in his shenanigans and we were only too anxious to accommodate. Unfortunately, he chose to share his exploits at a meeting of foreign students and the faculty advisors removed him that night without even allowing him to return to the house.
A few years later, the University had the good taste to kick our “Animal House” off campus. I was stuck for a cheap place to live. So, I made a proposition to a friend I had who belonged to one of the upper crust frat houses. They needed to replace a housemother, per campus regulations, and didn’t want one. I would fill that position myself for a reduction in rent.
How would I do that? Leave that to me and I’ll take the weight. I could get this elderly lady I was helping out to do the interview and just dodge the meetings there after. It was risky but I was working my way through college and it was always touch and go financially. They might throw me out for impersonating a housemother but they certainly would for not paying tuition.
That was going okay. Then, I saw an opportunity to further cut my rent. The University wanted them to take in an African student. They refused so the University went to their alumni board and got the decision overrode.
These snotty, rich brats couldn’t bear the thought of sharing a room with a minority, let alone some “savage.” It was a different era. Didn’t mean a thing to me, though. I told them they could move a bed into my room if they cut my rent in half. They jumped on it.
So, I got Abraham Tewolde (pronounced Av-rah-hahm Tee-woldee), a slight and very black man. He was an interesting guy except kept weird hours. He’d go to sleep right after dinner and then would turn on the lights to study about 2:00 am.
Aside from that, we got along just fine. I called him “Abe” and he referred to me as “Gorilla Man,” (pronounced Go-rill-lah Mon), saying I reminded him of the primates in his native country. A fine thank you for the only person in the house who would talk to him. Of course, I wasn’t always as polished as I am today.
But, none of those experiences would reveal how the typical foreigner lived. That would come later when I got shipped overseas and be a blessing. Having grown up in small apartments and row housing, I might’ve felt a little disadvantaged. Not by world standards.
Travel would bring another good lesson. Outside of these borders, we’re the foreigners.
I’m not sure I was exposed to that term until I got into high school. We were told that the school would be receiving some foreign exchange students and were provided some guidelines in regard to that.
I can recall the conversation around the lunch table, which wasn’t exactly the GE College Bowl. What was so special about them? Weren’t most of our parents or grandparents immigrants? This was Philadelphia, PA, not Barnsburg, IA. And, since when did we follow guidelines?
The girl was from the Netherlands. Prior to her arrival, there was a lot of speculation on what kind of exotic love tricks she might bring. However, one look at her and no one was volunteering to be the test pilot.
The boy was from Samoa, Fiji, Bali or someplace like that. One of the guidelines was to treat them just as we treated each other. You mean, like captured spies?
He was a smallish guy named Elpidio. He told us he liked to be called “Super.” How many ways can you ask for it? About every tired practical joke was dusted off for the naïve fellow and he didn’t disappoint. I can think of at least two good scars he took home. Our pranks tended to oversteer.
My next encounter was in college at the University of Cincinnati. They were distributing foreign students among the various campus organizations. I was surprised they included us. We were an aggregate of blue collar types from New York, Jersey and Pennsylvania who probably would’ve thought “The Sopranos” was a sit-com.
We were dealt Johnny, who came from a wealthy and apparently not all that virtuous family in the Philippines. Johnny was anxious to set up shop here and recognized talent when he saw it. He involved us in his shenanigans and we were only too anxious to accommodate. Unfortunately, he chose to share his exploits at a meeting of foreign students and the faculty advisors removed him that night without even allowing him to return to the house.
A few years later, the University had the good taste to kick our “Animal House” off campus. I was stuck for a cheap place to live. So, I made a proposition to a friend I had who belonged to one of the upper crust frat houses. They needed to replace a housemother, per campus regulations, and didn’t want one. I would fill that position myself for a reduction in rent.
How would I do that? Leave that to me and I’ll take the weight. I could get this elderly lady I was helping out to do the interview and just dodge the meetings there after. It was risky but I was working my way through college and it was always touch and go financially. They might throw me out for impersonating a housemother but they certainly would for not paying tuition.
That was going okay. Then, I saw an opportunity to further cut my rent. The University wanted them to take in an African student. They refused so the University went to their alumni board and got the decision overrode.
These snotty, rich brats couldn’t bear the thought of sharing a room with a minority, let alone some “savage.” It was a different era. Didn’t mean a thing to me, though. I told them they could move a bed into my room if they cut my rent in half. They jumped on it.
So, I got Abraham Tewolde (pronounced Av-rah-hahm Tee-woldee), a slight and very black man. He was an interesting guy except kept weird hours. He’d go to sleep right after dinner and then would turn on the lights to study about 2:00 am.
Aside from that, we got along just fine. I called him “Abe” and he referred to me as “Gorilla Man,” (pronounced Go-rill-lah Mon), saying I reminded him of the primates in his native country. A fine thank you for the only person in the house who would talk to him. Of course, I wasn’t always as polished as I am today.
But, none of those experiences would reveal how the typical foreigner lived. That would come later when I got shipped overseas and be a blessing. Having grown up in small apartments and row housing, I might’ve felt a little disadvantaged. Not by world standards.
Travel would bring another good lesson. Outside of these borders, we’re the foreigners.
Thanksgiving
For many people I know, travel helps put tomorrow’s holiday into perspective. And, I’m not talking about going to Disney World.
I’m thankful that my primary dietary concern tomorrow is not eating too much instead of where the meal will come from. I’m grateful my transportation question is whether to hold onto this car for another year instead of how I’ll get my mother to a clinic on a bicycle.
I’m glad that my housing issue is whether to patch or replace the roof and not accommodating another child in a one-room shack. And that I’m contemplating painting the bathroom as opposed to digging another hole. Or, that the cost of utilities is rising and not that I can’t find enough fuel to cook and heat.
I’m happy to live in a country where the police and military serve and protect and I don’t concern myself with them seizing my property. And that it’s a country that comes up with a new app every ten minutes instead of struggling with how to supply fresh water.
My greatest challenge for the ensuing holiday is figuring out what to get loved ones who already have all they need, not wondering how I will clothe them. Next to that is working out a schedule of how I can manage to cover all the parties thrown by my friends.
We have it better than the vast majority of humanity. It’s a great life and for that I am thankful.
I’m thankful that my primary dietary concern tomorrow is not eating too much instead of where the meal will come from. I’m grateful my transportation question is whether to hold onto this car for another year instead of how I’ll get my mother to a clinic on a bicycle.
I’m glad that my housing issue is whether to patch or replace the roof and not accommodating another child in a one-room shack. And that I’m contemplating painting the bathroom as opposed to digging another hole. Or, that the cost of utilities is rising and not that I can’t find enough fuel to cook and heat.
I’m happy to live in a country where the police and military serve and protect and I don’t concern myself with them seizing my property. And that it’s a country that comes up with a new app every ten minutes instead of struggling with how to supply fresh water.
My greatest challenge for the ensuing holiday is figuring out what to get loved ones who already have all they need, not wondering how I will clothe them. Next to that is working out a schedule of how I can manage to cover all the parties thrown by my friends.
We have it better than the vast majority of humanity. It’s a great life and for that I am thankful.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
His undoing was his own doing.
I had the usual radio background on as I tapped out my morning email replies. Rollie Fingers was being interviewed. Now here’s a character that’s ample fodder for entertaining discussion.
So, what topic does the interviewer pitch to him? Pete Rose and the MLB Hall of Fame. Will we ever reach a point where that doesn’t come up? Granted, it is a Cincinnati station.
