The Lamest Generation

I suppose every generation feels this way, at least the male of the species. My father would always shake his head about the perceived frailties of my age stratum. I recall steeling myself to let him know I was giving up boxing for football, correctly anticipating the reaction. “A sport where they penalize you for unnecessary roughness? What kind of roughness isn’t necessary in a man’s sport? And what’s with all those pads and the hard helmet? Do you have to wear a dress, too?”

What evokes this memory was sitting in a waiting room today. The selection of magazines was very limited and I found myself settling for “Men’s Health.” I consider it to have more to do with the financial health of their advertisers than your wellbeing.

The article that snags my attention is “15 Top Tech Problems We Want Solved in 2012.” I’d settle for getting through the year without having to call the cable or internet company, but I’m willing to listen to their gripes.

The first one to elevate my eyebrows is “Make cars anyone can drive.” Excuse me? “…it shouldn’t require a ten-minute lesson in starting it and putting it in gear.” Is this really a problem for this generation? I’m the furthest thing from a tech geek and can fire up any rental car thrown at me without tutoring. I learned on a vehicle that had a starter (floor mounted) separate from the ignition switch and had a motorcycle with a manual spark advance. Wasn’t rocket science.

“Stop our mailboxes from filling up. Create an automatic archiving system that works – with no chance we’ll miss an email.” Aw, poor baby. How much effort does it take to decide if you want to file or delete? And do you want a machine making that decision for you?

“Don’t let us sext our boss, our mom or our plumber.” What they’re whining for is a system that detects sexual words and forces you to double-check the intended recipient. If you have a brain circuit that connects your mother with that content, you may have bigger problems than inadequate automation.

“Make autocorrect not embarrass us.” So, turn it off. If you’re concerned about the precision of a message, wouldn’t you proofread it anyway? Or would that exhaust you?

And finally (drum roll, please), “Make auto-flush toilets that don’t terrify our toddlers. This is a major problem.” It is? Part of my retirement was running a mental health clinic in which our clients numbered four figures annually. In eight years, I don’t recall a single case of PTSD (Post-Toilet Stress Disorder). Do not fear the automated flusher; fear the germs on the handle.

If the current generation is cowed by these challenges, I weep for our future.

Greatest Taillights

Now here’s a subject you don’t see every day; the greatest car taillights of all time. And yes, I am killing time (waiting for a phone call).

Heading the list are the 1967-70 Mercury Cougar sequential taillights. They’re the first I know of that created movement (in the direction of the turn). That would be child’s play to pull off today. But, back then, it caused quite the stir.

What elicited this thought was a 1970 Chrysler I pass by frequently. The “boomerang” taillight was artfully integrated with the tail fin (see photo).

In 1959, Chevy set the world on its ear with the catseye taillights that were the centerpiece of the rear view design. This included horizontal fins (brow-like) that fomented the rumor that the rear end of the car would lift at speed.

Another good example of design integration was the 1959 Cadillac bullet lights that blended well with the fin theme. Ensuing versions were similar, but this was the cleanest.

Finally, I’ll nominate the 1956-7 Chevy lights. It’s not because of their particular appearance, which was somewhat mundane. But, one side was hinged and concealed the gas cap. This eliminated the fuel door, making the whole car look better. Other GM marques employed this type of light at various times, but this was the best-known.

If that call doesn’t come in soon, I may be back with my favorite windshield wipers.

Fitness kills

I was late to meet someone today. I apologized and before I could explain, he launched into an anti-fitness spiel, knowing that I was coming from the gym.

I’d heard it before. If you take all the hours you spend working out and deduct them from your lifespan, you lived less, not more. And, you’re risking premature joint damage and other ills, some of them fatal. Blah, blah, blah.

I could’ve made the argument for extended living. I might have trotted out the enhanced quality of life. Or countered with higher self esteem and brighter mental outlook. But, instead I ordered pizza.

He’s partly right. Fitness programs do put you at risk. But, it’s of death by pneumonia. I can prove that statistically.

I was late today because my workout was interrupted by a fire alarm. That propelled me, hot and sweaty, into the cold wind and rain, where I stomped my feet for 45 minutes. It took that long for them to ascertain that it was a false alarm. Not statistically significant? I beg to differ.

While I was stomping around and beating my arms in a futile attempt to maintain core temperature, I engaged in some calculations. This was the fourth time I had been driven outside by a fire alarm and two of them occurred at a gym during inclement weather. I’ll throw in a fifth. I had just returned to my motel room from a long run when we were evacuated into a snow storm because of a potential shootout between state troopers and bank robbers holed up in one of the rooms. That was a de facto workout.

