Not a bad deal

We have a high school reunion coming up and the email chatter is flying back and forth. In this, I noticed that Marie said she was going. I wondered who was taking her and what he would be driving. That may strike you as an odd thought, so I’ll explain.

With few exceptions, we all came from blue collar families. Marie was one of those exceptions. Her father owned a car dealership. Not just any dealership, the biggest one in the world.

And, by that, I don’t mean it was merely a large building. The dealership hosted over 20 buildings on its 80 acres and included its own test track. That’s right, you could select from thousands of new and used cars and wring them out on the track. That selection included every domestic brand, except one, and most of the foreign ones.

When our senior prom came up, Marie was in demand. The deal was that the use of any car on the lot came with the package. Jay took her to the prom in a Jaguar XKE.

All in all, not a bad deal.

It's all good

Last night, we had our pre-expedition meeting for a kayak trip next month. After getting the business out of the way, it was time to kick back with some beers and joking around. “I see you went with an easy one this year,” smiled one of the participants.

I knew what he meant, but his assumption was a little off. Last year, the requirements in skill level and equipment were low and attracted a couple dozen people. This year, the bar was raised by the nature of the trip and enrollment was less than half. Less people means less work and problems for the trip leader.

Also, a more experienced group tends to know what to do and take care of things for themselves. Neophytes have a lot more questions and quandaries.

His assumption omitted one factor that favors the less knowledgeable group, at least from my viewpoint. Some of the things we will do or encounter will be a matter of been there/done that for the veteran paddlers. For others, they’re whole new experiences and fill them with awe and joy. Encountering them through the eyes of the newcomer adds to the enjoyment of the trip leader and balances out the downside.

It reminds me of business management. Sure, it was always great to have your stars who performed exceptionally well with little or no oversight. But, there was satisfaction in helping green talent bring in their first victories.

I do vary the degree of difficulty involved in our spring expeditions. But, it’s for the sake of variety, not to make it easier.

In either case, it’s all good.

The Coat of Many Colors

Okay, so it’s just one color. And, it’s a suit, not a coat. Poetic license. It does have the power to move people. Do you want precision or do you want a story?

When I plied the seas of the business world, I had numerous suits. For years, they’ve been relegated to storage, save a blue pinstripe “all purpose” model and a black one that has been seeing too much duty at funerals. With the impending marriage of my son, my ex called to ensure I knew what to wear or did I want her to take me shopping? She’s convinced that she had rescued me from a feral state and that I would revert once freed of adult supervision.

I assured her I had something suitable. I modeled the options for myself. One looked like I was on my way to sign a loan contract and the other a wake. Didn’t matter. The wedding is about the kids and no one will remember what I wore five minutes after it’s over. I took them both to the cleaner. I could decide later.

Late last week, the weather was very crappy and I was spending the day indoors. Among other treadmills for the mind, I was flipping through some old photos. One caught my eye.

It was from my heavy duty singles period, about 15 years ago, plus or minus. I fell in with a group who partied, traveled and whatever at least weekly, and on a grand scale. This photo had been taken at one of the monthly Thursday night dances, which were also thrown open to singles at large and drew several hundred. “Thrown open” isn’t quite accurate because any of the public events carried a hefty admission fee as a screening mechanism. The powers that be were only interested in bon vivants.

I have a few dozen photos from such events, but this picture caught my eye because I was wearing it. The Suit. I will repeat that. The Suit.

About that time, I was working on a project in Indianapolis. I go up on Mondays and try to wrap up Thursday at noon on the days of the monthly dance. This would give me time to get home, relax a little and then clean up and hop into my glad rags.

On this particular week, the client called me on Tuesday and requested a Thursday afternoon meeting. When a client pays that kind of hourly rate, you treat requests like the law.

I was aware that I hadn’t packed anything appropriate for the Thursday night bash and that anything I did have would be wrinkled and fragrant by then. So, Tuesday night, I hightailed it over to a discount suit place on the north side of Indy.