While not a big fan of sports, I have found Fingers to be insightful. And, he didn’t disappoint.
Fingers said that we are a forgiving people. If you get caught in a lie, come clean that you made a mistake and fess up. We’ll give you a pass, a la Bill Clinton.
But, if you don’t, people sense that there’s something very wrong with you and you aren’t worthy of the mercy. Pete’s problem is that he perpetuated the fallacies and few wanted any part of him.
True, but I don’t feel sorry for him. His undoing was his own doing.
So, what topic does the interviewer pitch to him? Pete Rose and the MLB Hall of Fame. Will we ever reach a point where that doesn’t come up? Granted, it is a Cincinnati station.
While not a big fan of sports, I have found Fingers to be insightful. And, he didn’t disappoint.
Fingers said that we are a forgiving people. If you get caught in a lie, come clean that you made a mistake and fess up. We’ll give you a pass, a la Bill Clinton.
But, if you don’t, people sense that there’s something very wrong with you and you aren’t worthy of the mercy. Pete’s problem is that he perpetuated the fallacies and few wanted any part of him.
True, but I don’t feel sorry for him. His undoing was his own doing.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Defining moment
A bad weekend for a lot of people. Car wrecks, fires, etc. In all that, it was probably lost on most people that a young man was possibly scarred of life.
Colerain and St. Xavier were playing to advance in the playoffs to the state championship. Colerain has had a great season and is loaded for bear. This could well be their year, as far as the seniors are concerned. When you’re in that position, you are aware that this could be your last shot at being part of something like this. St. Xavier has had a so-so season and squeaked in.
Imagine you’re the placekicker for Colerain. You team leads 10-0 at the end of the first quarter. It’s going according to script. But, X roars back with 24 unanswered points. The dream is slipping from your grasp. Colerain battles back and, in the closing minutes, scores a touchdown that brings them within one. The coach decides to play for the tie, which means you’re on.
A routine extra point. Except, it’s not. You boot it wide. Game over.
Yeah, your team blew their lead big time. The coach could’ve played for a win with a two-point conversion. And maybe the holder or snapper botched the deal. But, it’s on your head, as far as most are concerned.
Including you. You only trot out onto that field a few times in a game and are expected to be perfect. A defensive back may slip and the ball is thrown somewhere else. A guard may miss a block but the fullback takes out the defender. But for you, there’s no acceptable margin of error. And, nowhere to hide.
I can’t help but think this will stay with the poor kid for life. Undeservedly so. What he should be looking at is that he trained, developed a skill and put himself out on a limb. That puts him ahead of most people he will ever encounter. But, I don’t think he’ll look at it that way and I feel bad for him.
This incident will go unnoticed by most people outside of his school. I know why it caught my attention.
Not long ago, I posted something on the web that reminded my former classmates of some good times we had together. A number added their fond reminiscences. Dick inserted a snide remark and someone immediately inquired about his attitude. In the Philly tradition, it was worded in the WTF’s your problem mode. He deleted his comment.
I didn’t have to ask why he responded irrationally. I knew.
Dick was a gifted and intense athlete. Maybe too gifted for his own good. We played on the same junior high team and he was the star running back.
We also participated in another league and our respective teams played off for the championship. It was a seesaw battle and came down to them four points behind and being close to our goal line.
The quarterback called an option play, which had been working fairly well against us. In the huddle, Dick was outraged and protested vociferously that someone else should carry the ball. “You’re going to keep it?”, he snarled. “I’m the touchdown man and everyone knows it.” The quarterback was cowed and called Dick’s number for his favorite play, a sweep. Student body right.
They had a strong line of bulls capable of mowing down anyone in the back’s path, so it wasn’t a bad call. Except, in this case, one of our inside linebackers read the keys and thought he had it smelled out. Instead of going with the flow and being sealed in according to plan, he charged through the gap left by the pulling guard and nailed Dick in the backfield. Game over.
That fall, in junior high practice, everyone was referring to Dick as “Touchdown Man” when he yelled at his teammates to block better for him, as was his custom, alluding to the incident. "Dammit, Pollock, keep that end away from me!" "Whatever you say, Touchdown Man." He was literally red in the face and finally jumped one of the teasers.
The coach sent him to the lockers where he waited and then quit the team. He confronted the guy who had made the fateful tackle, accusing him of making a fool out of him. “You did it to yourself,” I replied.
He never said two words to me after that. Not much to anyone else, either.
When we went on to high school, the coach tried to get him to come out for football. He refused.
The coach was aware of the reason for his feelings and asked me to talk to him. I tried without success and stand corrected on my previous statement. He did say two words to me.
He graduated without much interface with anyone and things didn’t go real well for him in life. Obviously, he had problems going into that game and thereafter, but he seemed to hang everything on that play, not taking any responsibility. If he said anything to anybody about it, it was that the line broke down and left him exposed (they blocked according to plan) or that I was offsides (I wasn’t). Nothing about his insistence on being the hero or boasting. Everyone knew the score and ignored him. A delusional world is a lonely place to live.
Forty years later, I was somewhat surprised to see him at our reunion and went up to say hi to him. “You ruined me,” was all he said. Too bad he viewed it that way, but not my problem. He chose to write the check and couldn’t cover it. Worse yet, he let it define his life.
That’s what I’m hoping the kid from Colerain won’t do.
Colerain and St. Xavier were playing to advance in the playoffs to the state championship. Colerain has had a great season and is loaded for bear. This could well be their year, as far as the seniors are concerned. When you’re in that position, you are aware that this could be your last shot at being part of something like this. St. Xavier has had a so-so season and squeaked in.
Imagine you’re the placekicker for Colerain. You team leads 10-0 at the end of the first quarter. It’s going according to script. But, X roars back with 24 unanswered points. The dream is slipping from your grasp. Colerain battles back and, in the closing minutes, scores a touchdown that brings them within one. The coach decides to play for the tie, which means you’re on.
A routine extra point. Except, it’s not. You boot it wide. Game over.
Yeah, your team blew their lead big time. The coach could’ve played for a win with a two-point conversion. And maybe the holder or snapper botched the deal. But, it’s on your head, as far as most are concerned.
Including you. You only trot out onto that field a few times in a game and are expected to be perfect. A defensive back may slip and the ball is thrown somewhere else. A guard may miss a block but the fullback takes out the defender. But for you, there’s no acceptable margin of error. And, nowhere to hide.
I can’t help but think this will stay with the poor kid for life. Undeservedly so. What he should be looking at is that he trained, developed a skill and put himself out on a limb. That puts him ahead of most people he will ever encounter. But, I don’t think he’ll look at it that way and I feel bad for him.
This incident will go unnoticed by most people outside of his school. I know why it caught my attention.
Not long ago, I posted something on the web that reminded my former classmates of some good times we had together. A number added their fond reminiscences. Dick inserted a snide remark and someone immediately inquired about his attitude. In the Philly tradition, it was worded in the WTF’s your problem mode. He deleted his comment.
I didn’t have to ask why he responded irrationally. I knew.
Dick was a gifted and intense athlete. Maybe too gifted for his own good. We played on the same junior high team and he was the star running back.
We also participated in another league and our respective teams played off for the championship. It was a seesaw battle and came down to them four points behind and being close to our goal line.
