One picture is worth...

I was emailing with a leader of another paddling club about setting up a joint event for our organizations. That concluded, I complimented her on what a fine club she runs. She said that she was just about to say the same thing to me and wondered what I keyed on when I made the assessment of her group.

I went through the metrics you’d normally employ (events, members, growth rate, participation in board discussions, etc.) and asked the same question of her. There was a pause before she replied. “I was going to say I looked at your event photos, but that seems like a silly answer, now.”

Not really. A few years ago, I was approached by a PhD candidate working on her dissertation. She asked if I’d be willing to fill out an extensive questionnaire about our club. The gist was that she was researching photo analysis and wanted to compare results she’d draw from looking at our event shots to the answers to her questions. In exchange for my time, she would share the results.

That sounded interesting, so I asked what tools this entailed. She ran down a list that included body language, distances between people, facial expressions and a few other variables. Correctly anticipating my next question, she said it wouldn’t matter that some of the shots are posed. The analysis accounts for that and there are things we reveal anyway. She addressed another concern, saying that names were unnecessary, so there would be no violation of privacy.

I was a little dubious, but curious nonetheless. I agreed to do it and sent her a link to my photo web site, as she had requested. A few weeks later, I received her questionnaire. “Extensive” didn’t begin to describe it.

A couple months later, she sent the results. Surprisingly (to me), she had been amazingly accurate. She identified where relationships existed and their type and intensity. She zeroed in on who were the leaders, catalysts, issues people, introverts, class clowns, etc. While some of this may seem obvious, she put her finger on many things that wouldn’t be. Even where she appeared to be wrong, I found myself considering that maybe she wasn’t.

So, I told my fellow group leader her answer wasn’t silly. In fact, it was probably quite perceptive.

Through another's eyes

We recently completed a kayak trip and I posted photos from it on the web. Those included one of someone else trying out the kayak I took. Since I’m usually the one taking the photos, my boats and I seldom show up in the album and I give the appearances little thought.

Today I received an email from someone about the photo of the kayak. She went on for some length rhapsodizing about the sleek and graceful lines of it. Really?

I bought the boat primarily as a tripper. That is, its capacity for hauling gear. At the time, I also tried out a really hot stable mate but reeled in my lust and bought what I needed instead of what was tantalizing me. And, I opted for the less costly demo boat in plain gray (they call it “granite”) as opposed to the brightly colored new boats in stock. This was a pragmatic purchase.

I went to my photo site and called up the photo. It is one beautiful boat. I replied to the email and told her she was right. I just hadn’t taken the time to look.

Her response was that we seldom do and it’s good to look at our lives, relations, jobs, etc. through someone else’s eyes sometimes so we can really appreciate them.

Right again.

At war with the kilometer monkeys

This summer, I drove through a country to the north. I won’t name it but they use maple syrup as salad dressing and end most sentences with a question mark (eh?). And, they probably molest beavers. Yes, I’m a little peeved with the off-brand white people.

And, it’s not just because I encountered a McDonald’s up there that wouldn’t accept American dollars. McDonalds is American, you moose sniffers.

But, what set it off today is the receipt of an invoice for traversing their roads. Apparently, one or more of their glorified cowpaths was a toll road. In all fairness, there was signage. They were scanning plates. If you wanted to avoid the fee for that, you could send away for a transponder. Right. I have to be in Snug Harbour in three hours, so I’m going to pull over, download a transponder application, mail it and wait a couple weeks at the exit ramp for it to arrive. How about you put up a booth and I pay you now?

So, they recorded my plate and my own government was only too happy to sell me out to them with my private information. I’d like to take a gander at that agreement.

Fair is fair and I’ll take responsibility for any reasonable charge I incur. Let’s see, sixteen bucks for just under 35 km. That’s a buck and a quarter a mile, which strikes me as a little pricey, but okay. Three bucks for an account fee. Did I open or authorize an account? Okay, let’s not split hairs. And, $54 for the video because I wasn’t carrying the transponder. Transponder this! If they had a toll booth, the cost wouldn’t be anywhere near that much. This is highway robbery (literally).