I was greeted by an overanxious salesman who asked what I wanted in a suit. Mostly a material that didn’t show scotch splashes or itch when I got sweaty dancing. But, I told him something that wasn’t too businesslike. He pulled a half dozen choices in about three seconds and draped them over the top of the rack. I set about trying on the coats and taking quick glances in the multiple angle mirror while he leaned on the wall and chattered positive reviews of each.

I shrugged on the fourth coat and moved to the mirror. He straightened suddenly and laid his hand aside his cheek in wonder. “That’s perfect! It’s like it was tailor made. It’s you!” I assumed he was on commission, but the suit did seem okay. I took it on the condition it could be altered within a day.

I had it time to change before my drive back to Cincinnati and directly to the dance. Clay was the ringleader of the group and always positioned his regal self at the entrance table, just so there was no mistake about his station. He didn’t take admissions, welcome people or anything so mundane. Just posed regally. He was more social once things got rolling.

So, when I checked in, I was surprised by his greeting me with more than superficial effort. “Hi, how have you been and…wait for it…where’d you get that suit?” I was a little taken aback and think I mumbled something about Indiana. “Very nice,” he said, stroking the sleeve.

To me, it was just a suit. I wrote it off to him building up to some kind of request.

I provisioned myself at the bar and started making a circuit of the various groups of revelers clumped around the perimeter of the dance floor. I was engaged with a small one when they ran dry of potables and went off to seek sustenance, leaving me alone with Liz.

Which is to say, left me alone. Liz was never with anyone but Liz. Even if she was distractedly sending a few words your way, she was focused on checking herself out in the mirrored walls of the ballroom or examining her nails.

Except in this case. When the group scattered, he eyes widened as though first noticing me there. In fact, that was probably the case. She took three quick steps forward which put her about the depth of a credit card from my chest. “Where did you get this suit?” she husked in my ear.

“At a suit store.” I’m never at a loss for words.

“Well Liz likes it,” she intoned, running her fingertips down the lapel. I nodded slightly, avoiding dipping my chin into her carefully coiffed do. “Liz really likes it.”

It went pretty much the same the rest of the evening. The classy thing to do would’ve been to retire its number right after that. The cloddish thing would be to don it on every possible occasion, up to and including picnics.

I chose the moderate course, deciding to use its significant powers for good. My good. I’d just whip it out for the primo events.

I’m looking at the photo and thinking I should go all out for my son’s wedding, even if I am just a prop. I know The Suit is somewhere around because I throw nothing away.

There it is, in the back of a closet of the spare bedroom, along with all the other moth eaten suits. And, that’s the problem. They are actually moth eaten.

While The Suit is imbued with magical powers, one of them is not being impervious to insect munching. The Suit is slightly battle-scarred.

Not to worry. I recall woolen hand-me-downs from my cousins being whisked off to a reweaver before I was ensconced in them to itch my way through family affairs. I immediately commenced a web search and came up empty.

I started calling dry cleaners. Some said they “heard of a guy in Chicago.” Most just said no one gets that done. They just toss clothing with holes. If I like it and the hole is less than 33% of the garment’s surface area, I don’t chuck it. I wear it. But, that wouldn’t suffice in this circumstance.

There was no time for a Chicago solution. Back to the web. I looked up reweaving on a do-it-yourself basis. I had some luck there but was realistic enough to surmise that I had a better chance of teaching my earhole to chew gum than myself to reweave.

Once more, into the breach. I surfaced one possibility, a woman in the next county. I called and she sounded near death. Another reason to hurry.

So, I carefully belted The Suit into the passenger seat and sped to the far corner of the earth. I presented The Suit to her with the beseeching eyes of a pet owner offering the hit & run victim to a vet. Please, oh please, save The Suit, doc.

Worth the trip

Everyone is griping about the cold weather. Everyone except me.