So, 60% of the time I’ve been evacuated, it was in the pursuit of fitness. And 100% of those times, it was into adverse weather. Fitness kills by degrees (low and wet ones).

The prodigal canoe

Addendum to the previous canoe post. The seller emailed me that he told a friend of his about our deal and his friend said that I screwed him. It was worth twice what I paid him. He thought that it was lousy that I tried to look like I was doing him a favor by upping the price when I was really sticking it to him. I’m paraphrasing him because it wasn’t quite that printable.

I responded that I believed his friend to be mistaken (and a couple other things I didn’t mention) and that he should feel free to check pricing on the link I was providing and see for himself that I gave him market value (didn’t remind him that I had paid more than he asked). Or, I’d be happy to drive the boat back over immediately and he could refund my money and allow his friend to double it for him (he deserved the onus). He wanted the boat back, so I complied.

Back to square one. I engaged all the search engines once again. One ad caught my eye, mostly because it was practically in my backyard. The details were sketchy and, once again, the seller didn’t know much about it. The price and location made it worth a look.

I knew what it was the moment I laid eyes on it. I had bought one in 1984 and cut my teeth on solo whitewater canoeing with it. Ah, the times I had in that boat (and, beside, behind and under it). But, the kids were growing and a solo canoe no longer fit into the picture. I sold it to a guy named Gary.

Now, I was looking for a flatwater boat. So, I thanked the man for his time and started to turn away. Something tugged at me. I looked at the canoe again.

Mine had been the same color with the identical wood trim. It was outfitted exactly the same way as I had done mine. The registration decal had been bought in 1984. I asked the seller how he had come to own it. He said he bought it from a friend of his a couple years ago. The friend’s name? Gary.

Twenty-seven years of nostalgia washed over me. No, it wasn’t what I was looking for today. But, it was the boat I bought. The return of the prodigal canoe.

Caveat Emptor

Caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware. Yeah, but what about the seller?

The presumption is that the seller has the advantage, armed with more information. But, that’s not always the case.

Many years back, I rode motorcycles and was in the market for a vintage Triumph. I responded to one ad, listing the bike for a reasonable price and describing it in good condition. The address was way out in the country but the journey seemed worth it, should everything be as it appeared.

Not only was it far from the city, it was far from the road. My Firebird slewed back and forth as I made my way up a long, muddy driveway in a driving rain. The buzzer didn’t seem to work so I knocked on the door of a weather beaten cottage. Paint flaked off like dandruff. The man who answered was more unkempt than the house. He cast an eye skyward and asked if I was sure I wanted to look at it today. I had driven almost 50 miles, so I affirmed my desire.

He went inside and pulled on some boots and donned a filthy slicker. We slogged through the mire to a barn that had an alarming lean toward starboard. The hinges screamed as he swung the door open and led me inside. In the dim light, I could make out four boxes of cruddy motorcycle components. “Are these spares?” I asked.

“Nope.” He broke into a hacking, wet cough and spit. “That there’s the bike.”

I groped for words. “The ad said it was in good condition.”

“Tis. Just ain’t put together.”

I had no trouble finding words for that. My judgment could’ve been better. After he had his say, we sloshed back to the house in silence. He watched me get into my car. Then he watched some more. And some more. And some more. My wheels were spinning and cutting a rut.

I rolled down the window. “Can I get some help, here?”

“Yeah, when the sheriff comes. I’m goin’ in to get dry. If you ain’t gone in ten minutes, I’m callin’ him with a trespassing complaint.” The door slammed and more paint fell.

I got out and looked around. There was a wood pile beside the house, covered with a dirty canvas tarp. I whipped it off, quickly stuffed it under a tire, and the car waddled out of the rut. I muttered oaths aloud much of the way home.

The next day, another ad cropped up in the paper. The price was low but the motorcycle was described as “like new.” I called and reached a woman who didn’t know much about it. We set an appointment for that evening when her husband would be home.

I was still smarting from the previous day and went into this with my shields well up and a bad attitude. The home was modest and an elderly couple met me at the door and walked me to the garage under the house. The garage door swung open and there stood a shiny Triumph in showroom condition. I could hardly believe my eyes. I checked the odometer and it hadn’t registered its 500th mile. And, yet, the price was that of a junker. After yesterday, I was due for this.

Or, was I? “Well son, what do you think?” asked the kindly older gentleman.

“I’ll take it!” sprang to mind, but I hesitated and rolled it around in my mind. “I think it’s worth more than you’re asking.”

