Touching lives

The first time I retired (I’m not very good at it), I got antsy to do something. Oh, I was doing stuff. Mostly hanging out around Charleston, SC, paddling the black water swamps. That had been something on my list. But, it gave me thinking time and I quickly came to know I wouldn’t be satisfied unless I also did something that mattered. When I got home, I made a list of all the things I had enjoyed doing, whether it was for profit or pay, or just volunteering. Most of the best things I had done for nothing. That helped me plot a rough course. Over the recent holidays, I caught up with some people I haven’t seen in a while. Someone asked me about my paddling activities. There was a follow-up question about the portion that entails managing a club and organizing paddling events and what that requires. And the final question, “Why would you do all that instead of just paddling by yourself or with a few friends?” That took me back over three decades to one of my favorite jobs. I was publishing a monthly magazine that was a how-to for aspiring writers. Not technical, promotional or other “profession” genres, but mostly those who embraced the dream of being a published author. It wasn’t a magazine genre that generated a lot of revenue, so we were staffed pretty thin. Also, the production technology at the time was primitive (typewriters, cut & paste vs. electronic layout, etc.), so no amount of planning averted the feverish all-nighters at the end of the month. When the boards for each issue finally were packed up and sent to the printer, it was our custom to meet in the editor’s office. He’d pull out a bottled of good whiskey and some paper cups from his bottom desk drawer and we’d toast another good job done and wax philosophically. One evening, during a contemplative pause in the chatter, a production assistant piped up. “The hours are long, the work is hard and stressful, and the pay stinks. Why do we do this?” I don’t recall having given it extensive thought so I was almost surprised with the answer that emerged from my lips. “Because we touch people’s lives. We could be grilling steaks, selling copy machines or painting walls for more money, but it wouldn’t have the same impact or significantly change the quality of life for them. We touch people’s lives.”

Sometimes

Sometimes, they get it right the first time. Cars are a familiar product and I would argue that the 240Z was the best (and first) of it line. I would opine the same for the true initial Mustang. By that, I mean the first designed from the ground, up. The prior iteration was cobbled together from Falcon parts. But, I digress. The photo you see here is the first rotomolded (plastic) kayak manufactured in this country, an Aquaterra Chinook. It would’ve been the first in the world but the Brits popped one out of a mold a year or two before the Chinook emerged in 1986. These haven’t been made in almost two decades, but I’ve seen a few around. Something in the lines spoke to me. It wasn’t until I did some research that I understood why. Northwestern coast/Rob Roy boats have been around since 1865. Been around and perfected, starting with the rough waters and rocky shores of the Pacific Northwest. When Aquaterra drew up the Chinook, they started there and added some modern features and conveniences, which aren’t that different today. I’d looked for a while, came close a couple times, but was never able to snag one. Then, while on a trip a few weeks ago, I stopped in at a large sea kayaking shop in Georgia. There, in a stack of used boats, was a familiar profile that grabbed my eye. I bought the Chinook. I was almost afraid of paddling it, apprehensive of a letdown. But, I was also curious, so it wasn’t long before I slid it into a nearby lake. It was everything I thought it would be; stable, maneuverable and reasonably fast. Sometimes they get it right the first time.

Guy brains

In the debate about the intelligence of women vs. men, I come down on the side of the girls. You never see them missing fingers. The subject occurs to me as I contemplate going outside to clear the coating of ice and snow off my truck. My thoughts reel back to college days and Speedy. The nickname came from the cadence of his speech. He had a thick southern accent. You could leave the room to get a cup of coffee between his words and you wouldn’t have missed anything upon returning. Over a dozen of us lived in the house and no one was granted use of the garage. It was filled with all kinds of extra furniture and junk, anyway. One day, after an icy snow storm, Speedy had somewhere he had to be. His Ford (of mid-50s vintage) was solidly encased in water frozen in various configurations. He was pondering a fast way to clear it off, or at least the windows. What he came up with was a liberal dousing of the windshield area with charcoal lighter fluid. It was a pretty impressive sight when he lit it up. However, the results revealed this to be a less than ingenious solution. Manufacturers have used safety glass for windshields since the 1920s. That is, a layer of plastic is sandwiched between layers of glass to arrest flying shards in case of a shattering impact. Encased plastic reacts to extreme heat. It turns black. Black isn’t the optimum color for windshields. Male intelligence? Case closed.