The quarterback called an option play, which had been working fairly well against us. In the huddle, Dick was outraged and protested vociferously that someone else should carry the ball. “You’re going to keep it?”, he snarled. “I’m the touchdown man and everyone knows it.” The quarterback was cowed and called Dick’s number for his favorite play, a sweep. Student body right.
They had a strong line of bulls capable of mowing down anyone in the back’s path, so it wasn’t a bad call. Except, in this case, one of our inside linebackers read the keys and thought he had it smelled out. Instead of going with the flow and being sealed in according to plan, he charged through the gap left by the pulling guard and nailed Dick in the backfield. Game over.
That fall, in junior high practice, everyone was referring to Dick as “Touchdown Man” when he yelled at his teammates to block better for him, as was his custom, alluding to the incident. "Dammit, Pollock, keep that end away from me!" "Whatever you say, Touchdown Man." He was literally red in the face and finally jumped one of the teasers.
The coach sent him to the lockers where he waited and then quit the team. He confronted the guy who had made the fateful tackle, accusing him of making a fool out of him. “You did it to yourself,” I replied.
He never said two words to me after that. Not much to anyone else, either.
When we went on to high school, the coach tried to get him to come out for football. He refused.
The coach was aware of the reason for his feelings and asked me to talk to him. I tried without success and stand corrected on my previous statement. He did say two words to me.
He graduated without much interface with anyone and things didn’t go real well for him in life. Obviously, he had problems going into that game and thereafter, but he seemed to hang everything on that play, not taking any responsibility. If he said anything to anybody about it, it was that the line broke down and left him exposed (they blocked according to plan) or that I was offsides (I wasn’t). Nothing about his insistence on being the hero or boasting. Everyone knew the score and ignored him. A delusional world is a lonely place to live.
Forty years later, I was somewhat surprised to see him at our reunion and went up to say hi to him. “You ruined me,” was all he said. Too bad he viewed it that way, but not my problem. He chose to write the check and couldn’t cover it. Worse yet, he let it define his life.
That’s what I’m hoping the kid from Colerain won’t do.
The thanks of a grateful nation
The Feds remain inert in the face of burgeoning legions of get-rich-quick schemes preying upon a desperate public in tough economic times. They sit on their hands as charlatans peddle “miracle” cures for cancer, arthritis and other ails to an aging demographic. And, in spite of numerous investigative articles exposing nonprofit shams (e.g. Better Business Bureau), they remain comatose.
But, just let someone score with a product that is pretty much as-described and the sleeping giant awakes to smite it. Headline in today’s newspaper: “Feds move to ban caffeinated alcoholic drinks.” The effort is spearheaded by Senator Charles Schumer, apparently an advocate of the you’re-too-stupid-to-make-your-own-choices-so-we’ll-make-them-for-you party line.
The target in all this flurry of action is the newly popular beverage category of fruit flavored alcoholic beverage popular with younger drinkers. New? Can you say “Ripple?”
But, these products combine caffeine with alcohol, a combo deemed to be perilous. You mean, like rum & coke or Kahlua?
Yes, but this villain packs a punch of up to 12% alcohol content. Shudder. So that compares unfavorably to bourbon (40-50%), gin (43%) or wine (10-14%)? How about a slug of Bacardi 151?
They justify this ban with reports that young people are getting drunk and even suffering alcohol poisoning. Goodness, how long has this been going on? If memory serves, there were a few weekends in college when we got panty raiding, bar fighting, passing out drunk on beer. I’m using the “royal we,” so as not to necessarily include myself in that box.
But, I’m open to reviewing the evidence they cite in support of their position. Item one, an 18-year-old girl drives her car into a house after an extensive round of playing “beer pong” with Four Loko (one of the targeted beverages). So, if she had been marinating herself in any other alcoholic beverage, that wouldn’t have happened? I guess when we employed beer in chugging competitions or cheap bourbon in shot-a-minute contests, we didn’t end up hammered. We just thought we were. Good thing we weren’t exposed to these fruity killers.
Item two in their ironclad case, a 14-year-old girl dies in a car accident when her boyfriend (also only 14) lost control of the car he was driving. They had downed a 12-pack of beer before nudging into some Four Lokos. Is it just me or does anyone else see something wrong with this picture besides they had a couple pops of the punch? It’s not the “friend” who provided the alcohol, the beer, the parents who didn’t teach them better, the person who allowed access to an unlicensed driver or their own will. It’s the responsibility of the maker of one of the beverages they illegally obtained and consumed. I’m reminded of a wild-eyed email someone forwarded to me a couple weeks ago. It didn’t make sense to him so he said he tried sticking an eggbeater through his earhole and turning it up to frappe in an attempt to understand the viewpoint of the author. Still didn’t make sense. I doubt if scrambling the brains would bring any more clarity to the conclusion reached from this incident, either.
But, I suppose I should be glad that they’re doing the job and protecting us by banning a pervasive and proven killer of so many like cigarettes. I’m sorry, I meant fruity drinks.
But, just let someone score with a product that is pretty much as-described and the sleeping giant awakes to smite it. Headline in today’s newspaper: “Feds move to ban caffeinated alcoholic drinks.” The effort is spearheaded by Senator Charles Schumer, apparently an advocate of the you’re-too-stupid-to-make-your-own-choices-so-we’ll-make-them-for-you party line.
The target in all this flurry of action is the newly popular beverage category of fruit flavored alcoholic beverage popular with younger drinkers. New? Can you say “Ripple?”
But, these products combine caffeine with alcohol, a combo deemed to be perilous. You mean, like rum & coke or Kahlua?
Yes, but this villain packs a punch of up to 12% alcohol content. Shudder. So that compares unfavorably to bourbon (40-50%), gin (43%) or wine (10-14%)? How about a slug of Bacardi 151?
They justify this ban with reports that young people are getting drunk and even suffering alcohol poisoning. Goodness, how long has this been going on? If memory serves, there were a few weekends in college when we got panty raiding, bar fighting, passing out drunk on beer. I’m using the “royal we,” so as not to necessarily include myself in that box.
But, I’m open to reviewing the evidence they cite in support of their position. Item one, an 18-year-old girl drives her car into a house after an extensive round of playing “beer pong” with Four Loko (one of the targeted beverages). So, if she had been marinating herself in any other alcoholic beverage, that wouldn’t have happened? I guess when we employed beer in chugging competitions or cheap bourbon in shot-a-minute contests, we didn’t end up hammered. We just thought we were. Good thing we weren’t exposed to these fruity killers.
Item two in their ironclad case, a 14-year-old girl dies in a car accident when her boyfriend (also only 14) lost control of the car he was driving. They had downed a 12-pack of beer before nudging into some Four Lokos. Is it just me or does anyone else see something wrong with this picture besides they had a couple pops of the punch? It’s not the “friend” who provided the alcohol, the beer, the parents who didn’t teach them better, the person who allowed access to an unlicensed driver or their own will. It’s the responsibility of the maker of one of the beverages they illegally obtained and consumed. I’m reminded of a wild-eyed email someone forwarded to me a couple weeks ago. It didn’t make sense to him so he said he tried sticking an eggbeater through his earhole and turning it up to frappe in an attempt to understand the viewpoint of the author. Still didn’t make sense. I doubt if scrambling the brains would bring any more clarity to the conclusion reached from this incident, either.