He smiled. “That may be.” He continued on to tell me how their son had bought it and had the opportunity to ride it only a few times before being shipped out to Korea with his unit. He would write about how he couldn’t wait to get back and ride his bike. Then, he was killed in a truck accident. They just wanted to get rid of the bike.

I thought a little more and made a fair offer above their asking price. He shook his head. “Just pay us our price and we’ll be happy that someone is enjoying it as he would’ve.” I paid his price.

That became relevant today. I responded to an ad for a canoe. The owner didn’t know that much about it and couldn’t answer my questions, so I went to look at it. The location was in a low income neighborhood. A young man answered the door. I could see at least three children wrestling around on the threadbare rug behind him.

He led me around back of the house. I recognized the model and knew it was worth more than he was asking. Without being obvious, I probed for the story behind it.

His uncle died a couple years before and left it to him. He’d meant to take it out but never found the chance with the kids and work putting demands on his schedule. Then, he lost his job and was trying to think of what to sell off to stay afloat.

I offered him a hundred bucks over what he had advertised. He was puzzled, but I explained that was the market value. He was still bewildered but eagerly glommed onto the cash.

Over the years, I’ve heard people brag about how they stole a deal, inside and outside of the business world. But, I always remember the words of Will Rogers. “I’d rather be the man who bought the Brooklyn Bridge than the one who sold it.”

Blacker Friday

The flat screens at that loom over the exercise machines were filled with people venting their anger about the extended shopping hours of some store over the Thanksgiving holiday. The ire spilled over into the gym. “When they told my son he’s working, he was about ready to tell them to stuff the job along with their turkeys,” related Clem.

“Yeah, well Tyrone ought to be giving thanks that Walmart has standards low enough to employ his stupid butt. They’re probably the only ones who would,” replied Bob (Clem’s brother, I should add).

“Maybe so. But that doesn’t make him less pissed about being pulled away from his family in the middle of a holiday.”

“You mean, pulled away from the food and football games,” came back Bob, again.

I looked at the angry faces of the people being interviewed on television and listened to the tone of their voices. There was something else in there. Something that really galled them.

For decades, I’ve watched interviews with firefighters, nurses, utility workers and other who had to work holidays. Disappointment? Maybe. Outrage? No. If anything, there was some pride in that they were so essential, the world couldn’t keep spinning without them at their stations. I expressed this observation.

“So what you’re saying,” said Clem, “is that there was a good reason for them to be on the job. But, for those employed by some of the retail sweat shops, there’s no good reason for their butts to get dragged in, except the owners want to make a few more bucks.”

“And what really frosts them,” added Bob, “is that those owners are sitting at home, stuffing their faces.”

Close, but no cigar. What I hear in those voices is the anger of being deemed a commodity. They are being accorded no more respect, regard or value than the fry grease at McDonalds. They are used, replaced or discarded with little or no thought.

My opinion is that the conflict originates deeper than this latest decision. If they were esteemed by the management, some of them would be happy to take one for the team and make a few extra bucks, to boot.

Three things I'm not paying for

I read an article about banks backing off additional debit card fees in the heat of criticism. Pity. If I had a debit card, I’d deserve to get dinged. Why would I use a debit card when the reduction in my funds is almost immediate? I can use a credit card and make use of someone else’s money. I don’t pay a fee on the ones I have.

Another thing I wouldn’t cough up is a stadium seat license fee. You can put excessive club initiation fees in the same category. I should pay to be handcuffed to renewing a service? If the purpose was solely revenue, it would be built into the ticket prices or dues.

Why would I pay for vanity license plates when I can get a bumper sticker for a fraction of the price and change my mind about the sentiment any time I want? And just what is the money used for, anyway? So the governor’s wife can get to design an unneeded one and we get stuck with a 50-year supply (Ohio)? I’m not underwriting her whims.

The end is near

An acquaintance of mine teaches college. I just saw a posting of hers on the web, bragging about some of her students.

She boasted one wrote a paper of the Justin Bieber baby-daddy situation and another took on the Kim Kardashian wedding fiasco. “…and they both totally nailed the analysis.” No kidding, and this isn’t even a graduate level course?

And to think, I frittered away my modern culture education researching people like Bobby Seale and Ralph Nader. I should’ve been writing a thesis on the Cowsills or maybe a treatise on Gilligan’s Island.

So, we’re inculcating the next generation of leaders with the priority that whom Kimmy is boinking this week is of paramount significance. Wonder what the outcome will be.

Socrates wept.

Say it ain't so, Joe

Law enforcement officers, social workers, mental health therapists and those in similar professions have high rates of depression. This is in part due to the fact that, day in and day out, they are immersed in the underbelly of society. I suppose the flip side of this is the buoyancy we feel when encountering the heights to which human nature can soar.