I call the customer service number and get a young lady who sounds literate enough to function outside of her third world country. After putting me on hold a few times to check into some things, she informs me that the high fee is because I was driving a heavy truck. I ask her to define that and she replies that it’s anything over five tons.

First of all, when I’m up there, everything is kilogram this or kilometer that. You bring up an English unit and they look at you like a chimp. But, when it comes time to stick it to you, they suddenly know tons. Even if she’s referring to a metric ton, that’s more than a real (U.S. of A.) ton.

I inform her I drive a pickup truck and defy her to name three, no make that just one, pickup truck that even approaches five tons. She asks me to hold again while she checks the video. What is this, instant replay? If I’m wrong, do I get charged with a timeout?

She finally returns and informs me that she’s reversing the charge. And, she hopes I enjoy my next visit up there.

Yeah, like that’s going to happen real soon.

A guide for the corporate rebel

Chuck wants to leave his current employer and start a competitor. He was aware I had done that and sought my advice. Here it is.

1. First, don’t say, write, email or otherwise record your thoughts on this until you’ve done step two. It will come back and haunt you, probably labeled “Exhibit A.”

2. Retain a very good business lawyer. That would be someone who not only knows all the pertaining law and precedent, but who is skilled at rational negotiating resolution of issues. There will be a lot of emotion about this and someone who can calm the waters and resolve the conflicts outside of court will serve everyone well.

3. Be selective about which current co-workers you will allow to join you. Don’t relieve your future competitor of their problem children. The temptation may be to minimize their ability to respond by taking a lot of people, but you’re doing them a favor by hiring those who always have complaints, negative things to say about everything and who are at the center of most tension. Your job is to drive the new organization’s growth, not become the mayor of Loserville by accumulating the malcontents who will be attracted to the conflict inherent in rebellion. The same is true with problem customers and suppliers.

4. Be prepared to play hardball. No matter how much you toe the legal line, someone can still sue you. And, they will sue for an amount intended to rock you. Also, they will probably seek injunctions and take other measures to divert your attention and shake your resolve. Be mentally tough and ready for it and prepare your staff to do likewise.

5. Keep your eye on the ball. Companies who focus on their plans and goals do well. Those who obsess with their competitors often fail.

Philly this!

In his act, Texan Ron White takes offense at what Cincinnatians proffer as chili. “No self-respecting southerner uses instant grits. I take pride in my grits,” avers Mr. Tipton in “My Cousin Vinnie. Brooklynite Tony Gizzi upon being served at an Italian restaurant in the heart of Missouri: “I ordered pizza, not grilled cheese.”

True believers take fierce pride in their regional cuisine, and I’m no different with the pride of Philadelphia: the cheesesteak. For many years, I have tried to ignore what several chains have tried to pass off with their ersatz versions. But, one has just crossed the line.

Arby’s recently introduced the “Philly” and more outraged I could not be. The first red flag and bit of weaselism is that they skirt calling it a cheesesteak. Because it’s not steak. It’s what they imagine roast beef to be, which is a whole other issue. The Philadelphia icon is the cheesesteak. So there is no “Philly” without that. Unless you’re a steaming pile of dog droppings trying to mislead the unwary public.

In addition, check the ingredients. Swiss cheese? You’re seriously going to try to pass this off as a creation from the heart of Guidoland? Aioli spread? “Spread” probably sidesteps the trap of actually having to include real mayonnaise, which is basically what aioli is. Mayonnaise on a cheesesteak? Gag! And aioli is French (gag again) and is mostly used with fish and vegetables. Arby’s needs to do some employee drug testing.

Let’s cut to the TV commercial, which approaches the product in hideous qualities. Some dork declares, “I know a good Philly and that’s a good Philly.” You know something that doesn’t exist? I discount the claim that this commercial was shot in Philly with locals. If it was, that declaration would be met with, “Philly this!” or, at the very least, “You suck!” Philadelphians are gourmets at the feast of insults.