But, I suppose I should be glad that they’re doing the job and protecting us by banning a pervasive and proven killer of so many like cigarettes. I’m sorry, I meant fruity drinks.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
I can sleep better
The Christmas catalogs have already started to pour in and they’re not quite what I expected. In these economic conditions, I was expecting the selections to narrow to the best sellers and the catalogs to be thinner. It doesn’t appear to be the case, so I’d guess they’re stocking low in some of the unproven items.
I’m more inclined to wait out the season and then some, buying from the liquidators. However, once in a while, I pop up on some high end list and receive a catalog that’s so over-the-top, I can’t help but grin.
Added utility is one thing, but price for the sake of paying more is ludicrous. I get why an outdoor grill constructed of heavy gauge stainless steel costs more than painted tinny sheet metal. But, I’m not biting on a treble premium for a t-shirt just for the logo.
The marketers at J. L. Powell caught me with a stray shot in their targeted approach. The cover of their catalog carried the tagline “The sporting life,” so I understood why I came up on their radar. It also had a free shipping burst, which does appeal to my bargain hunting side.
However, they lost me early on with a car coat that is priced at $998. My first two cars didn’t cost a thousand bucks. Combined. Could almost squeeze the third one into that box.
Then, there’s the coyote throw (blanket) for $5,998. Aren’t coyotes maybe a little scarcer than deer? If you’re of a mind to lay out six thousand bucks for a blanket, does free shipping really come into the buying decision equation? I have no idea what the price points are on blankets constructed of mangy pelts, so I flip back to where I might be in my depth.
There’s a wallet/business card case for $485. I start paying half a grand for wallets and I won’t have anything to put in them. Turn some more pages.
Ah, the ubiquitous flannel shirt. Except theirs doesn’t become yours until you fork over $158. I hope they’re not waiting for my order to pay their utility bill. I can get about eight of them at Bass Pro for that kind of weight.
Now I come to a pullover shirt, promoted as made out of “100% cotton jersey.” That’s a big deal? Isn’t that the same thing like 90% of my t-shirts are cut from? Except, they didn’t cost $139 apiece.
I need to dig deeper. Now I’m in familiar territory. The good old denim work shirt and a pair of jeans. The shirt rings up at $175, which means you’re going to be doing a whole lot of work. The jeans check in at a mere $115.
Toward the back of the book, I encounter the prosaic baseball cap. Since they became the staple of the advertising promotion industry, I haven’t bought one since 1997 and have a carton of them. I doubt if I have one that retails for $190, though. In all fairness, this one is cashmere, which most ball cap occasions demand, of course. The pikers can always drop back to their waxed cotton version, which cuts the price in half.
A hundred bucks for a cotton ball cap is about all I can take and I pitch the catalog into the can, which is neither waxed nor worth a c-note, but somehow gets the job done. But, I will sleep better knowing that our economy can still support a market for three-figure ball caps.
I’m more inclined to wait out the season and then some, buying from the liquidators. However, once in a while, I pop up on some high end list and receive a catalog that’s so over-the-top, I can’t help but grin.
Added utility is one thing, but price for the sake of paying more is ludicrous. I get why an outdoor grill constructed of heavy gauge stainless steel costs more than painted tinny sheet metal. But, I’m not biting on a treble premium for a t-shirt just for the logo.
The marketers at J. L. Powell caught me with a stray shot in their targeted approach. The cover of their catalog carried the tagline “The sporting life,” so I understood why I came up on their radar. It also had a free shipping burst, which does appeal to my bargain hunting side.
However, they lost me early on with a car coat that is priced at $998. My first two cars didn’t cost a thousand bucks. Combined. Could almost squeeze the third one into that box.
Then, there’s the coyote throw (blanket) for $5,998. Aren’t coyotes maybe a little scarcer than deer? If you’re of a mind to lay out six thousand bucks for a blanket, does free shipping really come into the buying decision equation? I have no idea what the price points are on blankets constructed of mangy pelts, so I flip back to where I might be in my depth.
There’s a wallet/business card case for $485. I start paying half a grand for wallets and I won’t have anything to put in them. Turn some more pages.
Ah, the ubiquitous flannel shirt. Except theirs doesn’t become yours until you fork over $158. I hope they’re not waiting for my order to pay their utility bill. I can get about eight of them at Bass Pro for that kind of weight.
Now I come to a pullover shirt, promoted as made out of “100% cotton jersey.” That’s a big deal? Isn’t that the same thing like 90% of my t-shirts are cut from? Except, they didn’t cost $139 apiece.
I need to dig deeper. Now I’m in familiar territory. The good old denim work shirt and a pair of jeans. The shirt rings up at $175, which means you’re going to be doing a whole lot of work. The jeans check in at a mere $115.
Toward the back of the book, I encounter the prosaic baseball cap. Since they became the staple of the advertising promotion industry, I haven’t bought one since 1997 and have a carton of them. I doubt if I have one that retails for $190, though. In all fairness, this one is cashmere, which most ball cap occasions demand, of course. The pikers can always drop back to their waxed cotton version, which cuts the price in half.
A hundred bucks for a cotton ball cap is about all I can take and I pitch the catalog into the can, which is neither waxed nor worth a c-note, but somehow gets the job done. But, I will sleep better knowing that our economy can still support a market for three-figure ball caps.
Friday, November 12, 2010
I journey into deepest Western Hills
Tomorrow night is a surprise birthday party for Gary and I couldn’t be looking forward to it more if…well, if I was Gary. Not that it’ll be a surprise. Five years ago, I attended a previous version of this event on a landmark birthday of his, so there’s reason to believe he’d be looking for an encore performance. And, if that’s not enough, about everyone else in his circle of friends receives the same honor. They’ve just all developed the knack for acting surprised, even when a couple hundred strange vehicles are gobbling up curb space in their neighborhoods.
This is vintage west side Cincinnati and no big deal to them. I’m not from here, so it’s a treat. Or, maybe it just reminds me of the tight-knit neighborhood I grew up in.
We’ll arrive early, park a block away and then attempt to cram everyone into the confines of his house. No mean feat. To begin with, this entails Gary’s friends (most of which date back to grade school) and family, a count that rivals the extras in “Spartacus.”
Then, there’s the house, which is a quintessential west side ranch of modest dimensions. But, you know it’s built like a fort and will outlast any three stadiums the taxpayers are scammed into building. Hardwood floors, plaster slathered on thick and nary a brick out of alignment. I would allow that the crank-operated jalousie windows could be deemed an Achilles Heel.
Gary’s daughter is orchestrating this and will vainly trying to keep the crowd quiet. They will be already be primed with convenient mart beer.
Gary will arrive, feign surprise and the games begin. Here are my two favorite aspects.
While his daughter provides the basic provisions, everyone brings a contribution to the feast. Since this is a matter of pride with west side women, we’re not talking pretzels.
I don’t need the Amazing Kreskin to forecast the menu. Let’s lead off with the green bean casserole, sopping in mushroom soup and crowned with onion crisps (canned). That’ll be between the Skyline Chili dip and German potato salad. Down the table, you’ll find brats and metts, with a bowl of sauerkraut to be employed as a condiment or side. Baked beans (with bacon on top), hot slaw, conventional potato salad, fruit salad topped with marshmallows and shredded coconut and about 47 varieties of brownies, cakes and pies will round out the banquet. Outstanding. It’ll take about two weeks in the gym to burn it off but I’ll have no regrets.
Then, the reminiscing begins. It’s not just the volleying back and forth of childhood stories that makes this fun. I’ve heard them at previous events. It’s the characters. They’re the real thing. You can’t cast a show like this.