Much to my amusement

The county has designated sledding hills in its parks. When it snows, they close the parks.

Prediction

I’ll go on the record. There’s a juicy appointment awaiting P.G. Sittenfeld as reward for taking one for the team, in the tradition of Bob Bedinghaus. Sittenfeld ran for city council this year when a polarizing issue has been the floundering streetcar project. A plank of his platform was that he opposed continuing the project because the financial plan didn’t make sense. This appeared unequivocally in his position statement to the local newspaper and elsewhere, although he’s now denying what was in print. Even if you’re not a financial genius, you can understand this. When the council originally voted approval of the project plan, it was stated that it relied, in large part, on raising $31 million in private capital and couldn’t be built without that. The city manager was charged with the responsibility of raising those funds. My web search today indicates that you have more money under your sofa cushions than he’s brought in. So, even without the other unresolved issues, anyone can see that a $31 million shortfall ratifies Sittenfeld’s campaign position. Joining the other streetcar opposition candidates, he was swept into office with the mandate to curtail the project. But, before he’s even seated, he announces that he will vote to move ahead on the project. He’s spoken out against the project, voted against it and ran for office on the platform to oppose it. But, barely after the ballot counters have been unplugged, he reneges. What causes a politician to self-inflict this black eye? In the short period between the election and his flip flop, he attended a conference in Washington for up and coming Democratic politicians. It was subsequently stated that this had nothing to do with the streetcar issue. This pronouncement should get the attention of anyone with two brain cells to rub together. The Cato Institute and other reputable research organizations have probed the advent of the “streetcar craze,” motivated by the question of how prior century technology suddenly came to the fore. What they found was that consultants, car manufacturers, etc. lobbied (a polite word for incentivized) the administration to put up public money as seed capital to motivate cities to build streetcar systems, spending hundreds of millions with the lobbyists. They’re all out there hard-selling the “benefits” reaped by those who got on board, concealing the fact that they are suffering financial setbacks and attributing economic development to the streetcars instead of the billions of additional dollars those cities had to put up as incentives to developers. If Cincinnati backs off, citing the financial folly of it all, it would cause others to exercise additional scrutiny of the program from the top down. It’s easy to surmise that Sittenfeld was taken aside during his visit to Washington and told to reverse his position and make the project happen. But, is a bright young man going to go back on his word so soon after the election while his words are still ringing in the ears of his voters? The timing is necessitated by an impending vote. Not unless there are assurances of his future. Something would have to be promised. I’m predicting it’s an appointment to a plum job.

Candor

Art Linkletter made a decent buck off kids saying the darndest things. They’re not the only ones. I have found that childlike candor is part of some cultures so I was not entirely surprised by what occurred today. Part of my regular workout at the gym includes laps on the track that rings the tennis courts. As I was cooling down from my run, one of the tennis instructors approached me. He was short and dark. He smiled and asked if I was a real Hells Angel. I asked why he asked. He indicated my mustache and the bandana I wear to keep the sweat out of my eyes. “No, I’m a pirate.” He smiled more broadly and walked away. That seemed to make him happy.

