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?
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
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