I just received a reminder from my date that a present would probably be appropriate. She’s suggesting a six-pack. Perfect. I can’t wait.
This is vintage west side Cincinnati and no big deal to them. I’m not from here, so it’s a treat. Or, maybe it just reminds me of the tight-knit neighborhood I grew up in.
We’ll arrive early, park a block away and then attempt to cram everyone into the confines of his house. No mean feat. To begin with, this entails Gary’s friends (most of which date back to grade school) and family, a count that rivals the extras in “Spartacus.”
Then, there’s the house, which is a quintessential west side ranch of modest dimensions. But, you know it’s built like a fort and will outlast any three stadiums the taxpayers are scammed into building. Hardwood floors, plaster slathered on thick and nary a brick out of alignment. I would allow that the crank-operated jalousie windows could be deemed an Achilles Heel.
Gary’s daughter is orchestrating this and will vainly trying to keep the crowd quiet. They will be already be primed with convenient mart beer.
Gary will arrive, feign surprise and the games begin. Here are my two favorite aspects.
While his daughter provides the basic provisions, everyone brings a contribution to the feast. Since this is a matter of pride with west side women, we’re not talking pretzels.
I don’t need the Amazing Kreskin to forecast the menu. Let’s lead off with the green bean casserole, sopping in mushroom soup and crowned with onion crisps (canned). That’ll be between the Skyline Chili dip and German potato salad. Down the table, you’ll find brats and metts, with a bowl of sauerkraut to be employed as a condiment or side. Baked beans (with bacon on top), hot slaw, conventional potato salad, fruit salad topped with marshmallows and shredded coconut and about 47 varieties of brownies, cakes and pies will round out the banquet. Outstanding. It’ll take about two weeks in the gym to burn it off but I’ll have no regrets.
Then, the reminiscing begins. It’s not just the volleying back and forth of childhood stories that makes this fun. I’ve heard them at previous events. It’s the characters. They’re the real thing. You can’t cast a show like this.
I just received a reminder from my date that a present would probably be appropriate. She’s suggesting a six-pack. Perfect. I can’t wait.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
You can have my seat
I am not a spectator primarily because I’d rather be doing something than watch others do it. I know I’m in the minority for sports. It also applies to musical performances. You can add pornography for that matter.
Today’s newspaper validates my reluctance to partake of the bleachers. Item number one concerns the Miami University student who was ejected from a football game for repeated refusing to remove his American Indian headdress. His explanation was that he wore it to show school spirit. Yeah, like that isn’t transparent. Just the kind of wingnut I want to sit next to.
The RedHawks haven’t been the Redskins in 13 years, probably predating his awareness of the school. Now don’t get the idea I was on the bandwagon for the name change. Teams pick a mascot to symbolize some positive attribute they aspire to. It’s an homage. You don’t see the St. Louis Thieves, Chicago Arsonists or the Miami Telemarketers.
A spokesperson for the university said that their policy is that any American Indian imagery must be used with respect. No mention was made of policies for portrayal of Asians, Africans or Hispanics. And, just where are these policies published? I went through about seven years of college without knowing the policies.
Item number two details three arrests at the Bengals-Steelers game. The first contestant was fighting while being in line at a concession stand. Someone reached out and swiped a piece of jewelry he was wearing. I’m not feeling a lot of empathy for a guy who accessorizes for a football game.
Another combatant is described as drunk and wearing his t-shirt inside out so that you could see his last name inked on his back, football jersey style. It’s not explained how the configuration of the shirt facilitated the visibility, nor why that should be an issue. I’ll give him props for it being his name instead of a player. Nothing is more pathetic than a grown man walking around with another man’s name on his back.
This guy picked a fight and then assaulted a security officer. Anti-anxiety pills were found on him, which his lawyer assured the court were prescribed. Don’t seem to be working. And, nothing adds to the efficacy of psychotropic medication like excess alcohol.
Sit with the head cases in the stands and watch Chad’s antics on the field? You can have my seat.
Today’s newspaper validates my reluctance to partake of the bleachers. Item number one concerns the Miami University student who was ejected from a football game for repeated refusing to remove his American Indian headdress. His explanation was that he wore it to show school spirit. Yeah, like that isn’t transparent. Just the kind of wingnut I want to sit next to.
The RedHawks haven’t been the Redskins in 13 years, probably predating his awareness of the school. Now don’t get the idea I was on the bandwagon for the name change. Teams pick a mascot to symbolize some positive attribute they aspire to. It’s an homage. You don’t see the St. Louis Thieves, Chicago Arsonists or the Miami Telemarketers.
A spokesperson for the university said that their policy is that any American Indian imagery must be used with respect. No mention was made of policies for portrayal of Asians, Africans or Hispanics. And, just where are these policies published? I went through about seven years of college without knowing the policies.
Item number two details three arrests at the Bengals-Steelers game. The first contestant was fighting while being in line at a concession stand. Someone reached out and swiped a piece of jewelry he was wearing. I’m not feeling a lot of empathy for a guy who accessorizes for a football game.
Another combatant is described as drunk and wearing his t-shirt inside out so that you could see his last name inked on his back, football jersey style. It’s not explained how the configuration of the shirt facilitated the visibility, nor why that should be an issue. I’ll give him props for it being his name instead of a player. Nothing is more pathetic than a grown man walking around with another man’s name on his back.
This guy picked a fight and then assaulted a security officer. Anti-anxiety pills were found on him, which his lawyer assured the court were prescribed. Don’t seem to be working. And, nothing adds to the efficacy of psychotropic medication like excess alcohol.
Sit with the head cases in the stands and watch Chad’s antics on the field? You can have my seat.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Whippersnappers
The youngsters keep you young. I’ve heard the adage in various forms from as far back as I can remember. People playing with their children. Grandparents. And, of course, some friends going into second or third marriages with trophy spouses.
I never gave it much thought. But, it crosses my mind this morning. Yesterday, I kayaked all afternoon and playboated at an indoor pool in the evening because, in part, I had younger, energetic friends to do it with. One of them coached me on a move at the pool. I was so delighted to pull it off, I repeated it ten or twenty or maybe sixty times. I can hardly move this morning. I don’t recall anyone extolling this side effect of the adage.
When I heard the concept in the past, I know I didn’t equate it to now and imagine “the youngsters” keeping me young would be in their 40s and 50s. Whippersnappers.
I never gave it much thought. But, it crosses my mind this morning. Yesterday, I kayaked all afternoon and playboated at an indoor pool in the evening because, in part, I had younger, energetic friends to do it with. One of them coached me on a move at the pool. I was so delighted to pull it off, I repeated it ten or twenty or maybe sixty times. I can hardly move this morning. I don’t recall anyone extolling this side effect of the adage.
When I heard the concept in the past, I know I didn’t equate it to now and imagine “the youngsters” keeping me young would be in their 40s and 50s. Whippersnappers.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Understood
A friend referred me to a young lady concerning some work I needed done. I met with her and she appeared qualified, ruling out her kelly green hair as irrelevant.
I said I'd like it done as quickly as possible. Would tomorrow be okay?
"Yes. Oh wait, no. I'm having my hair done. The roots are beginning to show. You've probably been around enough women to know I have to take care of that."
Of course. You wouldn't want anyone to know that green isn't your natural color.
I said I'd like it done as quickly as possible. Would tomorrow be okay?
"Yes. Oh wait, no. I'm having my hair done. The roots are beginning to show. You've probably been around enough women to know I have to take care of that."
