Paging Joseph Heller

The county park web site is showing that their sledding hills are closed due to inclement conditions (snow).

The Christmas Story

A radio talk show host was just touting “The Christmas Story” as one of the better seasonal movies. Within the past month, several people have asked me if I have seen it, as is the case every year. Yes, and even better. The movie was produced in 1983, but its roots date well back from that. It’s an amalgam of some short stories written by Jean Shepherd. Most delight in the movie but fail to take the step closer to nirvana of tracing it to the wellspring. I discovered Jean Shepherd in the early 1970s while manning a post that mostly demanded the skill of staying awake. Sometimes, you were lucky enough to inherit a piece of reading material from the prior occupant. On one such evening, I was bequested a well-thumbed edition of “Playboy.” I had already seen it and had done a thorough evaluation of the photographic art. So, on this particular evening, after a quick refresher of the visuals, I turned to the verbiage. The reviews of gold watches, exotic sports cars and clothing priced congruent with the status of their logos held little interest. I was scrambling to break even with my personal finances. Likewise, I had no interest in the advice for maintaining simultaneous intimate relations with more than a half dozen partners. That was not a problem I was grappling with. I landed at “Lost at C,” a short story by Jean Shepherd. Steeped in boredom, I tentatively began to read it. Within a few paragraphs, I was rapt. It simply resonated with me. A school boy shows up for class totally unprepared and prays he will not get called upon. Who couldn’t relate to that? It was the story of my educational life. Of course, he is called upon to come to the blackboard and solve an equation in front of everyone. To go further would digress from this story. This sampling ignited a lust for Shepherd’s writing. I was ecstatic to discover that he had stories published in prior issues and eventually hunted them down. They were even better than my initial taste. Even better, I learned that there were books of compilations of his stories, which I purchased and consumed over and over. Fast forward almost a decade and I’m a magazine publisher. I had written for publication since sixth grade but still considered myself “aspiring” and revered a number of accomplished authors. I was able to leverage my position to meet some of those who still drew breath. Jean Shepherd was at the top of my list and fortunately resided in a city that I frequented for business. I was able to lure him out for lunch. I never had a fan mentality and am far from a gusher, yet I found myself telling him just how much I treasured his writing. Jean smiled kindly and politely corrected, “I’m not a writer. I’m a story teller.” That he was. And his greatest gift was telling stories that reverberate deep in the hearts of many. My gift to you this season is to admonish not to shortchange yourself by simply partaking of “The Christmas Story.” It’s just an appetizer. Treat yourself to the entire menu.

War Stories

Tales of personal experiences, often overcoming a challenge, hardship, peril or other obstacle. Best when shared with others. The second sentence is more mine than the first. Last week, I attended a women’s college basketball game. Not the hottest ticket in town but a friend’s daughter was playing and I was there to support them. That was appreciated because, like my son’s college swim meets, the audience is largely family and friends. Afterwards, a group of us went out for an informal dinner. The older folk discussed the coming holidays, the price of gas and other “adult topics,” virtually oblivious to the young women at that point. The latter were exchanging insights about the game; things no spectator could’ve picked up. One had a contact lens go wonky while taking foul shots. Another accidentally tripped an opponent and it didn’t get called. The opposition’s number five was wearing cologne that would wake up a dead mule. I knew some of this would be retold and enjoyed for years if not decades. My friend caught me eavesdropping. “War stories,” he whispered. “Bet you miss that since you retired.” True. I’ve been lucky to share some good times with great people on the job. While a lot of us stay in touch, it isn’t the same as the weekly beer after work. The same is true with old class and team mates. Few things compare to the ride home in the team bus after a game. I suppose it helps that we never lost. Fortunately, the one tie was a home game. Even then, it was played under monsoon-like conditions that turned the field into a swamp and would be rich fodder for future stories of epic proportion. There I go, digressing into one of those sagas. I pondered my friend’s observation for a few days, wondering why I hadn’t felt the pang. Then, I kayaked with some friends in our paddling group. We went for a late lunch afterwards. And there they were. The war stories. A rich vein of ten years worth of laughs, missteps and wondrous experiences. Enjoyed together over a decade. Like whiskey, they get better with age. So that’s plugging the gap that work would’ve filled. Thankfully so. War stories are part of the glue that binds us together.

Fire Escapes

There was an episode of “Car 54, Where are you?” (responses of “Huh?” will not be brooked kindly) in which a famous architect was hired to create a modernistic apartment building in the blue collar Bronx neighborhood that was the setting for the series. He excitedly presented his creative concepts, but agreed to the request that the residents have input. The first of numerous observations was that his conceptual drawings showed no fire escapes. He responded that it was designed with fireproof materials and fire suppression systems, so the unsightly structures were unnecessary. They scoffed at his ignorance. Fire escapes aren’t for emergencies. They’re for your plants or sitting out on during hot summer months. And so it went until the last scene. The final drawing was unveiled and it depicted a building exactly like every other archaic existing structure, complete with fire escapes, which drew applause from the audience. He sat there, a crestfallen and beaten man. I’m looking at a web site that has evoked this long dormant recollection. It contains an article I wrote. At least, I think that’s what it is. The origins of this are an email I received from a partner in the web site a couple weeks ago. They’ve been fans of my writing for some time and would be honored if I would consider being a contributing editor for their site. “Contributing editor” is publishing-speak for “no pay,” but the real red flag was that they would be honored. I looked over their stuff, thought I could add another voice and agreed to do it. That was greeted with squeals of delight, email-wise, and a small caveat. Did I mind being edited? I assured them that I have been writing for some time (probably longer than the combined ages of the web site partners) and am used to having my work polished. Fired up by the prospects of a new frontier, I hammered out my first missive. I considered it a good sign that I was provided with a password to post directly instead going through a sieve of editing. I checked back a day later to ensure it remained loaded correctly. It had, but had also acquired a limpet along the way. Appended to the column was a rebuttal penned by one of the partners. This is new. I have written for and even edited many media. In a few instances, I have seen disclaimers by management stating the opinion was that of the author. But, I have never seen it essentially averred that the writer didn’t know what he was talking about. Some facts or conclusions might’ve been questioned during editorial conferences, but not for public viewing. I decided against refuting his position in that forum or even making an issue of it at all. Part of the reason for that was that a new article hook had occurred to me and it lent itself to a lot of creative word play. I was eager to get cracking, wielding puns and metaphors with unbridled largess. It practically wrote itself and was soon in print (or, electrons, as the case may be). Given the prior episode, I checked back almost hourly to see if the feckless youth had had another go at me. None. Maybe even he was stilled by the sheer genius of it. Turns out, he was just ruminating. Part of my morning ritual is powering up the box to attend to the web sites for which I have some managerial responsibilities. I accomplished that today and clicked through to my new article. It had been assaulted in the wee hours of the morning. I should’ve suspected he’d turn out to be one of the night people on the web. The damages were minor and I wrote it off to his just marking his territory. Essentially, he took sentences that were comprised of a series of nouns and converted them to bullet points. I felt this subverted the conversational and humorous tone of the piece, but moved on to another site before I was tempted to shoot him a hot email with an editorial tutorial. I had other things to do this morning anyway. They were enjoyable things so I was in a buoyant mood when I returned to my lair. And, committed the error of returning to the scene of the crime. The title was no longer the clever turn of phrase that set the tone of the article. In its place stood a bland statement of the subject matter. He could get that from an autofill app, what did he need me for? Life’s too short to engage simpletons, nuts and other assorted defectives, so I let it pass. The body remained unscathed, save for the bullets that had been shot through it. Once again I err in referring back to the site, now. Every witticism, metaphor, pun, wry commentary and other scintilla of creativity has been bleached out, leaving a prosaic, declarative manuscript of what I had to say, which is essentially nothing. The pith was in the art, not the content. It was like he had replaced the Mona Lisa with a sample snapshot snatched from a picture frame sold in Wal-Mart. Is it just me or did that sound a tad pompous? Nonetheless, as I sit here looking at the equivalent of a schematic with fire escapes, I shoulder the blame. After all, I said I was open to editing.

The Difference

I was doing lunch with a bunch of guys today and one turned to me. “What’s the biggest difference in your life since you retired?” That might require some thought but, before I could engage my brain, I heard myself reply, “I no longer hate Sundays.” Really? His arched brows reflected that he was surprised as me by the answer. So, I had to think to explain. Let’s go way back to school. The weekend was two days of bliss. Actually, three if there was a game Friday night. I was long on having weekend fun but short on doing homework. So, as Sunday crept into evening hours, I began to contemplate the recriminations I would receive with the termination of the weekend. I could go from Friday night hero to Monday morning whipping boy. Astute readers might suggest that I could’ve just cracked the books instead of agonizing about the browbeating, but that would’ve been against my policy. But, school doesn’t last forever. Playing all weekend does. And, the latter half of Sunday evoked thoughts of going back to the grind Monday morning. This was compounded by the fact that it never seemed I wound up working within the same hemisphere as home, so an unpleasant commute also loomed in the offing. True, I did enjoy some jobs and mentally never punched out. But, as an entrepreneur, I was usually facing a desk full of challenges. In a nutshell, Sunday was the gateway to Monday and the anticipation was worse than the experience. Now, it’s just another day.