I want it to be cold. Make that frigid.

In a couple weeks, I have a kayak expedition planned off the coast of Florida. It’s a 15-hour drive to the launch point. It had better be worth the trip, in terms of weather.

For one such trip, we agreed to caravan down to Florida. We formed up very early in the morning at a rest stop off the interstate. The temperature was in the teens and a stout wind was stinging our faces with snow flurries. When we arrived at the beach, the sun was shining and the mercury was well above 70. People piled out of their vehicles and did a spontaneous, joyous sun dance on the hot sand. The looks on the faces of the residents be damned, it was worth it.

So, I just checked the long range forecast for our Florida destination on the launch date. Not that those forecasts are dead on, but it suffices for this mental exercise. Then I called up the forecast for here on the same date. Over 20 degrees difference.

That’s worth the drive.

It's about the kids

The question of the week has been, “How do you feel about it?” It’s usually rhetorical and followed by, “You must be excited.”

The subject is the first marriage of an offspring, which occurs this coming weekend. “Excited” does describe it but, as with most parenting matters, there’s some apprehension. You want the best for your kids and you’re never 100% certain.

As it nears, I find myself reviewing the development. They’ve known each other for years, so it’s not impulsive. He discussed the possibility of this with me several times along the way, so he thought it out. They’re both great people. They’ve been living together, so there should be no surprises. Looking way back, did I envision a time when I’d be happy that one of the children was living with someone?

Up until now, I haven’t been anxious because it’s about them, not me. But, as the event nears, it’s running through my mind.

It doesn’t help that those around me are amping up. My ex calls every few days, double checking about this or that. My former brother-in-law and his ex will both be there with their respective new spouses, something that didn’t even occur with their own son’s wedding because of the associated tension. And my date has been fretting about finding that “killer dress” for months.

Relax. It’s about the kids, not us. Yeah, that’ll happen.

I’m looking forward to it, but will be glad when it’s over.

Eagles

Lone wolf? Eagle (as in, “Eagles don’t flock…”)? I don’t know what metaphor to apply to the independent soul without a connotation of the extreme. I’m not referring to those who are antisocial and/or reclusive, or who have been relegated to pariah status. Just the people who are independent and self-sustaining, but are still functional in groups when there’s a call for it. But, I believe they feel most comfortable with their own kind, where little is asked or given. And, they can detect kindred spirits.

I was out with an eagle last night and we stopped at one of the ice cream stores that caters to aficionados. As we were enjoying the exquisite fare, she noticed a woman who had come in and stood at the counter. She elbowed me and said, “That’s Colleen.” It was her typical antecedent-free style, but before I could ask who Colleen was, she was up and moving toward her.

They returned and I was introduced to Colleen who was a former neighbor of my date. They had kept in touch over the years, at least until recently. So, the topic was getting caught up.

My initial impression of Colleen was of someone who took care of herself and deftly chose her wardrobe. As she held forth with her updates, I added intelligent, articulate, confident, balanced and upbeat. A bit of a mirror image of my companion, and I didn’t think their affiliation was coincidence.

Colleen had retired and was partaking of cultural events and traveling quite often. And, she was frequently doing it alone and very comfortable with that. I sensed an eagle.

I asked how they had lost touch. Colleen explained that she had corresponded through her computer and phone at work, prior to her retirement. She has no computer at home and the answering machine there broke down years ago.

I asked if she had a cell phone. She pulled an “antique” out of her handbag. It was about the size of a banana and wasn’t powered up. She said she turned it on only when she really needed to reach someone at that moment.

I knew that this was no ordinary eagle. I was in the presence of greatness.

The odds

Roger initiated the locker room discussion yesterday. His adult son had just entered treatment for a mental illness/substance abuse problem. Do these things work?

The opinions ranged from counselors are snake oil salesmen getting fat off the afflicted to accounts of miracles. Some asked if drugs were being prescribed and what else was being provided.