Of course. You wouldn't want anyone to know that green isn't your natural color.
Friday, November 05, 2010
The adventure begins
It’s hard to turn on the television without seeing some adventurous expedition mushing to some pole or wending its way down the Amazon River. At least on the stations I watch.
They have the best and very cool equipment, as evidenced by the sponsor decals. And, they’re having a blast, subject to the moments of peril they seem to be required to insert for the drama value. Don’t you wish you could be one of them?
Well, why not? I don’t answer that rhetorical question without first asking myself how it could be done.
Obviously, they know things I don’t. It’s better to learn on a smaller scale where the errors and omissions aren’t likely to be fatal. Crawl before you walk. So, I started noodling some adventures of lesser scale that would still have the cache to pique the interest of potential sponsors. I don’t think you can just say, “I’m going to paddle across Lake Winnebago and would like some sponsor bucks.” Sounds like fun. Have a good time and let us know how it goes.
I brainstormed some ideas and bounced them off active friends, watching for the visceral reaction. One of them widened the eyes more than others. Okay, that’s it.
Then, I compiled a list of potential backers and made the initial contact. You sell the idea of discussing it with you in that first effort, not the final decision. It’s easier to get the foot in the door.
That went well. No commitments yet, but enough interest to proceed with the planning.
That’s about 90% done. Now, I have to make some arrangements and nail down the sponsorships.
Stay tuned. The adventure begins.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Any questions?
Many years ago, I was involved in a panel discussion about the decline of the American automobile industry. One participant summarized his position by stating, “People making $7 an hour can’t afford to buy cars assembled by people making $20. It’s that simple.”
A bit oversimplified, in my opinion, but it has some merit. By the same token, the gist applies to the failure of the federal government and the economy.
The Bureau of Labor Statistics published results of a study this year that compared compensation of jobs in the government to like positions in the private sector. The average compensation (wages and benefits) for the former was $108,476 compared to only $69,926 in the latter, not even factoring in the overstaffing, lack of accountability, hiring of underqualified candidates, low performance standards, etc. commonly found in government.
Two things to keep in mind. It’s not some outside fringe group with an axe to grind conducting the study. The BLS is part of the government (Department of Labor). Secondly, the government has bloated their staff by almost a quarter million in the past couple years.
So, you’re paying (wasting) a 55% premium for government services before you even compute for inefficiencies. How long can you afford to do that?
A bit oversimplified, in my opinion, but it has some merit. By the same token, the gist applies to the failure of the federal government and the economy.
The Bureau of Labor Statistics published results of a study this year that compared compensation of jobs in the government to like positions in the private sector. The average compensation (wages and benefits) for the former was $108,476 compared to only $69,926 in the latter, not even factoring in the overstaffing, lack of accountability, hiring of underqualified candidates, low performance standards, etc. commonly found in government.
Two things to keep in mind. It’s not some outside fringe group with an axe to grind conducting the study. The BLS is part of the government (Department of Labor). Secondly, the government has bloated their staff by almost a quarter million in the past couple years.
So, you’re paying (wasting) a 55% premium for government services before you even compute for inefficiencies. How long can you afford to do that?
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
A Half Price Schnook
The books were beginning to take over my living space. The Half Price Books (HPB) ads on the radio were starting to register with me.
I average somewhere around 75 books a year. I forward a good deal of them to friends who are also readers. Of course, there is some inflow from them. The inventory was getting out of hand.
I called to see what HPB paid. The lady told me it depended upon condition of the book, demand for the title, yada, yada, yada.
Just give me a ballpark so I know if it’s worth my effort. What would some price points be in the range? It depended upon condition of the book, demand for the title, yada, yada, yada. Okay, message received.
I set aside books I would use for reference or would read again (yeah, right). The rest I saw no hope for. A few had been sent to me by the authors and were autographed. If I had actually completed them, I probably would’ve comprised a quarter of the audience. Just to be sure, I did a little web surfing to see if any of the writers had since made it big. Or, at all. I didn’t want to toss an original, personalized Hemingway or something that would eventually fetch a king’s ransom on ebay. No. These guys were probably writing product disclaimers somewhere, now.
I boxed them up and did some quick calculations. Of the 125 exiles, about 20% were so esoteric or just lacking in merit that they had no value. Of the rest, I put the average cover price at a conservative $8. If you can go by the name of the store, they’ll retail for $4. Factoring in a 100% markup, I’d be walking out with $200.
Didn’t seem likely. I’d been in the greeting card business and sold excess inventory to the big clearance shops. They bought cards by the pound. Imagine how my editors and artists felt about that. The HPB model was probably along this line.
So, cut it in half and I still reap a c-note. That would be worth the effort and I’d still clear some shelves (and floor space, if you must know). I’d reward myself with a burger at Five Guys, which wasn’t far from HPB. I’d tried it once and didn’t get it. For over ten bucks, I expected more of a burger and fries. I was willing to give it another go after spinning paper into gold.
I arrived at their front door, found the buying desk and was told to bring in the books. The minicarts were pointed out, should I want to avail myself of mechanical advantage. It was a very active weekend and I had visited the gym that morning. I’ll gladly take the cart.
Except the cartons didn’t fit into the tiny baskets. You know, the whole idea of the cart is to handle volume loads, so you’d think…
I balanced the first carton on top of the cart and wheeled it in. After that, I decided it was faster just to lug them in.
The lady asked for a photo ID. Is there a nefarious ring out there fencing paperbacks? Then she said it would take about ten to fifteen minutes for her to come up with an offer. I could browse their racks or whatever, but was not permitted to leave the store. Why was that? Because it’s company policy. Oh, and I thought she might not have a logical reason.
I ambled around and found one hardback that drew my interest. I had to overcome the desire to leave with a 100% net profit, but ninety-something would still buy a burger and then some.
Finally, I was paged and beat down the anticipation that was compelling me to sprint to the desk. Would it be the $100? Maybe $125. There was some good stuff in there. Okay, $50, at worst.
Nope. $25. Take it or leave it.
Crash time. And, the book in my hand would take a bite out of that. Salt in the wound.
I trudged back out to my truck. Maybe the burger would pick me up. Not.
So, all that for a net of about eight bucks. And, some empty shelf space.
But, they do donate excess inventory to worthy recipients. I get the warm feeling that, thanks to me, within a few weeks some nonagenarians in nursing homes will be boning up on Krav Maga and how the states got their boundaries. It’s a beautiful thing.
I average somewhere around 75 books a year. I forward a good deal of them to friends who are also readers. Of course, there is some inflow from them. The inventory was getting out of hand.
I called to see what HPB paid. The lady told me it depended upon condition of the book, demand for the title, yada, yada, yada.
Just give me a ballpark so I know if it’s worth my effort. What would some price points be in the range? It depended upon condition of the book, demand for the title, yada, yada, yada. Okay, message received.
I set aside books I would use for reference or would read again (yeah, right). The rest I saw no hope for. A few had been sent to me by the authors and were autographed. If I had actually completed them, I probably would’ve comprised a quarter of the audience. Just to be sure, I did a little web surfing to see if any of the writers had since made it big. Or, at all. I didn’t want to toss an original, personalized Hemingway or something that would eventually fetch a king’s ransom on ebay. No. These guys were probably writing product disclaimers somewhere, now.