Mind over matter

It was a great summer for my combat roll and other paddling technique. For the uninitiated, the combat roll is righting your capsized kayak or canoe after a wipeout. It differs from the “pool roll” in that it occurs under actual conditions of necessity, as opposed to a controlled and anticipated situation. The alternative to rolling is swimming. I haven’t had to do the latter in years. For many of us, once you’ve mastered the roll, you’re not home free. It isn’t like riding a bicycle. If you don’t practice every time you’re on the water, it can go away. And sometimes, even if you do. My basic roll got sloppy about a month ago. And, barehanded, offside and other more advanced variations went away. Why? Obviously, I was doing something differently. It was frustrating, especially considering everything had been going so well. And, the more frustrated I got, the worse it got. This hints at the root cause, which is in the mind. That all changed last night at indoor pool practice. I was nailing the roll and all the fancier variations came back with relative ease. I discerned one bad habit I had fallen into and someone pointed out another fatal flaw. So, that was it. Maybe. On the other hand, I was using a kayak I had owned years ago and had just retrieved after three intervening owners. It’s a well behaved craft, but not magic. It does inspire confidence and I believe that was the key to success. Mind over matter. It works in paddling and just about everything else.

Legacy

The internet has connected me with friends, classmates, business associates, etc. from the past that I otherwise might have never heard from. Once in a while, someone will bring up something I said, wrote or did decades ago that no longer resided in my conscious mind, if ever. That is, one of these inconsequential (to me) things stuck with them and is vivid enough that they can quote it or describe it in detail. I’ve been on the other end of that, but it still makes me ponder about the tracks I’ve left. I’m thinking of this today because I was in a pre-holiday exchange of good wishes and remembrances with some friends of my youth today. One of them cited a quote from ninth grade, “You can’t stuff a marshmallow into a piggybank.” The fact that it was greeted by a chorus of LOLs (and variations thereof) told me it was tattooed in everyone’s grey matter. Mr. Allison was our football coach, but he also taught safety education. You didn’t have to be Roget to figure out that this was a euphemism for sex education. While it was needed in the Philadelphia school system, they probably encoded it to minimize the ruffling of feathers. Early in the course, a boy asked Mr. Allison about the physical reaction he had sometimes when around girls. I suppose this question emerged every year because Mr. Allison was obviously ready with the aforementioned quote for a response. I’ve run into people who graduated before or after me and this has come up, so I’m sure it wasn’t just our class. Since it came up today, I was trying to recall one other thing Mr. Allison ever said in class or on the field. I came up dry. I emailed a few of the guys and they struck out. So that’s it. Thirty (or whatever) years of teaching and coaching, and that’s your legacy. The marshmallow. Hope I fare better.

A modest proposal

I belong to a group that meets monthly over dinner to debate the topics of the day. The members are informed, intelligent and mostly liberals. That is not to say it’s monolithic, but the discussions are civil and witty. I consider myself an independent and evaluate each candidate and bill on its own merits. In this past election, my voting went about 60/40. Given the track record of resounding failures produced by socialism, economic and social, I generally oppose strategies that lean that way. This emerged in a tax-the-rich discussion around the dinner table. In the face of ardent proclamations that the principle is based upon fairness (if Karl Marx is synonymous with that), I made a proposal. We each bring our most recent tax return. The half that records the highest pays all the dues. The others pay nothing. No takers.

There's your sign

Last night some friends invited me over for pizza. They were all giddy about the impending holiday and chattered about their Halloween decorations and costumes. That would obviate any need to identify their gender. Noting my lack of participation in the conversation, they asked what I thought. I told them the whole thing was inane and I dreaded sitting around for hours one night a year just to pass out candy to kids I didn’t know and wouldn’t see for another year. They said that was a sign I’ve turned into an old curmudgeon. I beg to differ. I cannot remember generating any excitement since hanging up my mask and bag. This morning I awoke and trudged to the bathroom to take care of first things first. As I stood there performing the rite, my half-closed eyes wandered over to the sink and snapped open. The Blob? An amorphic figure perched there and appeared to grow before my eyes. Was this my punishment for besmirching the spirit of Halloween? Buttoning back up (I sometimes remember), I cautiously moved closer to determine the source of this emanation. It was the base of a can of shaving cream. I carefully picked it up and discovered a pinhole leak. Now that is a sign. Since retiring, I seldom shave unless an occasion absolutely demands it. When your shaving cream can rusts through before it’s empty, you just may be getting old.

Good enough

I should work for the government. Number one thing on the to-do list today was to use a couple outdoor store gift certificates that had started to gather dust. It did not require the superhuman effort it often does to compel myself to adhere to the job plan. So, I start the day with a $50 surplus. Transportation will eat into that for about five bucks, as there are two stores to visit. I cruised the first store. There was an item for $80 that was fairly cool and one for $40 that I could actually use. After no small amount of pondering, I opted for the latter. Oh what a good boy am I. Burn a $25 gift card and I’m out of there for only fifteen bucks. The cashier can’t leave well enough alone. She tells me about a special that would knock 25% off of an item priced over $50. So, the $80 becomes $60. That makes it like $20 of free money. I’m paraphrasing the diminutive devil on my left shoulder. Somehow, I resist. On to the next test. I have researched the product line in advance and have decided to apply this certificate to one of two items, each priced at $75. Seeing them up close should make that decision. It did. I want them both. To regain control, I walk around the store. Mistake. There, on a manikin built like no one I know (certainly not me), is the coolest jacket I have ever seen. The trouble is, I already own one (maybe two) within its functional range. But, you live only once. For the coolest jacket on earth, what’s a hundred bucks? Or, one-fifty, tops. I check the price tag. Okay, $300 may be a deal breaker. Or, maybe not. I groan loud enough for most people in the store to turn my way. Okay, if I forgo the item I came in here for, it really only costs $225, less the gift card. That’s starting to come into range. If I ditch both of the products in the original choice, it’s down to only $150. Heck, if I pass on a few more items I never intended to buy, it’s free. I’d be a fool to pass that up. Yes, I actually have thoughts like that. I notice that I’m breathing heavily. Time to walk. But, I owe it due consideration. I’ll try it on. This could be a fatal error. The coat looks absolutely fantastic in the mirror. But, I still look like an old fat guy. An old fat guy in a great jacket, but still not worth the money. This was a worthwhile exercise. I reluctantly return it to the rack and limp back to my original target items. I’m hurting and wind up salving my wounds by purchasing both. After all, I did factor that scenario into at least one of my calculations, so it must be a valid option. On the drive home, I’m stricken with guilt. That adds another five bucks of cost for the Graeter’s ice cream to salve the wounds. Let’s recap. I began the day with a $50 surplus. My ending balance is a $150 deficit. Still not good enough for government work. I get a call from a friend. She states her business but I know that’s not the purpose of the call. She rates men somewhere between baboons and paramecium and periodically catches up with me to justify her conclusions. And, she was aware of my impending shopping trip, which provided another opportunity to verify low brain function. That was the second and primary item on her call agenda. Quick calculation. While I did run a loss, I also declined a costly item in each of the stores. So, I really came out $210 to the good, which is how I reported it to her. That is good enough for government work.

Vote for me

Write me in on Election Day and I will inject billions of dollars into the economy, which will buy goods and create thousands of jobs. Unlike politicians, I have a concrete and viable plan. On my dresser, I have mugs of loose change and will continue to do so as long as my bank is of no help and the pirate machines at the grocery store take 10% off the top. I estimate the amount to be somewhere between thirty and a million dollars (never could guess the number of M&Ms in a jar). Let’s call it thirty-five bucks. Assuming that’s close to the average for Americans, that’s over a billion dollars in dormant purchasing power. Put a coin converting machine is every Post Office (that doesn’t exact the vig) that puts this money back into the game and it buys product and creates employment which, in turn, generates more purchases with the multiplier effect.

At this stage of the game

Last week, I hurried through my workout to pick up a friend for lunch at her place of business. When I returned home, I found an email from her. “Thought you’d enjoy that one of the girls in the office said she wished she had a hunk come by and take her out to eat.” I shrugged. This morning, I had my annual physical. After the always-popular digital probe, the doctor informed me, “You have the prostate gland of a 50-year-old.” I never thought I’d see the day when the latter compliment was preferable to the former. But, it’s here.

You reap what you sow

I was entering the supermarket when a young man (11 or 12 years of age) stepped into my path, jiggling a beverage cup from a fast food franchise half full of change. He was attired in the latest fashion of his generation, so I didn’t take him to be needy. “Cash for me to build a clubhouse.” It wasn’t a question. I declined to contribute, noting that the leaves would be falling soon. I suggested he go around now to line up raking jobs to finance his construction. “Why should I do that?” he replied, somewhat indignantly. “You have more money than me. You should pay for it.” “Where did you get that idea?” He drew himself up to his full height and regarded me with nothing short of scorn for the ignorant. “From the President of the United States.” Yes, that’s what it’s come to and where it’s going.

It's not where you paddle...