Go to the Arby’s web site and your eyes are assaulted with, “Close your eyes and take a bite, you’ll feel like you’ve been teleported to the City of Brotherly Love.” You’d better be doing that well outside the city limits. Talk trash like that in Philly and close your eyes and you won’t be opening them.

I’m far from the only son of Philadelphia who is outraged and the web is aboil with commentary. We’ll put up with total government corruption, routine choking of sports teams and a high percentage of the female population sporting mustaches. But this crap will not stand.

Timing is everything

Oscar decided to paddle his kayak from his native Germany to Australia. I’m guessing he wasn’t your classic underachiever.

It would take years, but he did it. Along the way, he was subjected to attack, robbery, disease, imprisonment and other atrocities, primarily in the more backward countries along his route (India, Sumatra, Java, etc.), where he was also somewhat out of touch with the civilized world.

Given these years of trials and tribulations, imagine his relief when the coast of Australian territory finally came into view. Share in his joy when a cadre of police rushed to meet him. And feel his surprise when they dragged him off to prison where he would languish for more years.

He landed September 20, 1939, proudly flying the flag of his homeland (complete with swastika). That was just three weeks after Germany attacked Poland and came to be at war with Australia. Timing is everything.

How would you like to have been an Iraqi kayaker who crossed the Atlantic and landed at Battery Park at the end of September 2001?

Your case is paper thin

Through my various businesses and organizations, I landed on numerous prospect and customer lists. I suppose I could get myself removed, but it helps keep me updated on emerging technologies. Well, about as current as I can get.

Today’s communication from a printer made it worthwhile, if only for the amusement value. It was promoting the use of printing as a medium of prospecting and selling. It was a well thought out treatise on how the most important documents in history were printed on paper, paper is tangible, paper has good retention, etc., etc.

The argument was compelling and the writing finely crafted. And, it probably would’ve been effective had he not sent it out via broadcast email.

F***book

I previously blogged about the inaccurate stereotype of the grumpy old man. It isn’t me (feel free to differ). I’ve mellowed. The perspective is that time is limited on earth and the things and people who might’ve been worth the bother before carry no weight now.

And yet, some still manage to pierce the wall of indifference. I will grant them recognition for their extraordinary effort.

Taking top prize this week is Facebook, which some refer to, with reason, as F***book. Forget that they change the format, procedures, rules, etc. every seven seconds. That barely qualifies as an annoyance.

Every day, they inundate me with hundreds of friend suggestions. Why do they think I relate to the undertaker in Des Moines? Or, the basket weaver in Saigon? Doesn’t matter.

However, when I come across a fellow kayaker who I share some interest with and hit the friend button, FB grills me about if we are friends, co-workers, etc., warning that I may have my privileges suspended if I’m fishing. Whoa, back up the train!

First of all, upon registration, you ask the purpose of joining FB and include networking as a choice. Isn’t reaching out to those who share your interests networking? You promote FB as a networking tool and then threaten reprisals if I use it as such.

Secondly, what about that undertaker and basket weaver you shoved at me. Not to mention hundreds of others I have little or nothing in common with? FB recommends these complete strangers but warns about attempting to link with those whom I overlap with, under penalty of shutting off my friending and deeming me spam.

On the other end, I get these inquiries about people who have fired off friend request to me. FB is trying to verify that they are friend, co-worker or whatever so they can come down on them if they are not. No thanks. I can make my own decisions and don’t need FB to do it for me. And, I’m not going to abet FB in wreaking havoc on these people attempting to network by denying we have a prior connection. What I am willing to do is report every FB email I receive as spam. Have a taste of your own medicine.

Honorable mention goes to the Canadians, aka off-brand white people. In August, I was driving around Ontario, spreading tourist dollars to bolster their economy. En route, I drove on their equivalent to interstates, although some were designated toll roads.

If there had been a tool booth, I would’ve happily parted with the coin of the realm. But no, there were just signs, stating that they are tracking vehicles and you can save some money by buying a transponder and making it easier on them.

Right. I have to be in Snug Harbour in three hours, but I’m going to pull over, download a transponder application form, find a way to print it out, mail it in and wait at the ramp for the shipment. Get real.