I had only two questions. What did his son perceive as the source of his problems and how was he changing his life to get better? This parallels allocution in criminal cases as well. What the court wants to know is if the offender accepts responsibility and if he’s going to change his relevant environmental factors.

Mike, an acquaintance from high school days, has been holding forth on the web about his problems. It never ceases to amaze me what people will make public, but it’s not a big surprise from what I remember about him. He’s being forced into getting counseling. Classmates are speculating about the chances for success.

I give it one in ten thousand. He’s had numerous run-ins with teachers, family members, supervisors and others over the years and, by his account, it’s always been their fault. True, it’s the job of the counselor to help him see his role in all this, but I think he’s too entrenched in his delusions to accept responsibility for or acceptance of or the consequences of his actions.

On the other point, Sara has withdrawn from an activity group I belong to, subsequent to a demented episode. It’s nothing new and no one thinks this latest remission will last because she’s just too broken.

While that may be the case, I ascribe some importance to environment. She associates with other damaged people, including one who eggs her on in aberrant behavior, sometimes creating conflicts by forwarding her comments to others or posting them on the web. He’s frequently involved in discord and misery loves company. She’s incapable of discerning this and repeatedly falls into his traps.

Roger said his son is coming to see that he’s created his own problems and that he’s shunning malignant influences. I like his odds.

The last car

Carl showed me his new car, a VW hardtop convertible. I would’ve expected a hybrid, given that he’s a staunch environmentalist. I raised my eyebrows and he understood the question. “It may be my last car, so…” He shrugged.

Morbid thought, but I knew what he meant. He’s a few years older than me, but the thought had crossed my mind. In the past few weeks, I’ve lost some friends who were younger than I am. That adds a “why wait?” component to your decision making process, at least in my mind.

My present car carries 90,000 miles. It doesn’t have any problems, but that doesn’t prevent me from entertaining the idea of replacing it. It’s more the question of what to select for that last fling. However, I doubt of I look at it the same way Carl does.

It won’t be the fiery two-seater. Been there, done that and I’m too into comfort, now. The pony car? Possibly, but I’ve also gone that route and consider the bad weather handling more now than I did then.

What about the hot rod mid or full size car? One company who makes one has had severe quality problems for decades. The other’s offering is too bland. If there was a modern day GTO or SS 396, I’d have to take a long look at it.

What about pure luxury? My present car nudges this class, so I don’t know what I’d have to gain. And, going to the extreme isn’t my bag. I’ve had one of the prestige marques and it just isn’t me.

No, I think I’d break new ground in some way. Always wanted a school bus. It just seems like a big, blank canvas you could work with and exploit the many possibilities. Urban parking could be a hassle.

The mintrucks you see in Asia are very cool. I did go to the trouble of researching availability here and found a dealer in Indiana. Unfortunately, they don’t qualify for road use in this country.

Going from mini to micro, I’ve toyed with idea of an old VW bus. I see they’re reviving it but that’s not the same. The new Beetle didn’t capture the quirkiness of the original and I doubt if that would be the case with the bus.

Then there’s the tractor, as in front end of a semi. One maker made it a somewhat practical proposition by grafting a giant pickup bed onto the stern. Way cool but six figures is a bit steep for a pickup truck.

And finally, a Rolls Royce. You’d be surprised how many are available for under 30 grand. Probably be a little tough finding parts at Nationwide, though.

Don’t look for me to be tooling down the street ensconced in English leather or anything other than my current vehicles in the near future. Too many other things that provide more enjoyment come before that.

Irritation personified

Personification of a product or brand is nothing new. Mr. Goodwrench, the Maytag repairman, Mr. Whipple, etc., etc.

But, you usually see it scattered across product genres. It now appears there was a summit of insurance companies in which they each selected a spokeperson, because that’s all I’m seeing lately. What makes this even more surprising is that they appear to be vying for the title of “Most Irritating.”