“Looked like a nice trip,” said the email from a kayaking friend who had viewed a photo album I just posted. “One of the best I’ve been on.” “Really? It didn’t look as exotic as some of the places you go.” It wasn’t, but there were two things that didn’t come through in the pictures. First, the conditions were awesome. The air was warm and Lake Michigan provided enough waves to make it interesting without making some of the less experienced paddlers nervous. More importantly, the group chemistry was amazing. Pull together a party of any size and you’ll probably get a cross section of society. That is, it’ll include some issues people, complainers, and others who detract from the experience. This group was pure fun people making the event extraordinarily enjoyable from beginning to end. It’s not so much where you paddle, it’s who you paddle with.

Lock-ins

In the locker room, Clem was bemoaning his outcomes in trying to get his wife to work out. “I told her, black women tend to pile up that fat in a few places and it don’t look good no how.” I don’t know what Clem does for a living, but I’d hazard a guess it’s not a position where he’s required to motivate people. Probably not a marriage counselor, either. “I says, the hardest part is starting out. Once you’ve got your lock-in, you’re there.” I didn’t know exactly what he meant, but thought we were close. I’ve never used the term but I’m looking at it as the point where you’ve already invested so much, you’re not going to back out. That could be good or it could be bad. It probably helps me drag my old and aching bones to the gym. On the other hand, I don’t take a day off when I probably should and I agonize when I miss a number of sessions. I try to be rational about this, whether it applies to the gym or anything else. It’s not unusual to let lock-in dictate your actions when you’ve started a business, gotten into a relationship or whatever. You’ve got to know when to hold them and when to fold them. It’s much better to manage your lock-ins than to have them manage you. The first step is discerning the difference between a lock-in and a perceived one. My children are a lock-in. Right or wrong, I’ll be behind them, now and forever. That’s real. I recall what I think was my first revelation of a perceived lock-in. My first corporate job out of college was with a huge company and I was doing quite well; good salary, fantastic benefits, job security and a bright future. But, it wasn’t me. At first, it didn’t seem to matter that I wasn’t that happy with it because, with a young family, that appeared to be the only logical course of action. What brought it into focus was that I conceived a creative strategic move to capitalize on a piece of impending legislation. The top brass thought it was brilliant but wanted to run it through the bureaucratic red tape process. This strained out key elements and delayed implementation well beyond a year. And, well beyond the point of striking while the iron was hot. When the time came that I received the go-code (“And you’d better make this work.”), the window of opportunity had passed. Instead of beating the dead horse, I revisited the assumption that I was locked into this job and asked who I was. At that point, I decided to go entrepreneurial and it was one of the best decisions I ever made. More recently, an organization I’ve been integral to for a long time took a bad turn at the direction of the chairman. He assumed I had so much of myself invested in it, I’d have little choice but to support the new narrative. He assumed wrong. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was a very good one. So, one key to happiness is managing your lock-ins instead of letting them manage you. You are better off making your own decisions than allowing them to be made for you.

Peer pleasure

Jay participated in a recent kayak/camping trip I organized. He heads a paddling group in another state. It’s always a pleasure to have him along, but this time in particular. Just before adjourning the campfire activities for one evening, I explained the itinerary for the following day. The group nodded and went off to their tents. Jay lingered long enough to comment, “That must’ve taken some intense research to set up.” A simple remark but it was gold to me. Very few people give any thought to the research, planning, arrangements, negotiations, advanced payment, problem solving and myriad of other things that go into bringing off an event for their enjoyment. Or, anything else, for that matter. I don’t expect it. All I ask is that, in return for all the effort and risk, they follow instructions, reimburse promptly and generally try to be more of an asset than a liability. Even that’s too much to ask in a few cases, but I don’t stop doing it because of a small minority. I appreciated Jay’s observation and it meant more coming from an esteemed peer. Complaints and criticism mean nothing coming from those who offer nothing to the greater good, but this came from the other end of the spectrum.

iBad

Once again, I get dragged, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century (are you smarter than a Vice President?). In this case, I just purchased an iPad. When this device emerged, I only had a dim understanding of exactly what it was and why anyone would need one. I didn’t delve into that for clarity, but it seemed like smart phones, laptops and desktops covered the spectrum of functionality. My son got one and has enjoyed it immensely. He’s also been on me to get one. On the one hand, it looked like fun as his fingers moved with lightening speed, generating a variety of delightful outputs. But, I’ve seen this kind of thing before and envisioned myself plodding up and down blind alleys, regardless of how the younger generation fared. Then, I took a long plane trip with multiple connections. Fate seated me beside people enjoying movies, books and games on their iPads (save for the 400-pound sumo wrestler who spilled over the armrest), making their time fly. To me, it was one long water torture. I bought newspapers along the way but quickly burned through their prosaic crossword puzzles, cryptograms and other mental exercises. I envied the iPadders their imaginative brain teasers. As luck would have it, a local retailer ran a significant sale on the devices this week. How could I resist? I opened the box to find the device and a couple attachments. I shook it. No manual. I thought Apple was known for that. But no, I would have to go on line. I’m a paper guy and 200 pages is a test of my endurance on the web. If you’ve followed my prior forays into techdom, you already see what’s marching down Main Street. One of the first required steps was to hook up with a WiFi connection. That entailed the customary prolonged false starts with menus I couldn’t locate and passwords I couldn’t recall. After web searches for ways around network and router passwords and extensive trial & error, I achieved connectivity. It was exhausting. But now, I stood on the brink of nirvana. I could download books, stimulating puzzles and fun games. Except, I couldn’t find the promised iBook app anywhere on the device. Okay, we’ll skip over that. I still have some paper on the night table. I clicked on the Games icon. No games. None? Oh c’mon. Even Microsoft provides you with some chewing gum for the mind. Wait! There’s movement. Now it wants me to establish a game identity for when I lock horns in mortal combat with fellow iPadders in the ether. I just want to play the software, not have to worry about Caleb who has a closet full of assault rifles and gets teed off when you thrash him in 20 consecutive games of Hearts. I try to move on but it’s having none of that. Finally, after numerous cycles of closing and opening, I find myself at the Apple Store. It has about a million games and the ones it’s throwing at me all involve lasering my way through hordes of fantasy creatures and require the manual dexterity of a centipede on speed. How about the New York Times crosswords or maybe just a decent Sudoku? That would probably require drilling down to the musty basement, reserved for the minute market segment who want to stimulate the grey matter. Which means, it’ll have to wait. I’ve exhausted mine just getting this thing minimally functional and will endeavor in the search another day.

Gear hounding

A participant from my Alaska trip emailed that she just completed her rain gear outfit via a purchase on the web. I understood. Immediately after returning from sea, she found the top at a store in Seward, but they didn’t have the bottom. She found it online. Yes, it is after the trip. And yes, “rain gear” is an understatement as the outfit is more like those on “Deadliest Catch.” The opportunities to need this in the wilds of Cincinnati, Ohio are virtually nil. But, I understood. As a matter of fact, most of the group hit outdoor gear stores in Seward, Anchorage and Seattle just subsequent to returning from sea. They were in search of gear employed by our guides or something close to it. In the case of the rain gear, several had been enamored by that worn by the crew of the water taxi that ferried us to our remote launch point. I understand the phenomenon and it isn’t unlike kids buying Michael Jordan athletic shoes. You go on a guided trip, acquire some respect for the leader and maybe even admiration and you implicitly assume they he/she knows best when it comes to gear. You may even think it engenders ability enhancement. There could even be an element of it being a treasured souvenir of the trip. I am not a dispassionate observer of this as I have succumbed. In this case, I believe I pre-empted most of the temptation by purchasing the required rubber boots ahead of time instead of using those available on loan by the trip outfitter. Experience has taught me to be leery of gear on loan. Most people probably associate snow and ice with Alaska. In summer up there, such as it is, they should factor in rain and muck. The residents swear by “Alaskan sneakers,” winter or summer, on land or on sea. The brand of choice is Xtratuf and you can readily find Alaskan photos of weddings, funerals and almost any other occasions where they are being worn. I found an outlet with discounted factory seconds and rationalized the purchase with the supposition that I had other uses for such footwear. My back yard does tend to retain water and I don’t like to mess up my “normal” shoes going out to the shed, etc. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. That explains the boots. As for the other stuff I bought on the way home, I’m still working on the rationale and will get back to you.

Attitude

One more day before the next big trip and yes, I am on the usual writing jag for displacement activity. Except, I leave in two days. The one day I’m referring to is the final workout in preparation for the trip. I will be glad to get it over with since my pre-trip conditioning is arduous and not something I could sustain in the long run. Why do it? It’s not like I’ll be leaping tall buildings with a single bound. It’s said that timing is everything, but it isn’t. You should never believe absolutes. Did I just say that? At any rate, attitude is a big thing. When I go into an expedition like this, I want to feel strong, fast and durable. That sets the tone with a very positive attitude. The fact that I may be wrong, fat and vulnerable, in spite of the program, is irrelevant. I feel good about this and it’s all about attitude. At the gym, Sherm noticed my increased activity and asked about it. I gave him the reason and he advised, “Watch out for the bears.” “Don’t warn me about the bears. Warn them about me.” It’s all about attitude.