I forgot about it until this week when an invoice arrived (they scan and trace your license plates). It was for $17 in tolls. Fair enough. Plus, $50 for not having a transponder. Tabernac! (Canadian cursing) I’ll gladly pay the toll. But, until you facilitate a reasonable way to pay it or acquire a transponder at the point of entry, you can suck maple syrup before you get the punitive fee.

That out of the way, I’m back to my mellow self.

So you want to be a CEO

I was treated to dinner tonight by a name you would recognize. He requested confidence, so I won’t even hint at his identity. I will footnote that this struck me as a little odd, considering the notoriety he’s seemed to enjoy, not to mention the large sums of money that went with it.

He’s come to grips with the fact that he’s at the end of that career and is eager to start a new one. He’s creating a company. His lawyer advised him to talk with a number of people about that and I was on the list.

I made a few of suggestions but the basic plan was decide what industry or company he had a passion for and approach an owner about employment that would transition into a buyout, giving him a chance to learn the ropes.

No sale. He wasn’t going to work for someone, he wanted to create his own thing from scratch that reflected him (and his name) and he wanted to do it now. He wasn’t that fussy about what industry and how it was trending, although he would like to do something cool.

There was more to it than that, but here’s what it boiled down to, although I’m not sure he was completely tuned in. He wanted the title of company president, the prestige of that along with being the founder, the corner office with a view and an army of minions poised to do his bidding. Whether or not it made money was almost irrelevant. He had money. Yes, but there’s more prestige in running something profitable.

Okay, this is easy. Kind of like designing a motorcycle that looks as hot as a Ducati but doesn’t have to match it in performance (or even run).

I gave him some basic building blocks of starting a company and asked if he had any questions about that. He wanted to know if I thought he should keep his present car or would a Porsche Panamera or Mercedes S class be more of a CEO image. He didn’t need me. He needed “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”

I told him he didn’t have a passion for starting a company, which was what was required. What he wanted was to be a CEO. That didn’t seem to register and he just plowed ahead, almost giddy with the prospects.

When we were wrapping up, he laughed. “One thing I’m not going to miss is the nutty fans, especially the babes who try to latch onto you. Don’t get me wrong. Most of the people are cool, but there’s always a few who are just whacked out. I’ll be glad to move on from that.” Guess again.

I have found over the years that many employees covet the CEO’s position and think it’s all sweetness and light. They have no idea what the trials and tribulations are, especially in this area.

When you’re the CEO, you’re the authority figure. That’s fine, more or less, for the stable minds in the organization, which are the vast majority. But, there are others who have problems with authority. Or, some further out on the bell curve will engage in transference. That is, in their minds, the CEO becomes the former husband who dominated them, the father who never approved, the older sibling who bullied or some other figure who evokes inappropriate emotion and behavior.

I gave him the brief version although I don’t think it took root. In his eyes, I thought I saw him decorating his new office. Hope it’s big enough for his new fans.

Not enough of a difference

Some old friends got together for lunch and to get caught up with each other. So, the main topic was what we’ve been doing with our lives.

Jeff wasn’t among us because he was off touring the Greek isles. This trip came hard on the heels of one to New Zealand. Bruce explained that Jeff had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and was making the most of the life her had left. He was dying.

Bruce turned to me. “You’re living the good life. What’s your reason?”

“Same reason. I’m dying. We’re all dying. The only difference is that Jeff has some idea when.”

Not enough of a difference for me.

Weird

Thursdays were pretty intense at high school football practice. One day before the weekly game and players and coaches were ramping up into a frenzy. Thursdays were the days we had the most fights in practice. Thursdays were the days you could get a hard kick in the ass from a coach. Literally. Things were different then.

The blood was in the water and we smelled it. This is not a drill. The ears were laid back and the teeth were bared. Snap your chinstrap baby ‘cause I’m comin’ for ya.

So, it didn’t pass without notice when the head coach left the field about a half hour into practice one Thursday. But, notice was about all we gave it. There was work to be done.

Not long after he disappeared, an assistant coach looked toward the building, nodded and blew his whistle. He told us to double time it into the locker room. Someone asked why and he said because he said to and meant right now. No one was ever too happy after messing with coach Hart, so we ran in.