Let’s start with State Farm and the young man who appears to have tumbled through the Gap clothing catalog before plopping down in the chair at some West Hollywood hair stylist. Apparently he has nothing more pressing to do than stroll around and drink expensive coffee. Unless, he’s exalting that we live in a society where you can trust people. Right. And State Farm takes your word for it when you make a claim? Spare me the BS, pretty boy.

Allstate takes another approach with their World’s Greatest Spokesperson, a geek with a blue phone strapped to his side. He goes around promising extremely personal contact, renaming the company after you and about anything else you want. Back off, nerd. I don’t need any more friends. Just write me the check.

Then there’s the disturbing mute in the white coveralls of the 21st Century ads, who seems to delight in destroying cars to prove his point. Not someone I want in my planning, or neighborhood, for that matter.

Progressive also sports a white design theme and, if not copying the mime act, adopts the makeup with Flo. While some must find her endearing, she’s an irritating ditz to me and not someone I want to rely upon.

I do understand that they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to research and test images to effectively get across their points and establish a positive image. I must not be in the target market. These personifications repel me and make me yearn for about anything else. Even a lizard.

The price we pay

I’ve owned a string of sea kayaks from the same manufacturer. They all came with a dimple in the deck to mount a compass. I have a GPS and don’t feel a need for one. But, the empty space begs for attention.

With the first purchase, I held out for a month. Double that for the second. It’s been over six months for this one and I thought I had bucked the monkey off my back. But, then I saw an especially nice instrument with a deep discount.

It arrived days before a trip I’m about to take. The smart thing to do, given other necessary preparations, would be to wait until my return to undertake the project. It would be nice to be smart.

I’ve mounted compasses before. But this one appeared more complex and I was working with a fiberglass surface instead of plastic. But, how hard could it be? That’s what I should’ve asked myself.

The instructions were vague and incomplete, a testament to our deteriorating communication skills. I went on the web and found a blog by someone who had experience with this equipment. He advised discarding the supplied hardware and drilling pattern, and specified what he liked to use. He also noted that the layered mounting plates didn’t align properly and would have to be redrilled. Great, but I have limited time and how much can you trust what you find on the web?

I’d play it safe and fast, going with the manufacturer’s stuff. The hardware proved to be inadequate and the drilling pattern was off. The mounting plates seemed to have been fabricated by the blind in locations scattered around the globe. How much can you trust what you find on the web?

I jumped in the car and sped to the nearest big box home improvement store with the shopping list recommended in the blog. Stainless steel what? These zinc plated ones are perfectly fine. Neoprene washers? What the heck are they? I barely managed to obtain half the items. Off to a competing store.

I filled the bill, except settled for nylon washers. Back to the shop. The redrilling made me hope there would be enough compass and deck left to navigate and float. But, I was finally ready to bolt it all together, leaving just enough time for last minute trip preparations. Not so fast. The machine screws specified in the blog came up short. Rats!

I burned rubber to the nearer of the two stores to get the longer hardware. No joy and they didn’t seem optimistic that their competition would have the odd size, either. But, it’s not like I had a choice at this point.

Having another errand to perform on the way, I took the back roads. About halfway to my destination, I hit the brakes and did a two-wheel turn into a parking lot. There stood a vintage hardware store. I walked in and inhaled the heady miasma of fertilizer, solvents and paint. Ah, that brought back memories.

And, the real help. You have a better chance of finding assistance in the middle of the Gobi Desert than you do in a big box store and even then the odds are that you have greater acumen than the employee. In the old-fashioned hardware store, I was greeted by a grizzled veteran of the projects wars with the flannel shirt and calluses to prove it. He listened to what I wanted and led me directly to the appropriate shelf. While not as cheap as the big box stores, this one had all I needed and then some.

I understand that we’ve demanded and evolved to business models that stress high volume items and low cost help. But, we do pay a price for that.