Too simplistic

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.

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.

How's that again?

One of the more interesting ad headlines

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.

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.

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…

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.

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 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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.