Context

Context is an interesting animal that affects perceptions, as I observed before. On that occasion, I believe I related how the longest hole on our nearby par 3 was shorter than many of our approach shots, but intimidated golfers on my team nonetheless (yes, I did play many years ago). And, the biggest surf wave on our local river is dwarfed by what we freely play at much more challenging venues. And yet, paddlers are apprehensive because it’s the largest in this context. The latest example is a kayak trip in Alaska I’m prepping for. The group is beginning to spaz out. Why? It’s Alaska! So what? We’ll be miles from anything resembling civilization. We’ve done that before. I feel better about the Coast Guard in Seward than I did about whatever Canadian forces were in the remote corners of Georgian Bay we paddled last year. We saw no sign of them where we launched and certainly none at sea. There are bears! Bears have inhabited many places we’ve paddled. The Apostle Islands have the densest population in the country and we barely (excuse the pun) caught sight of them. What about the climate? It’s summer. The highs will be in the 50s. We’ve done colder. But, it’s Alaska. Okay, I get it. Context. I could be wrong. If no more blogs appear here, you’ll know I was.

Making a difference

I was representing our paddling group at a meeting a couple days ago. We were asked to go around the table and tell something about ourselves and the organizations we represented. When I finished my brief description, the meeting chair asked how many members we had. “2173.” He smiled. “You know to the minute?” My background is running businesses and other organizations, and any good manager diligently checks the “dashboard” to see where you’re succeeding or failing. In large part, the numbers tell the story. But, not the complete story. Cincypaddlers turns 10 next month. While the membership count speaks very highly of all those involved, the most important stat doesn’t show up on the dashboard: how many people we’ve made a difference for. To begin with, we’ve welcomed those with little or no skill in paddling and, through coaching and guidance, elevated those who cared to indulge to the upper echelon to the sport. More importantly, that transferred to their self-esteem and quality of life. Few things make life more enjoyable than a sense of achievement. It pays dividends in overall happiness and what’s more important than that? And, for those who didn’t care to amp their skills beyond the safe level, we’ve brought great life experiences into range. Through crafting trips suitable for casual paddlers, we’ve enabled them to paddle under and over waterfalls, see red rock canyons and icebergs calving, kayak beside manatees, dolphins, whales, eagles, alligators and other wonders of nature and otherwise experience life-changing events that 99% of their friends and family will never know. And, for some, we’ve simply helped them find a place. Last night, we paddled a river and one of the first-time participants was an awkward young man. He stood off to the side as we gathered and studied his feet. It would be a good bet to assume he hadn’t been president of his class or prom king. Yet, the group embraced him and, by the end of the trip, he was smiling broadly and meeting everyone’s eyes. He had found his place. This was one where social status, looks, or other such things didn’t matter. If you’re a decent person, there’s a place for you. Being accepted made a huge difference to him and others like him. And that’s the primary achievement that doesn’t show up on the dashboard. Cincypaddlers has made a positive difference in so many lives. Happy 10th birthday!

Happiness is....

As previously referred to, I belong to a small group who meet monthly for cocktails and dinner. The main event is that we take turns presenting papers for debate. Last might was Stu’s turn and he opened with the question, “What do Pat Raffel, Henry Dorfman and Dick Friedman (some of the long-term members) have in common with Aristotle, Socrates and Plato?” One wag yelled out, “They’re all dead.” Very funny. Stu’s topic was philosophies of happiness. I had never discussed this with him, but his observations of the aforementioned members led him to believe that we had unlocked the great mystery. It was an interesting paper, covering the range from the ancient philosophers to the modern day snake oil salesmen who have made it a lucrative industry. These dealt largely with safety, financial security, physical/mental health, socio-economic status and other factors you might expect. Listening to the various viewpoints made me realize that I did harbor certain philosophies on the subject. There were two that I found often escaped mention or emphasis. The first is being pro-active. I believe many people drift through life, passively encountering things that make them unhappy and hopefully awaiting those that will elate them. I think this is a recipe for failure. Happy people make things happen. The phrase, “Someday I will (get a degree, visit Europe, learn to speak Spanish or whatever the heart’s desire)” is a happiness killer. Happy people make it happen. Likewise, they take action on items that make them unhappy. Sometimes that’s difficult (relationships, jobs, etc.), but they confront the challenges and don’t allow the negatives to persist. Secondly, they are inner-directed. It isn’t anybody’s job to make you happy. It’s yours. If you rely or dwell upon what others do or think, you are bound for disappointment because you have no control over that. However, you do exert control over yourself. I doubt that I will ever be quoted in the same breath with Aristotle, Socrates and Plato. But, it works for me.

Laughter, the best medicine

I ran into a former client and we chatted a bit. Then, he invited me to a party at his house (estate would be more appropriate). The last time I attended one of these, it consisted largely of his neighbors trying to one-up each other with clothing, jewelry and amusing little wines they had just discovered. Since he was a client, I felt somewhat obligated to attend. Not now. I told him I had a kayaking trip coming up and the duration would overlap his party. “I’ve see some of your photos on the web. Exactly what do you do on those?” I told him we would be paddling a river. “I get that, but what do you do after the first day?” I filled him in on that. “So, you just paddle the same river over and over. That’s all there is to it?” “No, mostly we laugh.” Which is more than they’d be doing at the party.

Discovery

I think I’ve discovered a useful practice. I call it, “reading the directions.” Now that I think of it, I seem to recall my ex chittering about something to that effect. Or was that, “asking for directions?” No matter. Like many great discoveries, this one came almost by accident. As previously related, I bashed my way through a series of waterproof cameras. They were all the same brand with each successive one being an upgrade of the previous edition. So there was obviously nothing to be gained by wading through the voluminous manuals with each replacement. Most of the controls were familiar. And, if they weren’t…well, I lived without that function to-date so why would I need it now? One thing that did repeat throughout the series was a few design flaws. I wearied of them and switched brands with this change. At first glance, the layout and controls appeared similar. But, I quickly reached a point of departure and was faced with the choice of reading the manual or good old trial & error. As I was readying for a trip, time was of the essence. The shipment included a CD that contained the manual. Over 250 pages, which is to say, out of the question. The quick-start guide was less than 10% of that, or almost within the bounds of my attention span. With camera in one hand and pamphlet in the other, I gamely forged ahead I skimmed through the settings menu as it’s usually a source of frustration. Such guidance details how you can select from dozens of options but gives no clue as to why or at least the pros and cons of each. I know something of this but am quickly left in the dust. And, isn’t the whole point of the internal computer chip to think for me? As I flipped through these pages, one illustration caught my eye. I turned back to see a comparison of employing different formats. In a flash, it solved a problem for me. I had been going with the “standard” in this category, requiring considerable editing to make the stills fit into a video format. This showed how a simple setting would do that for me. Could there be something to this concept of actually knowing how the gadget works? As if to reinforce the point with me today, I had a similar revelation while testing some kayaks of the playboat genre. This consisted of throwing the boats about in acrobatic fashion, although my version of the maneuvers stretches the adjective. Let’s go with “somewhat acrobatic.” I had some problems with one trick in the first kayak. The second one was equally balky so I ratcheted up the effort until something let go. Unfortunately, that would be in my back, not the boat. I did wind up buying the one that was most forgiving of my technique, or lack thereof. Upon returning home with my spine approximating the form of a question mark, I strapped on some ice and plopped down in the lounger with a dusty book about playboating to research the error in my ways. Ah-hah. I was throwing my weight the wrong way at a critical point. If I had read this prior to my morning’s venture I wouldn’t be gritting my teeth now and popping ibuprofen like M&Ms. So, at last I have a resolution for the year 2012. Read the directions. Yeah, that’ll last.

Rising waters

I’m looking forward to a “mini-reunion” with high school classmates in a few weeks at a South Carolina beach town. For some reason, a number of them have settled there, making it a nexus of sorts for us. It seems that within the past decade or so, participants felt our reunions became more enjoyable and anticipated. So, the people in South Carolina added events there, kind of recreating the Jersey shore beach parties of our youth. Golf, fishing and Metamucil have displaced some of the frolicking in the surf. We were a good-sized class (1,100) and many weren’t close back then, to say the least. But, those who have attended reunions have become connected. Franco was a class clown. Still is. We exchange witticisms on occasion, via the internet. In a rare serious moment, he commented on the growing sense of unity among the class. While we always had a potent class spirit, he thinks maturity has dissolved any of the puerile differences. I have a slightly different theory. In rising waters, all the animals take to the high ground and get along because they have a common nemesis. In the case, the rising waters are health issues and even death. The Grim Reaper visited us upon graduation, with many of the males being whisked off to war zones. He dropped in sporadically with others meeting their fates in crime and substance abuse. But, in recent years, he has become a more frequent visitor. We are the survivors and celebrate that, but not without toasting those who have passed before us. We will have a great time reveling in stories of the past and partying now because we know we should make the most of what we are fortunate enough to have. We still have life and each other. I’m really looking forward to it.