I boxed them up and did some quick calculations. Of the 125 exiles, about 20% were so esoteric or just lacking in merit that they had no value. Of the rest, I put the average cover price at a conservative $8. If you can go by the name of the store, they’ll retail for $4. Factoring in a 100% markup, I’d be walking out with $200.
Didn’t seem likely. I’d been in the greeting card business and sold excess inventory to the big clearance shops. They bought cards by the pound. Imagine how my editors and artists felt about that. The HPB model was probably along this line.
So, cut it in half and I still reap a c-note. That would be worth the effort and I’d still clear some shelves (and floor space, if you must know). I’d reward myself with a burger at Five Guys, which wasn’t far from HPB. I’d tried it once and didn’t get it. For over ten bucks, I expected more of a burger and fries. I was willing to give it another go after spinning paper into gold.
I arrived at their front door, found the buying desk and was told to bring in the books. The minicarts were pointed out, should I want to avail myself of mechanical advantage. It was a very active weekend and I had visited the gym that morning. I’ll gladly take the cart.
Except the cartons didn’t fit into the tiny baskets. You know, the whole idea of the cart is to handle volume loads, so you’d think…
I balanced the first carton on top of the cart and wheeled it in. After that, I decided it was faster just to lug them in.
The lady asked for a photo ID. Is there a nefarious ring out there fencing paperbacks? Then she said it would take about ten to fifteen minutes for her to come up with an offer. I could browse their racks or whatever, but was not permitted to leave the store. Why was that? Because it’s company policy. Oh, and I thought she might not have a logical reason.
I ambled around and found one hardback that drew my interest. I had to overcome the desire to leave with a 100% net profit, but ninety-something would still buy a burger and then some.
Finally, I was paged and beat down the anticipation that was compelling me to sprint to the desk. Would it be the $100? Maybe $125. There was some good stuff in there. Okay, $50, at worst.
Nope. $25. Take it or leave it.
Crash time. And, the book in my hand would take a bite out of that. Salt in the wound.
I trudged back out to my truck. Maybe the burger would pick me up. Not.
So, all that for a net of about eight bucks. And, some empty shelf space.
But, they do donate excess inventory to worthy recipients. I get the warm feeling that, thanks to me, within a few weeks some nonagenarians in nursing homes will be boning up on Krav Maga and how the states got their boundaries. It’s a beautiful thing.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Election bodes well for the market
I'm predicting a power shift in the House and some leveling in the Senate. This means, we'll be close to a deadlock situation.
In the past decade, the significant growth created by our government has been in debt, government employees and credit balloons. So, if it is hamstrung and cannot govern, that's good. That will create a modicum of optimism in the market.
In the past decade, the significant growth created by our government has been in debt, government employees and credit balloons. So, if it is hamstrung and cannot govern, that's good. That will create a modicum of optimism in the market.
Friday, October 29, 2010
On the other hand
My son travels a different route from his sister and is getting married. I'm not sure how I feel about that, either. It's tough being granny.
And I thought I wouldn't
Last night I had dinner with my daughter. One of our rituals is to compare our busy calendars to plot out our future get-togethers. Hers was somewhat crammed, thanks to extended visits to Mexico and a Colorado mountains ski resort. “Mexico? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“My friends have been talking about going forever. Now’s the time. It’s cheap.”
“So is Kabul, but you don’t see anyone rushing over there.”
“We’re staying in a tourist area. They’re giving big incentives and making sure everything is cool to bring business back.”
“The people spraying the lead around aren’t with the convention & visitors bureau. They probably didn’t get the memo.”
“Whatever.”
“And this ski trip, is that with what’s-his-name? The guy who studies his shoes every time I look at him?”
“Couldn’t have anything to do with you calling him what’s-his-name or the way you stare at him.”
“Why’s he got to drag you off to Colorado?”
“Because I said I’d like to go skiing there this winter. I’m sure you did what you wanted at my age.”
“I wasn’t running all over the place.”
“Your choice.”
“Not really. I was changing your diapers.”
“Like I said, your choice. And, you were complaining about granny questioning your choices.”
She’s right. I’m turning into granny.
“My friends have been talking about going forever. Now’s the time. It’s cheap.”
“So is Kabul, but you don’t see anyone rushing over there.”
“We’re staying in a tourist area. They’re giving big incentives and making sure everything is cool to bring business back.”
“The people spraying the lead around aren’t with the convention & visitors bureau. They probably didn’t get the memo.”
“Whatever.”
“And this ski trip, is that with what’s-his-name? The guy who studies his shoes every time I look at him?”
“Couldn’t have anything to do with you calling him what’s-his-name or the way you stare at him.”
“Why’s he got to drag you off to Colorado?”
“Because I said I’d like to go skiing there this winter. I’m sure you did what you wanted at my age.”
“I wasn’t running all over the place.”
“Your choice.”
“Not really. I was changing your diapers.”
“Like I said, your choice. And, you were complaining about granny questioning your choices.”
She’s right. I’m turning into granny.
Now you have my attention
Harry and his partner hate news coverage, so I’ll avoid identification. Except for Harry who, much to my surprise, is already on the front page of today’s newspaper.
Not for his being president of a bank. It’s because he bought the Aston Martin DB5 of James Bond fame for over four million dollars.
About twenty years ago, I had a business relationship with the partners, who both had a passion for cars. I was a bit of an enthusiast but didn’t share their tastes. When Harry bought a new Ferrari F40 and it didn’t light my fire, he couldn’t care less.
With his partner, it was a different story. He acquired an Acura NSX (exotic sports car) and, when I didn’t flip over that, he became close to enraged. Actually, I achieved provoking that when I suggested that they didn’t display their extravagant rides in front of their bank, which they delighted in doing, because it might be perceived as a poke in the eye by customers nailed with higher banking fees or to employees shorted on raises.
Over four decades ago, I sat in a movie theater watching “Goldfinger” and lusted after that Aston Martin. I never dreamed I’d know the owner. Harry, you finally impressed me.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
A public service
Stan Chesley, the attorney filing a slander suit against Archie Wilson, spoke today about the egregious nature of the unsubstantiated accusations about a family made by Wilson. As a footnote, I will not use the name of the family because they’ve suffered enough. I have no trouble naming Wilson because I believe what I say is accurate or in accepting responsibility for what I say.
The family had a baby perish when left in a car on a hot summer day. Wilson alleged that the child was murdered to cover up molestation with the collusion of a variety of law enforcement officials. In the spirit of the ilk who does this kind of thing, he has supplied little or no hard evidence to substantiate his rubbish.
While it is obvious that all is not right in Archieland, what is disappointing is what his party officials had to say after he put this out at a party function. When asked about his remarks, several said they couldn’t recall him speaking about that during his speech. What? A guy asserts a couple killed their baby and public officials were paid off to cover it up, and that didn’t register with you? Right.
The silver lining is that Wilson is providing a public service. He’s running for county commissioner and is doing the right thing leaving no doubt about his mental processes. Anyone can have a bad day, but the repetition of such acrimonious acts reflects one cannot distinguish right from wrong or what is reality and what is not. It is fortunate that those people cannot help but repeatedly doing things that plainly expose their mentality.
While the case hasn’t been tried, Wilson has been challenged on this and responds with a no-comment. If you had the evidence, this would be the time to lay it out.
While this is pitiful enough, I checked his county party’s web site and they endorsed him subsequent to when he disseminated the charges and are still doing so today. Politics is politics, but that’s just pathetic.