The head coach was waiting there with a weaselly looking guy with slicked back hair. He could’ve been a mob button man or maybe a repo guy. But, he wasn’t. “Guys, I want you to meet Al Davis. He runs the Oakland Raiders.”

Davis eyed us for a few seconds. “Youse guys are probably wondering what I’m doin’ here,” he said with a heavy Brooklyn accent. “You probably know we drafted Harry, who some of you probably watched play here. Maybe even knew ‘im. Anyway, the minute he put on his cleats, I knew he was Raider material. I asked ‘im where he got his attitude and he told me right here. I told myself the next time I got back east, I was gonna see dis place and here I am.”

There were a few moments of silence before Jerry said, “Forget this happy sh**. We got Wilson coming up tomorrow.”

The coach started forward but Davis held out his hand. He grinned. “That’s the attitude I’m talkin’ about.”

Jerry was a halfback and had all the flab and softness of a leaf spring off a Buick. He was as fit as they come and one of the toughest guys I’ve ever come across. At the end of that brief meeting, Davis told Jerry he’d be keeping an eye on him.

Starting that day, I kept an eye on Davis. I watched him build the winningest franchise in all of professional sports.

Yesterday, Davis died. So did Jerry. Weird.

Aliens

There’s a scene in “Men in Black” where K is telling J that aliens have lived among us for some time and shows him a split screen of some of the wackier celebrities, politicians, etc. The implication is that they’re obvious if you give them any thought.

But, that’s fiction. The part about those people, I mean. In reality, there are aliens among us and I know who they are.

I returned to the gym today after a week’s vacation (and a couple days to recover from the vacation). While I was gone, someone evidently added a few pounds to each weight plate and lengthened the running track. Fifteen minutes into the workout, I was sweating enough to float an aircraft carrier.

I heard a greeting. Wiping the burning sweat from my eyes, I was able to make out Ed standing in front of me. He was returning from two weeks of vacation travel.

He told me he was signed up for one of those team races the coming weekend where you cover ridiculous distances with various forms of human powered locomotion in an attempt to generate extreme pain and induce cardiac arrest. And, you get a t-shirt. His partner became disabled (gee, what are the odds?) and he wanted to know if I would sub.

Here’s a guy who’s been off his program twice as long as I have (although I spent my week as though the plane was going down) and he’s ready to go out and pump his limbs across half a small state. It’s going to take me a month just to get back to where I can make the control panel on the stationary bike light up.

He’s not the only one. Another friend who doesn’t train at all, as far as I know, called me last year and asked what I was doing that weekend. I told him I was competing in an open water swim across the Ohio River and back. He said that sounded like it could be a hoot and asked how he could sign up.

I trained for six months and my heart was about punching through my chest at the finish line. He had no preparation and not only finished, but beat me. And then, I crawled out of the water and found him trying to pick up the woman who had driven me to the race.

When I was in high school, I competed in water polo during the summer, up until football practice started in August. Water polo is somewhere between sprint swimming and wrestling, making it an exhausting workout. The first week of football practice included running up and down the bleachers in the heat of the day. Gary, who spent his summers working in a frozen custard stand, would lap me on the stands, barely breathing hard.

Humans, like me, sweat, strain and grunt to achieve some small measure of muscle tone and endurance, however fleeting. These others, my friends, are the aliens.

Popcorn

If money was no object. We’ve heard the phrase many times but it’s never been the case for me. Even at the peaks of my entrepreneurial career when I indulged myself somewhat, I never let go of my blue collar roots. I always think I could be back to living on pork n’ beans tomorrow, so I keep a good cushion for a soft landing. And, as I’ve aged, material things mean much less compared to the true joys of life.

But, I have had a taste of the high life now and then. This past week was the latest.