An indicator

I asked a photographer about a waterproof camera I was contemplating for a purchase. “Didn’t you just buy one?” “That was a couple years ago. It kind of crapped out.” “Already? How?” “I was kayaking last week.” “Those things are waterproof and shockproof.” “Well, there was a lot of water and even more shock.” “This isn’t the first time I heard that from you.” He’s right. I bought the first generation of this model about eight years ago. I went over a waterfalls, getting separated from my kayak in the process, and the camera developed malfunctions. Its successor took a number of hits before it succumbed. I had the third one along when I was the crash dummy in rescue drills among rock breakers in a surf zone. The most recent was a whitewater casualty. “You know, when you trash four cameras in eight years, you might want to re-examine your life plan.” Yes, that would be an indicator of sorts.

Cave of the good stuff

Somewhere there is a cave with the coolest stuff on earth. Only a select few seem to know how to access it. I met some women for lunch a few weeks ago. Their conversation was buzzing away but came to an abrupt halt when another woman walked by. They appeared to be staring at the floor. “Did you see her shoes?” “I didn’t know they even came in that color.” “We should ask her where she got them.” That may have been the only aspect of their chatter I actually related to. For some reason, I thought of Rob. He was part of the big group of single partiers I ran with years ago. The events were usually comprised of renting a hall, hiring a band, dancing and drinking. About half came stag with the remainder showing up as couples. The latter were mostly people in the group who were paired up at the time. Once in a while, we’d go all out and organize an elegant affair at a posh location for a black tie event. For the usual activities, Rob showed up stag and circulated the room. For the special events, he’d bring a drop-dead gorgeous knockout no one had ever met before. Where did he find them? Was there some island where they were bred? You never saw women like these on the street or walking the aisles at Kroger. Or, anywhere else. Maybe on the silver screen, but that’s about it. Yesterday, I paddled my kayak on a local lake. I was idling in a cove, lost in contemplation, when I greeting snapped me out of my reverie. A stranger introduced himself and struck up a conversation. I caught the first part about his being new to the area, but that’s about it. My focus was on his kayak. I was familiar with the model but had never seen a color combination like it. I hadn’t even seen any of those colors available. It was a stunner. “Where did you get that boat?” “Back in Wisconsin where I’m from. I walked into a dealer to browse boats and he showed me this one. He had special ordered it for a customer but the deal fell through. It looked nice, so I bought it.” It looked nice. That’s like saying Hawaii is pleasant. When I got home, I pulled up the manufacturer’s web site and wasn’t surprised that the colors weren’t shown as either standard or optional. Not the first time. I’ve looked at a lot of kayak sites and ordered the best I could find, only to later trip over someone who had the same boat in beautiful colors or combinations that never made it to the brochure. I can live with a select few getting the rare shoes or women. But, I demand to know where they keep these kayaks.

A reunion of a reunion

yesterday was about as bad a day as they get. And, I still had a party to go to. I texted the person who had asked me to go with her. She said she understood if I wanted to skip it and that was fine. But given the circumstances, it might provide a good distraction. She had a point and, as it turned out, it was, We showed up, were introduced around the room and I made my way to the beverage table. Alcohol is never a solution to anything but I did feel a need to take the edge off with one stiff one. I poured that and found a seat a little away from the action. Katie, the hostess, plopped down in the chair across from mine and smiled. Maybe she thought I needed some help warming up to socialize. But, it wasn’t that. “You don’t remember me, do you?” Uh-oh. I’ve heard that opening a few times (not always directed at me) and it seldom led to anything good. I studied her and wasn’t getting the picture. “Give me a hint.” During my heavy party days, about fifteen years ago, I ran with a big group of like-minded singles. She was part of that. She connected the dots by telling me who her best friend was, someone I did associate with to some extent. “Okay, now I do remember. The way you said that before, I thought you were saying we dated. But, we never went out or anything.” “Oh I wouldn’t rule out the anything. “ That could’ve been a red flag except her smile broadened. “Think high school reunion.” Bingo. Now it was my turn to smile. At the time of her clue, I was dating a woman in the group named Brigit, a willowy Sharon Stone type. I can’t think of a thing we had it common but, during that phase of my life, that was irrelevant. Sharon Stone type was more than enough. And, I was pretty sure we understood the ground rules. So, I was a little surprised when she asked me to her high school reunion. That seemed to carry too much gravity for a relationship based upon the Victoria’s Secret catalog. But, I finally agreed to go. We sat at a table with her old friends, who largely seemed to be beautiful and vacuous. Growing weary of hearing names of hair dressers shared, I wandered about the room. A face caught my eye. It was one of those experiences where you see someone you think you know, but you can’t place it because they’re out of context. Then it dawned on me. Katie. Since I was bored, the thought occurred to me to do something creative. It is not unusual for that mode to veer the bus off the road and into the ditch. But that seldom deters me. Katie was conversing with a guy who appeared to be her escort, but there was an empty chair next to her. I went over, sat in it and put my arm around her. “Sorry, I must’ve misunderstood. I stopped by your house and you weren’t there. I thought then that maybe you said you wanted to meet here. Good thing that occurred to me. All’s well that ends well.” She glanced in horror at my arm and then back at me with a confused look that slowly came into focus. “Henry? What are you doing here?” “Very funny, you know.” “No, I don’t. What are you doing here?” I feigned shock. “Why, you asked me to your reunion. So here I am.” “I did? No, wait. I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t.” “Then what am I doing here?” Feeling the weight of her date’s inquiring stare, she swung around to look at him. Finding now words, she turned back to me. “I have no idea what you’re doing here!” “Well okay, then. I’ll just leave.” I stood, noting all eyes at Katie’s table fixed on her, and resumed wandering about the room. It didn’t take long before she hunted me down and demanded an explanation. I gave it to her, barely able to get it out because of laughter. I thought it was hilarious. Katie made it clear that that was the assessment of just half of us. Until now. I am glad to find out that in retrospect, she finds it humorous.

A Great Day

It’s a great day. Didn’t start out that way. Last night was my monthly dinner with the group that debates the pressing issues of the day. And drinks. The more of the latter, the more the former. At the head of the to-do list this morning was repairing a portable camping shelter that has been damaged in a severe storm. The frame of it is a web of metal bars that accordion open and closed, stretching a fabric canopy. Some of the bars had been twisted by the strong winds. The replacement parts had arrived and it was time to face the music. I knew it wouldn’t be a good time, especially in my impaired condition. The fasteners were small and balky, usually located in inaccessible places. The components were under tension and refused to stay aligned long enough to sneak a bolt through. An octopus wouldn’t have enough appendages to pull this off. After a lot of sweat and swearing, the deed was done. I came inside and plopped down in front of ye old computer to check for messages. One jumped out at me. I haven’t seen Linda for about 30 years. The first time I laid eyes on her, she was divorced, pregnant and struggling to make ends meet with a high school diploma. If it was present day, you might think she’d be a prime recruit to occupy this or that, protesting the outcomes she created for herself. That would be because you didn’t know Linda. I met her the first day of class I taught at a weekend college. She came up, introduced herself and stated her purpose. She saw people making good money and wanted to be one of them. She didn’t begrudge them their education, jobs or wealth. She just wanted that for herself and would do what it took to get there. I responded I had no doubt that she would make it. Those weren’t empty words. She had the earmarks of a winner. Winners applaud the successful, whether they desire to be among them or not. Her attitude was positive. As the course unfolded, we got to know each other and my respect for her rose. She was candid, honest, smart and industrious. Unlike many students, she didn’t ask for concessions or make-up assignments. I never granted them anyway. I was preparing them for the real world which seldom gives you a mulligan. She did request one accommodation. She gave birth the weekend of the final. I was happy to take it to the hospital and let her complete it there. She had all As going into it and didn’t let down in the end. This morning, she tripped across my presence on the internet and had to contact me to express her gratitude for all I’d taught her. She had gone on to get a PhD, was teaching college and had a successful business on the side with her son (the one who was born the day before the final exam). I always get a warm sense of pride when one of my students contacts me in this manner. But, I’m a realist. Linda would’ve succeeded if she had a doorstop for a teacher. Nonetheless, it’s a great day.