The family had a baby perish when left in a car on a hot summer day. Wilson alleged that the child was murdered to cover up molestation with the collusion of a variety of law enforcement officials. In the spirit of the ilk who does this kind of thing, he has supplied little or no hard evidence to substantiate his rubbish.
While it is obvious that all is not right in Archieland, what is disappointing is what his party officials had to say after he put this out at a party function. When asked about his remarks, several said they couldn’t recall him speaking about that during his speech. What? A guy asserts a couple killed their baby and public officials were paid off to cover it up, and that didn’t register with you? Right.
The silver lining is that Wilson is providing a public service. He’s running for county commissioner and is doing the right thing leaving no doubt about his mental processes. Anyone can have a bad day, but the repetition of such acrimonious acts reflects one cannot distinguish right from wrong or what is reality and what is not. It is fortunate that those people cannot help but repeatedly doing things that plainly expose their mentality.
While the case hasn’t been tried, Wilson has been challenged on this and responds with a no-comment. If you had the evidence, this would be the time to lay it out.
While this is pitiful enough, I checked his county party’s web site and they endorsed him subsequent to when he disseminated the charges and are still doing so today. Politics is politics, but that’s just pathetic.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Unanticipated Anniversary
This weekend, I’ll be leading my 25th annual fall foliage paddling campout. I wouldn’t have realized that, except an old friend asked me what I was up to lately. When I told her, Sue pointed out the milepost. She had been my assistant leader on the initial trips, but I was still in awe that she recalled the origin date and did the computation to arrive at its significance. I can barely remember my own age.
Actually, it isn’t the 25th because I have skipped a few years. I’ve organized many paddling trips, but there has always been something a little special about these. Sue got us started recalling some of the most memorable aspects.
One year, it rained. Well, more than one year, but this one was different. The weather had been unseasonably warm, so the river was tepid. A light, fine rain began as we launched our canoes. Hitting the warm water, it produced a mist across the surface. Paddling through that was incredibly serene and magical.
As we completed the journey, the precipitation increased significantly. It was pretty much a monsoon by the time we reached the campground and found the owner in the process of locking the gate. No one had showed up that day and he was assuming no one would. He threw me the keys and said we could have the run of the place.
It was nestled between limestone outcroppings with a brook running down the middle. He had built a large picnic shelter with a massive stone fireplace. It made for a wonderful evening.
The first trip we did was also in that area, which is larded with caves. It was a lot of fun stopping along the river and poking into them. The group on that trip was also a lot of fun and we had a great time.
Speaking of fun, one year we paddled the Hocking Hills and planned a Halloween party for that evening at the campsite. While the location was remote, it just so happened another group camped near us, a women’s motorcycle club. I invited them to join us. Now that was a party.
I’ve been looking forward to the trip this weekend, probably the last campout of the year. Good weather, nice location and a great group. And, now that I realize it’s the 25th anniversary, so much the better.
Monday, October 18, 2010
It's in the jeans
I was talking to someone on the phone and, after completing our conversation, asked if his fiancé was there. I wanted to say hello.
He replied she was immersed in picking out the wedding gown. Since it was the most important clothing purchase of her life, it might be best not to interrupt her.
Boy, does he have a lot to learn. At least, in my experience. This was underscored during a recent trip when my companion insisted we dogleg our route to include a city that’s home to one of her favorite stores. Favorite for jeans, that is. And what’s more important to a woman than her jeans? For my money, nothing.
My primary pair is more than a decade old. When I do buy them, I just find an inexpensive pair that bears my waist and inseam. Done.
In fairness to her, she runs to the slender side and I’m a little closer to the mean than she is. But, it’s not simply a case of finding something with the two dimensions. She says they have to fit. I would think that waist and inseam was a fit, and I would be wrong, apparently. I have learned to stop advocating my point of view because it only provokes a heated discussion.
And, I usually lose on points when she notes that I check out her jeans pretty carefully when she wears them. I’m just trying to understand this fit thing.
To confirm my theory that jeans are the predominant purchase decision, I raised the question last night when a group I kayak with went out for a few beers after a practice session. Karen looked at me pitifully and shook her head. Then, she went on to patiently explain the process of going around and trying on jeans. “The first round isn’t to make the purchase,” she explained patiently. “You just want to see yourself in a variety of brands, styles and sizes, and with different shoes and tops. You go back later and make the decision. If you don’t get that, it’s best that you don’t go along.”
Sage advice.
He replied she was immersed in picking out the wedding gown. Since it was the most important clothing purchase of her life, it might be best not to interrupt her.
Boy, does he have a lot to learn. At least, in my experience. This was underscored during a recent trip when my companion insisted we dogleg our route to include a city that’s home to one of her favorite stores. Favorite for jeans, that is. And what’s more important to a woman than her jeans? For my money, nothing.
My primary pair is more than a decade old. When I do buy them, I just find an inexpensive pair that bears my waist and inseam. Done.
In fairness to her, she runs to the slender side and I’m a little closer to the mean than she is. But, it’s not simply a case of finding something with the two dimensions. She says they have to fit. I would think that waist and inseam was a fit, and I would be wrong, apparently. I have learned to stop advocating my point of view because it only provokes a heated discussion.
And, I usually lose on points when she notes that I check out her jeans pretty carefully when she wears them. I’m just trying to understand this fit thing.
To confirm my theory that jeans are the predominant purchase decision, I raised the question last night when a group I kayak with went out for a few beers after a practice session. Karen looked at me pitifully and shook her head. Then, she went on to patiently explain the process of going around and trying on jeans. “The first round isn’t to make the purchase,” she explained patiently. “You just want to see yourself in a variety of brands, styles and sizes, and with different shoes and tops. You go back later and make the decision. If you don’t get that, it’s best that you don’t go along.”
Sage advice.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Never apologize, never explain, never mind
A subject in the locker room last week was the report about Dick Cheney not apologizing for shooting a fellow hunter. I don’t know if it’s true, but didn’t consider it newsworthy or any of my concern. So, I went about my business until one of the guys threw out a comment.
“Never apologize, never explain.” At that point, I had to look up to note who would say such a thing. Noticing my attention, Randy asked. “What, you don’t agree?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s a famous quote.”
“There are a lot of famous quotes that are either invalid or out of context.” I doubted if he knew who said it (a 19th century British admiral), anyway. “Stephen Covey says that apologizing reflects strength of character, so I guess it’s a case of what makes sense to you.”
“Who’s Stephen Covey?” I explained who he was, admitting that authority doesn’t make it true. “Yeah, well everyone knows that apologizing is a sign of weakness.”
No. Actually, most know that refusing to apologize is a form of denial, insecurity or other mental defects. But, I didn’t point that out. I don’t think it’s worth the time to banter with that mindset.
I apologize for my impatience.
“Never apologize, never explain.” At that point, I had to look up to note who would say such a thing. Noticing my attention, Randy asked. “What, you don’t agree?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s a famous quote.”
“There are a lot of famous quotes that are either invalid or out of context.” I doubted if he knew who said it (a 19th century British admiral), anyway. “Stephen Covey says that apologizing reflects strength of character, so I guess it’s a case of what makes sense to you.”
“Who’s Stephen Covey?” I explained who he was, admitting that authority doesn’t make it true. “Yeah, well everyone knows that apologizing is a sign of weakness.”
No. Actually, most know that refusing to apologize is a form of denial, insecurity or other mental defects. But, I didn’t point that out. I don’t think it’s worth the time to banter with that mindset.
I apologize for my impatience.
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