I had visited the enclave of the Midwestern very rich decades ago. I was starting a business and went to visit a potential investor at his place in northern Michigan. He picked me up at a small airport and drove miles up the coast, turning down a long driveway with overarching trees. That led to a house on the lake with a dock out back, equipped with runabout, sailboat, jet ski and a few other water toys. We entered and I was struck by the high ceilings, rich woodwork, polished marble, beveled glass and other details that are usually too expensive to be from the present day. “I hope you don’t mind being quartered in the guest house,” he intoned seriously. This was the guest house? It was about double the size of anywhere I had lived. I won’t even attempt a description of the palatial principal residence.

Nor will I try to describe the lifestyle, other than to say that you do nothing for yourself that a small army of help couldn’t do for you. And, that no item, no matter how prosaic, escapes the quest for the best. I can live without gold plated bathroom fixtures but apparently they can’t.

That was a little more extreme than last week, but was good preparation for it. The home became available for our use through an acquaintance of my traveling companion. It lies within the bounds of a gated community in a posh area of northern Michigan. Like many such communities I’ve seen, this one had its own golf course. Unlike some, it also had its own riding stables. Wait, I’m not done. It backed up to and included several mountains (such as mountains are in that area) and had its own ski slopes and lifts. You could practically walk out your back door and be swept up to the summits.

That’s why it was available now. The owner skis, but doesn’t indulge in the other activities. It’s a different mindset to plop down few million on a place you’ll use only a portion of the year.

One of the first things my companion wanted to do was to go into town to shop. Okay. She’s the host. I’ll play. She might’ve sensed my slightly less than enthusiastic reaction because she added, “They have an outdoors store.” Now we’re rockin’.

We entered a clothing store and she went left to the women’s section. I went right and was scanning the sports shirts, looking for something that wasn’t well into three figures.

An elegant woman approached and asked if she could help me. “Yeah, tell me why this shirt is worth $250.”

From her expression, you might think I had asked why water feels wet. “Why it’s a (brand I’ve never heard of and don’t recall).”

I could’ve pointed out it was still just cotton, dye, etc., but it was obvious I still just wouldn’t get it. She moved on to more promising prospect.

We wended our way through a few more such shops and finally arrived at the promised pot of gold. The outfitter. I managed not to trample my friend entering, but just.

It was unlike any outdoors store I had ever seen. To begin with, there weren’t the usual stacks of clothing. Everything was artfully laid out like a high end department store. The brands were not only the top echelon but the highest strata of those lines. While my closet does contain some of these logos, it’s invariably because I bought them through one of the liquidation sites carrying last year’s designs at clearance pricing.

This was heaven. But, the price tags were hell. The standard (for this village) impeccable clerk inquired if she could be of assistance. “Do you have discount racks with season-end stuff?” I thought I detected a flinch at either “discount” or “racks.”

“We don’t usually mark down. But you might find something of interest there.” She indicated a single display. At my customary Bass Pro of Dick’s Sporting Goods store, there would be multiple racks and tables of clearance items. Here there were a few lowly remnants on a table off to the side. I found one very cool jacket in my size that was discounted a hundred bucks. I didn’t need it but how cool would that be? I mustered up my self control and moved on.

I arrived at the paddling department, the Holy Grail. Inventory was sparse, perhaps making room for the upcoming ski season. However, there was one outstanding example of the British kayak industry. $3,900. “She’s beauty, isn’t she?” I turned to find a man who I would learn was the owner of the store and a fellow paddler.

“To say the least. Any wiggle room in the price?”

He smiled. “I think I know why you’re asking but, no. Around here, people buy those boats like popcorn. In this town, those are the expensive kayaks.” He indicated a couple cedar strip boats with intricate inlays that carried five figure price tags.

We chatted a bit, exchanging paddling experiences, but it was time for me to go. The jacket still loomed in my mind and I grabbed it before good sense could reassert itself.

I was getting rung up when a woman breezed by the counter. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt (albeit of a designer origin) and jewelry worth more than my first house. “Have those skis and boots sent to the house, Gina. And, by the way, Justin is getting ready to go back to school in Florida and he’d probably like that pretty blue kayak (the $3900 one). Have that sent over, too.” Apparently people like her don’t have to be rung up, much less carry their goods.

And, around here, people buy those boats like popcorn.