Happy to be of help

I received two calls yesterday and enjoyed them both. The topic was the same, but coming from two decidedly different viewpoints. The first was an invitation from some former employees to an open house. They had opened a company, hit the ground running and I am very excited for them. Great people. The second call was from an executive of the company they had left and were competing with. He wasn’t real excited for them. Why was he calling me? I ran an entity that employed these fine people and had negotiated the acquisition of it by this larger organization. An acquisition was the best course for this entity and its stakeholders for a myriad of reasons. The biggest issue was finding the right buyer. None of the most logical candidates were especially well-run and weren’t people you’d want to hang out with. We boiled it down to one finalist, who made all the right noises and appeared to be the best fit. I harbored no illusions about them. As soon as the letter-of-intent was signed, the true colors began to show. The first thing that emerged was arrogance, particularly on the part of the CEO, about how they were larger than us and would have to show us how to manage something. We were making a nice margin and they were squeaking by, so the attitude was inane. I had already decided this would be my exit point, so I didn’t have worry about future conflicts on management philosophy. But, that led to their first significant error. The agreement was that I would stay until the end of the year. The minute the final papers were signed, I was abruptly escorted to the door. They were still going to pay me through year-end, so that wasn’t the issue. I understood their thinking. They had interviewed key employees and detected confidence in and loyalty to me. They considered it an impedance and wanted a clean break. Fine, but that isn’t a smart way to do it. In every employee’s mind was the question, if that’s how they treat him, how will they treat me? They didn’t have to wait long to find out that their concerns were justified. The call from the executive began all cordial and he said he was wondering how I was doing. Yeah, that’s why you’re calling. I told him I was doing great and waited for the other shoe to drop. He finally got around to it. Trying to sound casual, he asked if I knew about the new company. I said I had received an invitation to the open house. He waited for me to elaborate, but I didn’t. So, he asked when I first found out. I inquired why he wanted to know. He said he was just curious. I already knew why he wanted to know and it was more than curiosity. They would want to know if they had grounds for a lawsuit against the former employees and maybe even me. If anyone had violated non-compete agreements, they might. I told him I had reservations about the intent of his questions and didn’t think my affairs were any of his business. That was met with a protracted silence. I did know about the formation of the company in advance because the employees had come to me. We agreed that the right thing was to not engage in anything that breached our contracts or that was unethical. It’s not like they needed my help, anyway. These are people who consistently generate good outcomes. That’s why I employed them. He finally found his voice. “So, you’re saying there’s nothing you can do for me.” “I can give you a ride to the open house.” He hung up.

Solace

Today, we did a lake paddle and I took “El Zorro,” a kayak I acquired last year. The paddlers on this trip have seen more than their share of kayaks. But several felt compelled to speak up and compliment this craft in glowing terms. They were unaware they provided some solace. One of my guidelines in negotiation as a businessman was to always be willing to walk away from a deal. And yet, when I inquired about this boat through an ad and received a photo from the owner, I knew I was doomed. I had to have it. Period. I fought valiantly and held out on some points, generating untold anxiety that I had killed the deal. But, in the end, I gave up more than I would have in other circumstances. I haven’t regretted it a bit, but there has always been that nagging irritation that I compromised my principles. Until today. I feel vindicated.

Too boring

A few years ago, a friend bought a new kayak. As we took a break near a big rapids, he offered me the opportunity to try it out. I carried it to the top and came down the crashing waves. It shrugged them off. I turned around and paddled into the teeth of the swirling waters, carving back and forth across the grain. Ho-hum. I have got to get me one of these! I saw it as a solution for those runs that I might feel a bit less than confident about. A couple years later, the opportunity presented itself in the form of a lightly used specimen I heard about through a fellow paddler. I jumped on it. The first test was last year as we headed south in quest of whitewater. I threw myself into everything the river could muster and the kayak barely took notice. So, it came as some surprise to at least one of my fellow paddlers when he saw me list it on the web for sale today. “WTF?” he emailed. A little hard to answer. The boat was practically foolproof, but therein lies the rub. I found it boring. I felt like I was riding a bike with training wheels. Not only did it cover for user error, it balked at doing some things an imprudent user might want to try. I guess I just prefer to take my medicine and live a little bit on the edge. This had been rolling around in my mind for months. But, the deal was sealed a few weeks ago when I bought a kayak that eagerly aids and abets pushing the envelope. I had a chance to really test it last weekend and came away with a smile etched in my face the lasted hours beyond the run. I suppose I could’ve kept the “safe” kayak as a backup boat, as I originally intended. But that seemed like a waste. And, the die was cast when I posted it on the web at a premium price (somewhat subconsciously hoping that would be a deterrent) and it took all of about three minutes to sell. It does pay to buy good stuff.

I need a costume

I need a superhero costume. Yesterday, I kayaked at an event that drew paddlers from all of the state and somewhat beyond. As I met them, under my actual name, I encountered a frequent question, due to my high level of activity in the sport: “You’re Captain Hank?” I wouldn’t mind that except the affirmative answer is sometimes followed up with “I thought you’d be younger.” I’ve also had “bigger” and a few other adjectives. Whatever they imagined, it always seems to be a slight disappointment in reality. Think of how I feel. I need a superhero costume. This morning, I went to a friend’s house to help her out with something. She left the door open because she was still upstairs tweaking her appearance. “While you’re waiting, would you go down the basement and scoop the cat litter?” Really. Do you recall ever hearing of anyone asking Batman to scoop cat crap? “But I’m Captain Hank,” I responded plaintively. “That’s nice. Then it shouldn’t be any problem for you.” I definitely need a superhero costume.

Lessons Learned

We’re going kayaking tomorrow on a whitewater creek that doesn’t run that often. To some, it’s rare opportunity to paddle one of the prettiest places in Ohio. To me, it’s a trip down memory lane. It was my first whitewater run, about three decades ago. I had taken a canoe course that year, my first real experience in the sport. Busy with raising a family, I didn’t get in much practice. For some reason, I let myself get talked into this November run as a way for cutting my teeth. In spite of the group’s assurances, I was ill-prepared. First of all, I had only a tandem canoe and couldn’t find the odd person to team up with. I’d be trying to horse this 17’ monster through the fast and twisting water by myself. They told me it would be a learning experience. So is touching a hot stove. They did advise me to have floatation because a swamped canoe is all but impossible to maneuver ashore. That fell short of a full explanation. A canoe with any water in it becomes unstable and difficult to maneuver. They should’ve advised me to displace all water that could enter. All I did was tie in two innertubes, enough to keep it afloat but far from enough to keep it from taking on liquids. Finally, most of them had neoprene wetsuits. I wasn’t serious enough about this to make that kind of investment. During the course I took, we were advised that wool is a good insulator, even when wet. I had gone to an Army-Navy store and found a German combat uniform. And so it began. The previous evening had blanketed the area with rain and freezing temperatures. The morning sun shone through ice-coated limbs, creating a winter wonderland. That and their pronouncements for and easy an fun run buoyed my spirits. Easy my foot. I pinballed my behemoth from rock to rock while they knifed through in their sleeker craft. I was about exhausted by the time we reached the grand finale, a long rapid that dropped over three ledges. I pondered pulling out ahead of it but they protested, saying it was half the reason to come. Just follow them and I’d be just fine. Yeah, and the check’s in the mail. It was a great theory. In practice, not so much. I hung on the stern of the leader like a tick on a hound dog. I was right behind him on the first drop and it felt okay, except the high waves saw fit to jump into my canoe, making it a bit sluggish to respond. Nonetheless, I managed to get right behind him for the second drop. Again, I split the uprights and held the correct line. Except, I had taken on much more water. He cut sharply left to find the right route down the last drop. Laden down with a few hundred pounds of water, my bow would only glance in that direction. I plunged into perilous waters which climbed the sides of my canoe, just about filling it. It kind of gave a half-hearted shrug and went into a death roll, dumping me into the rapids. The shock of the cold water came right through the wool. So much for insulation. But, I’d be on shore pretty quickly. Not so fast. The rapid swept me right by the river banks and spewed me out into the middle of a lagoon, far from land. By the time I dragged my sodden outerwear to land, I was a shivering mess. A good time was had by all. Fortunately, I’ve paddled the stream several times since. Much better prepared, thank you very much. And, I am looking forward to another rematch tomorrow to apply the lessons learned.

Perspective

We were paddling down a river last night and approached a long rapid on it. As we had some beginners in the group, Dan and I decided to go down first, in the event a rescue was required.

We got into a conversation as we entered the headwaters and casually drifted down, circling each other without too much regard for waves, which we were familiar with. Upon reaching the bottom, I signaled the others to come ahead. I noticed one of the beginners’ face was frozen with intensity and the veins stood out on his neck. I empathized, recalling a time when I would tense up on this part of the run.

I commented on perspective to Dan, and how your experience level affects that. Dan added that there was more to it than that. Sometimes he paddles killer waters but, in photos he sees later, they look more benign. Something about being in the jaws of the beast.

I hear ya. On a recent trip, I was the first to launch and paddle out onto the ocean. High waves caused me to immediately question my judgment. It didn’t help that two of the biggest dorsal fins I had ever seen were cruising around me. Getting a little bit of the cotton mouth.

I felt a lot better when some of my companions joined me. In the heaving seas, we went in and out of view of each other. I thought this would make for some great pictures and tried to slip the camera out of my pocket very quickly. I ran off a half dozen fast one-handed shots, trying to effect some bracing with the other hand. Under these conditions, I like two hands on the paddle to brace upright.

It was a bit of a risk, but I figured it would be worth it for a few shots the engendered the feeling of the high seas. Guess again. When I later viewed them, they portrayed rolling swells, at best. Only the tilted angle of some gave any hint something was going on out there.

I guess you had to be there.

US Bunk

I have bestowed recognition upon several companies that have blazed trails into new realms of incompetence. But today, I am seriously considering the first lifetime achievement award. Granted, my judgment is tinged by the anxiety of preparing tax returns.

As my lifestyle has simplified, this should be a walk in the park with the aid of TurboTax, although it is edging its way into my sights. But, that’s another story. This one pertains to an immense financial institution, which should have the resources to have its act together.

Prior to the taxable year in question, I completed consolidating all of my investing under one financial planner. While this violates the “eggs in one basket” axiom, the confidence has been earned over the long term and it does make things easier. Or, it should.