This week, I am anything but buoyant. I’ve lost one of the major underpinnings of my faith in human nature.

As a child, I was fascinated by biographies; Ben Franklin, Clara Barton, Albert Schweitzer, Harriet Tubman, Jim Thorpe, Joan of Arc, Andrew Carnegie, Harry Truman, and others who exemplified the potential of mankind. I wasn’t aware that I was perusing the sanitized versions that larded the school library.

My illusions began to shatter locally. The cop who walked the beat turned out to be on the take. A teacher was spirited away for reasons only hinted at. A priest was arrested.

Getting into regular newspaper reading was of no comfort. The musician turned out to be an addict, the star baseball player who corked his bat, the mayor who was on the take and so on. I recall graduating to works in the public library that revealed more about the founding fathers, such as they may have been motivated as much, if not more, by a quest for power and wealth than liberty and justice for all.

Over the years, I came to see all sides of prominent businesspeople, elected officials, directors of charitable organizations, educators, professional athletes and entertainers and others who society elevated to prominence. I lost the tendency to look outwardly for benchmarks to shoot for. Except, perhaps, for one case who was a shining beacon in a sea of refuse.

I first met Joe Paterno when he recruited at my high school. I was profoundly impressed with the time he spent with me talking about life in general, even though it was readily apparent that he saw no place for me on his team. Even then, before college athletics became a more unseemly commercial enterprise, I was moved by his emphasis on doing things the right way. I distinctly remember him fielding a question from the group about his not recruiting Joe Namath, a football icon in our state. He gave an account about going to visit Namath and quickly determining that he was not of the character he required in his players.

His quarry at our school was a quarterback gifted with all the athletic talents in the world but sullied with a prodigious sense of entitlement. My opinion of Paterno spiked when he kicked him off the team the following year for reasons that had nothing to do with football. I would later learn of similar actions he took against other outstanding players who failed to live up to standards of conduct.

Over the years, I would have a few contacts with him, directly or indirectly. Some years back, I called him seeking advice in behalf of a small college starting a football team. I was certain he didn’t recall who I was but he readily rendered assistance for them in addition to the requested counsel.

I watched him donate athletic scholarships back to academics, eschew the gaudy trappings for himself and his team and otherwise reflect an adherence to guiding principles. As college football sank more and more into the quagmire, he prominently ascended even higher above the muck. He was the one figure in any walk of life who was determined to do it the right way, regardless of cost. Or, so it appeared.

Now, the boots have been stripped off and the feet of clay are in the public limelight. It’s a very sad day, and not just for academia.

The hits just keep on coming

Some blogs back, I wrote about being engaged in a negotiation to trade a kayak. I said I checked the hits on my photo site to gauge how eager my prospect was to have it. Someone asked me how else I use that data.

I don’t very much or even look at it that often. But, sometimes it comes in handy. For instance, a couple weeks ago, I sent a proposal to a company about co-sponsoring an event with my group. I included a link to photos of a previous similar event to communicate the nature and scope. I asked the recipient to review the information and I’d call him in a couple days.

I watched the counter on those photos to see how many times he viewed them, if at all. There were no hits. I did the follow-up call anyway and, as expected, he acted ambivalent about the idea. Since there were no hits, I surmised he hadn’t delved into it and I had a fallback position ready, which worked out.

I alluded to a paddling event in my previous posting. The organizer emailed me to ask how I thought it went. I just posted the album link this morning, but checked the counter; over 11,000 hits already. I should footnote that isn’t the number of viewers. It’s the number of times any photo in the album was viewed. It’s one indicator of how much the trip was enjoyed although there are other variables (e.g. (number of participants and quantity of photos). My average event album draws about 6,000 hits so I was happy to report to her that she scored high. I could’ve gone into more detail (like which aspects of the event drew the most interest), but decided to keep it simple.

I guess it’s my business background. You establish benchmarks and measure everything you do against them so you know how you’re doing and what you need to adjust.

It's a beautiful thing

It all started when I was researching places to paddle in the Florida panhandle. Paddlers living there were only too happy to offer suggestions and advice. In the process, I was invited to join an event that included several of the paddling clubs.

It was only a few weeks away, but I managed to pull it together and go down for a long weekend with a member of my club. We launched the first day with paddlers representing almost a half dozen organizations. By the first turn in the river, we were sharing experiences, observations and jokes. By lunchtime, we were like one group.

It’s like that with some other avocations but paddlers seem to share a special bond. It may be rooted in a love of the sport, appreciation of nature, the spirit of fun that pervades or all the above. I don’t know for sure.

But, it’s a beautiful thing.