The actual securities are held by this large bank corporation and therein lies the rub. I wasn’t intimidated by receipt of a thick year-end report of transactions to report in detail, because I thought it would be a matter of just importing data from the bank to the tax software. The bank’s parent company was listed in the software menu, but I couldn’t make the connection. I called the bank, which is your typical exercise in navigating your way through the maze of phone menus to find yourself on interminable hold. When they finally decided I wouldn’t give up, a human came on the line and I explained my problem. He said that he couldn’t help me because the investment side was a different entity.

Different entity? You’re the same company. According to him, they are part of the same corporation, but it might as well be different planets for all the connectivity that exists. Well, back to the report.

I locate a phone number for use in case I have questions about the report and call it. It’s answered by a machine, announcing that I have reached the private banking investment tax office and to leave a number for them to return my call. It is absurd that a private banking department is answered by a recording since that’s supposed to be the epitome of service. But, wait.

They don’t return calls. How’s that for first-class service? Service? After a couple days pass, I call customer service where I have to run the menu gauntlet just to wind up in hold hell. In only the time it takes to get a root canal, a customer service rep comes on the line. First, she tries to find someone who can tell me how to import the information. No one thinks it’s possible, much less knows how it might be done. Surely, I’m not the first to ask, but maybe there’s a reason they don’t appear on the TurboTax menu. Why make it convenient for your private banking customers? Maybe they think they all have accountants who they’re happy to pay high fees for extensive keystroking.

Failing that, the valiant lass took a run at the same help line I had tried and achieved the identical result. She informed me that she had exhausted her arsenal of help tools.

Here’s a suggestion. Call that department or even someone in that office, or someone in that building, and tell them to answer the phone or at least return my call. Better yet, give me a number I can call. She had no such information. Let me get this straight. You work for the same company, in customer service, mind you, and you have no access to a phone number or directory that would enable you to contact a department in that same company. Correct. Wow. When they say private banking, they’re not kidding.

I don’t take lifetime achievement awards lightly. But, when you market a premium, high level service and don’t even answer the phone, I believe you merit consideration.

Wouldn't it be nice?

As I was making the long drive home from a trip with our paddling club, a song crept into my head and kept looping; “Wouldn’t it be nice?” (The Beach Boys). In case it’s not in your mental juke box, it’s adolescents rhapsodizing about being older so they could live together forever. It was a popular song when I was in high school. I suppose we all envisioned that marriage meant continuous sex. How’d that work out?

Why was the tune stuck in my mind, now? Not that I had given up the dream of non-stop trysts (assuming there would be Metamucil breaks). It took about 50 miles to trace it to its source.

After a few days of glee in the sun and sand, we had a group dinner to celebrate the fun. Someone observed that they looked forward to the day when more of us were retired and could paddle together more frequently. That linked back to an earlier discussion on another trip where we mused about reserving a club wing in a retirement home so we would be together ad infinitum.

I don’t know that I entirely buy into that but it’s always great to look forward to your future since that’s the only choice we have on the time line. Wouldn’t it be nice?

Kids

Someone had a business proposition for me and wanted to meet next week. I told him I was leading our annual spring kayak trip and it would have to wait until after that. He asked me to describe it, which I did.

He snorted. “Sounds like a bunch of adults acting like college kids.”

Let’s see, we go south (usually Florida) after a dreary season, accelerating the approach of summer activity. We play in the warmth of the sun during the day and party at night. We do it as a large group because the trip is extremely popular and always sells out. It’s all about fun and leaving troubles behind.

He’s right. We are acting like a bunch of kids. And that’s not a bad thing.

...and the Lord taketh away

My elation over the previous piece of mail was short-lived. The next envelope was from those likeable people who gouge you on every paycheck and then ask for the remainder of what you have on April 15th.

I did open a letter from them three months ago. It said that I hadn’t reported some income on my 2010 return and they wanted an explanation or, preferably, a pile of cash. Checking their logic, I found them to be about 1% correct. There was a small item omitted. The rest they cited was a gross figure on security sales. You’re supposed to pay gains tax on the net, which was reported, not the gross. Since they write the rules and design the reporting forms, you might expect they’d know the difference.

I responded per their instructions, pointing out their error and acknowledging the small omission on my part. Since it was swallowed by my loss carryover and I didn’t owe any more, I asked what they wanted to do about it and said I’d appreciate a response before the 2011 return was due. I didn’t want to have to go back and do four revised returns (including state).

I didn’t hear anything until two weeks ago. That still gave me time to incorporate changes before filing a current return. Or, would’ve. It was simply an acknowledgement that they had received my response and would deliberate upon it. They would communicate their decision within 45 days. Wonderful. I would’ve thought three months would’ve been sufficient to noodle out a small detail.

Today’s mail brought the aforementioned good news (previous blog) and an envelope from my favorite government agency. Great! They were able to make a decision before the filing date.

That would’ve been too much to hope for. This was a notice that they never received a response from me to their communication (you mean, you acknowledged receiving it without doing so?). Therefore, they were enclosing a bill for $96,000. WTF?

Put it on my VISA card.

Open your mail

Since I made a decent living using direct mail, it may seem paradoxical that I am averse to some of the tactics. That would include the pseudo-check that shows through the envelope window and its cousin, the brown craft envelope that arrives shortly after the income tax deadline. Or, the “Important information about your mortgage loan #........” that appears to be an official communication from your bank but is a promotion from another lender. Why would I deal with an entity whose overture for the relationship is deceit? Why would anyone?

So, I went through a period where I simply chucked anything with a whiff of impropriety without opening it. The first indication of the flaw in this involved rebate checks. I suspected they intentionally made them look like junk mail so they wouldn’t get cashed. Then, electronic banking created a sea change. I run some events for a club and began to get complaints that I had not registered some applicants. I responded that I hadn’t received payment, only to then find out that the sender had their banks issue their checks, which had arrived looking like some kind of promotion.

So now I open everything. It’s a pain wading through all the crap, but occasionally pays off. Today was such a day.

The envelope truly looked like junk mail. The return address was some “distribution fund” which reeks of a come-on if I ever heard one. However, following my policy, I opened it.

Surprise, surprise. It was a real check. It seems some mutual fund I used to hold got nailed for some infraction and was compelled to pay out a penalty to investors. Surprise, again. The system works. Sometimes.

It seemed to be karma because the amount was almost exactly what I had just paid for a new kayak. However, karma cuts both ways and I can be a wary character. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

So where’s the potential hook? Maybe it’s a bogus check with the intent being to learn my bank account number. I did a web search on the distribution fund and the sanctions against the mutual fund and it all came up golden.

My policy remains in force.

Your most formidable opponent

Relishing a victory today. Enjoy them when you can get them.

I guess most think of this in the context of sports, business or war, when you’re overcoming the opposition that is working to thwart you. This was not the case today. Not every significant victory entails an outside opponent.

I had bought a new kayak and was anxious to put it through its paces. I planned to do that on the river this weekend, but the water rose and flattened it out. The fallback position was a whitewater playpark where you surf and play a few stationary waves. I wasn’t going to learn a lot about the boat under those limited circumstances, but it was better than nothing.

We arrived under cold, drizzly conditions. The water was frigid and high. The waves were very powerful at this level and not configured to facilitate surf and play. More like they were perfect for punishing any paddler who had the effrontery to take them on.

I took in the scene and knew it boded getting flipped into the glacial and turbulent water, necessitating rolling up. The tapes began to play in my head. You haven’t rolled in a while. This is an unfamiliar boat. The cold water will make you rush.

Before addressing that, I should explain that rolling a kayak is largely psychological. The physical part is easy. Being upside down in an oxygen-free environment with your face rushing toward rocks compels you to make mental errors.

You begin your learning process with the pool roll, although that may take place in a lake or other nonthreatening environment. You start in a set-up position, flip over and then roll back up. This is largely to erase the tape in your head that tells you that you can’t roll. Since you seldom capsize in the set-up position in real world conditions, it has limited value.

So, you progress to the same exercise without setting up before you flip. This still lacks the element of surprise, as well as the adverse conditions. But, repetition creates confidence. And, the more time that lapses since you last roll, the less confidence you have and your chances of success diminish accordingly.

From there, you have to master the combat roll (actual paddling conditions and without warning). Physically, it’s the same thing you’ve been doing. Mentally, it’s a whole different ballgame. Your doubts and fears rise up, sometimes causing you to rush or rely more on muscle than technique; recipes for failure.

All the factors were running through my head: time elapsed since last roll, adverse conditions, strange boat, etc., leading me to the conclusion that I’d be swimming in the gelid current. Fortunately, I recognized the process, pushed the reset button to eliminate all the negative thoughts and enjoyed a good day of combats rolls.

The most formidable opponent you can have is yourself because you know your hot buttons better than anyone else. So, a victory over yourself is worth savoring.

Designing Dimmin'

Okay, so the title is a stretch. Be that as it may, this is a tale of my faltering ventures into t-shirt design.

For the most part, they are limited to the annual spring trip our paddling club goes on. It’s always a great adventure and has become a big deal. Part of the tradition is that I come up with a souvenir shirt, which is much in demand.

Aside from the facts that I have no training and can barely open a design program, it’s no problem. In the beginning, I took orders and forwarded my cobbled together design to the t-shirt screener. He’d make some sense out of it, do the graphics and I’d distribute it to the participants. When those numbered relatively few, it wasn’t much of a problem.

However, as our legions grew, so did the issues. First, distribution was a problem. Most wanted the shirts ahead of time. That wasn’t a problem when there was a relatively limited number of people I saw with some frequency. But, it got to be a challenge as the scope expanded.

Secondly, the larger the group, the more issues people you are likely to have. This one wanted a different color. That one wanted a fitted style. And the other one preferred a sweatshirt. This is in addition to all the other trip issues. It’s a wonder I have any hair.

It had been previously suggested to me several times that I use one of those services that creates, sells and ships shirts for you. I resisted, because my method resulted in a cheaper price to the participants. But, their demands made this method less feasible.

So, I switched to a popular producer who would handle the whole ball of wax. I had barely set up the account when they began to inundate me with spam. No amount of opting out dissuaded them. Miffed, I opened an account with their primary competitor and set out to design the shirt.

Their program seemed fairly intuitive and I thought I was home free until I selected a colored shirt. There, I received a warning that the illustration I incorporated had a background and it would show up as a white rectangle. Great, how do I deal with that? They told me to use my design program or, preferably a more advanced one, to eliminate the background.

I messed around with that to no avail. I used the help feature of the program and searched the web for advice. No help. Either I couldn’t find the menus they referred to or they simply told you what to do without designating how.

I went back to the shirt producer and asked them to just remove the background. They said there was no way they could do that. No way? They must have to do some image manipulation to get from what they’re given to creating a screen. And, it is their profession. No way? They assured me, no way. At that stage of the game, my options were very limited, so I just went ahead with it, advising my group of the issues if they selected a dark color garment.

This year, I started well enough ahead of time. Through extensive trial & error, I figured out how to drop out the background of the art. Then, I went back to the first vendor who had ticked me off with the spam. That seemed like a lesser offense than refusing to help with the background.

I signed on and inserted the illustration (fully de-backgrounded) and copy. An option panel came up. Did I want any backgrounds deleted from artwork? Just like that. One click and they’d take care of it. Aaaaaugh!

The test

I set a goal for this year and achieved it last week. That was to sell off my oddball kayaks, as well as those that were essentially duplicates in function. The former was much more of a challenge.

I have an affinity for some oddball boats that represent innovation, extreme performance or other intended positive attribute. I go into the purchases knowing they will be difficult to sell and pay for them accordingly. I anticipate that I’ll have to sell low when the time comes, so I buy low up front. Even so, a sale is an exercise in target marketing.

However, my most recent transaction, which liquidated my last eccentric specimen, added a new wrinkle. If anything, I deemed it one of the more “normal” of the orphans I adopt. But, three times it was “sold” and three times, the buyer failed to come up with the promised cash and simply disappeared. This kayak appeared to attract an especially quirky niche.

The fourth time is the charm, and, last week, I finally wrapped by fingers around the long green. Phew!

With the boat account flush with cash from selling off the duplicates and oddballs, I set out to fill in the gaps in the fleet. The goal now is to accomplish that without taking a step backwards by inadvertently acquiring the Edsel of kayaks. The eventual secondary market is the acid test.

I made the first purchase and took it on its native voyage yesterday with a group of paddling friends. It immediately drew compliments, but that’s not unusual as it is a common courtesy. But, two of the admiring remarks were followed by, “Let me know when you want to sell it.”

That’s the test.

Poster of the day

Rumors are started by haters, spread by fools and believed by idiots.

Call me Ishmael

Call me Ishmael. Heavy rain is forecast for tonight and anyone with any sense will be tucked away in their warm and dry living room. That description excludes me. I’ll be outside testing a sailing smock.

Faithful readers will recall multiple blogs where I vowed to go into a trip using only gear I now own. They might also remember that my batting average on that approximates that of a shortstop in double-A baseball. Undaunted, I renewed the vow for an expedition coming up this summer in Alaska.

I checked the average weather during that time of year and felt pretty good about my supply of outdoor clothing and such. I ran through the suggested packing list and once again came out smelling like roses. I was all set. That is, before the rat of doubt began gnawing away.

I received advice from various quarters. The material varied in content but a consistent theme emerged. It could rain like hell and get chilly. Make sure you stay warm and dry or you’ll curse you mother for the day your were born. Or, maybe just get hypothermic.

I repaired to the gear room, which is a bit less stocked than some outfitters. As noted in my previous preparation, I have the requisite rain parka. In fact, I have a lot more than one. The reason?

The standing joke among outdoors people is that there is no such thing as waterproof. The concept exists in the marketing jargon of manufacturers, but nature knows nothing of it. Nature will find a way to get water up, down or through your pathetic attempt to thwart her. Hence, with every failure, I acquired a new parka that made claims of better efficacy.

I couldn’t afford another failure. This was Alaska. Yeah, they have the same water, air, etc., but it’s Alaska. I needed something beyond the pale, vows be damned. The purveyors of mere outdoor togs had failed me and I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

So, I asked myself, who has the utmost need for protection from flying gouts of water and how do they cope with it? The first image that springs to mind is the television shows of grizzled seamen hauling crabs, lobsters and other unfortunate crustaceans aboard a pitching ship with decks awash in the northern climes. I dialed up a few of these and noted the brands of their outwear.

It’s a quick trip to the store via the web. The gear certainly appeared stout, but also equally user-unfriendly. The material seemed unyielding and was almost devoid of pockets. On a shipping vessel, you could always repair below to retrieve that odd implement you needed on the spur of the moment. I needed it at hand.

Who else? Offshore sailors. That’s the ticket! There was no shortage of sites purveying sailing attire.

The gear was spectacular. However, the underlying principle quickly became apparent. If you could afford a stately ketch to circumvent the globe, you were a prime prospect to overpay for the duds.

But, I surmised the corollary. If you’re that concerned about appearances, you wouldn’t be caught dead in last year’s fashion. It didn’t take long to surface the outlets for the démodé rags, including a couple that were really hungry. There I found a sailing jacket that made every effort to fend off the most determined of droplets and, at a good price.

So, if you peep out your window tonight into the raging gales and see someone cutting a figure that appears to be about 700 miles off course, that’s me.

In defense of the "vulture"

In a spirited web forum discussion, one of the participants threw out the term “vulture capitalists,” accusing them of costing the country jobs, ruining the economy, etc. I never cease to be amazed how willing people are to parrot almost anything they get from a bumper sticker, web blather or skewed media, and pass it along, without understanding it, as the gospel.

Vulture capitalist is not a new term. It’s been applied to venture capitalists for decades by the knowledgeable, half in rancor and half in grudging respect for the role. Only recently have the politicians grasped onto it and recognized its value as an inflammatory and confusing tool to rile and mislead the susceptible segment of the population.

The first thing you have to understand is that most economic growth depends upon innovation and entrepreneurship, not moribund corporate giants. Steve Jobs, Phil Knight, Jeff Bezos and their kin have created far more employment in our era than Sears, Howard Johnson and Kodak. What drives the creation of the essential entrepreneurial ventures?

You have an idea for a more efficient alternative to the internal combustion engine. You also enjoy getting laughs. You have a much better chance of getting them by requesting a loan from your bank than you do at open mike night at the comedy club. The bank is barely willing to give you a home loan with them holding the deed and you providing solid proof of income. They are not in the high risk business and vociferously shun start-up lending.

What drives the growth is venture capital. The suppliers are willing to sustain the higher risk and losses (relatively few start-ups succeed to any substantial degree) in return to requiring a piece of the action and a short horizon to cover their shortfalls. If you don’t think they’re sticking their necks way out, I know a half dozen different people looking for start-up capital. They would be delighted to hear that you’re willing to put your money at risk, requesting less in return than the “vultures.” Anyone? Anyone?

So you really can’t put the spurs to your economy without the innovators and someone to finance the risk. And, outside of the venture capitalists, few are willing to do that. They are driving our entrepreneurial innovation, not hurting the economy.

Let’s address employment. The criticism is that, when the capitalist cashes in at the pre-disclosed desired horizon, jobs are lost. Huh?

Going back to our example, you got your money from a venture capitalist and started up with 50 employees. That’s 50 jobs that didn’t exist before. Since you and the venture capitalist share the goal of high growth, within a few years, you’re employing 300. Again, jobs that didn’t exist before.

This is where the capitalist cashes out, which was the disclosed intent from go. In one scenario, Fred buys it. He didn’t spend millions to shut it down, so no jobs are lost.

In another scenario, ABC Corporation buys it and eliminates duplicate jobs because it makes no sense to pay people to do the same thing. Let’s assume that’s 5% of the positions. You still have 285 jobs that you didn’t have previously and that’s just at this juncture. ABC didn’t buy it to stand pat. They have to grow it to recover their investment. So, the intent is to grow the business beyond the employment of 300.

I’ve oversimplified here to create understanding. But, if you still believe the venture capitalists are a pox on society, contact me and I’ll put you in touch with those start-ups who are looking for funding. You can put up your money and show us a better way.