The Golden Age of Stupidity

Fads and fashions come and go, so I usually don’t pay much attention. However, I believe I detect a new trend that is a bit disquieting. Stupidity – it’s the new smart. The signs are all over but probably most evident on Facebook where many choose to reveal themselves, whether or not they intend to. Let’s begin with a couple months ago when a purchasing co-op publicized a private sale on its FB page. I responded that I did not recall seeing mention of that in my member (owner) bulletin. The response was that that was the reason why it pays to be a FB “like” on their page! (Their punctuation/excitement). Really? You proudly publicize that you sell memberships (ownership in the co-op) and those who are loyal enough to buy them and faithfully purchase through your co-op are given back seat treatment compared to those who merely click a box on your FB page? Smart of you to post that. I read a news item about a sales tax that was to go into effect at the beginning of the year. It occurred to me that the tax was based upon purchases that were mandated by a new law. That mandate would be unconstitutional except that the Supreme Court sidestepped that by ruling that these purchases weren’t actually purchases; they were taxes levied upon us. This caused me to ponder, we’ll be taxed upon paying a tax? How is that legitimate? I must be missing something. So, I posted my question on FB, hoping someone could point out where I might have erred in my thinking (okay, that was stupid). The initial response was that he couldn’t believe someone spent their time thinking about stuff like that and I needed to get a hobby. Excuse me? Paying attention to and thinking about how the government might be confiscating our property and infringing upon our rights is a waste of time? As opposed to ignorance and blindly accepting anything imposed upon us and attacking those who dare to question it? And you openly proclaim that’s your position (with two fellow yahoos liking your comment)? Ten years ago, would people be advertising their oblivion? A leader of the county chapter of a political party posted one of those fallacious memes that circulate the web. She had done something similar a few days prior, been corrected and obviously had learned nothing from her mistake. I posted a response that her meme was a hoax, explaining why it misrepresented the facts of the issue (read that, outright lied). She answer that she knew, but the chart was so much “fun” she wanted to post it. Yeah, she posted that on the extensive public forum of FB. This is someone who continuously promulgates information supporting her party’s position and promoting that to the voting public. And here she admits – nay, celebrates – that she knowingly puts out deceptive material. At what point in time did that become smart? Welcome to the golden age of stupidity. Enhance yours and trumpet it to the world.

Appreciating the Power

The dramatic photo that came up on my computer screen rang a bell. It showed a thunderous river wave the size of a tour bus. A kayaker was inverted and airborne above it. He is a world-class paddler and had skillfully harnessed the power of the brute to propel himself toward the ionosphere. It obliged, tossing the 230-pound package high into the air with no more effort than you would expend flicking a fuzz ball from your sleeve. It was vaguely familiar because earlier this year I had journeyed to this location, reputedly the biggest whitewater this side of the Rockies. Like him, I had taken on this beast. Unlike him, I’m not a world-class paddler. Probably not even township-class. His intent was to employ the wave to perform an acrobatic maneuver and he succeeded. All I asked of it was safe passage and that was not to be granted. While it did raise me up to knee-knocking height, it also then slam dunked me and retained me in its turbulent maw to administer a repeated drubbing. Fortunately, I overcame the initial shock and awe, gathered my wits, reached for a downstream vector with my paddle blade to extract myself and rolled up. I thought I had appreciated the power of this beast and enjoyed the thrill, but this photo gave me new perspective. When I had paddled it, this was the last challenge of the day. Its upstream kin had already exhausted my resources and I approached it in a less than optimum state. And, I engaged it at water surface level. The photo revealed all of its magnificence. Awesome. Appreciate the power.

It's not easy being David

I often recommend “Catch-22” as required reading because it instructs you on 90% of everything you need to know about life. One of those lessons is that “they” will do anything to you that they can get away with doing. While somewhat cynical, it is not inaccurate when it comes to large organizations, whether they be business, government or private. They appear to assume that they are entitled and impervious. They aren’t wrong, except when it comes to a certain personality type; mine. I was shopping at a store of a huge office supply chain when a sign caught my eye. It offered a rebate on copy paper purchases. I bought and the cash register provided me with the rebate form, which I promptly submitted, carefully following all the instructions. I did that because I’ve been down this road before and I also copied everything submitted; everything. As is usually the case, it takes less than 24 hours for them to hit your credit card for their money. Ah, but almost two months to get your rebate money to you. Or, in this case, a postcard rejecting my application. It gave four reasons, which included omitted information (my copies proved this to be bogus) and that it was a duplicate submission (not a chance since it required sending original materials). It offered the opportunity to resubmit to the address on the reverse side of the card. This was obviously in bad faith since that would require the original documents (which they retained), not to mention that the reverse side of the card was blank. I’m certain the expectation was for most people to surrender. I’m not most people. Just to be sure it wasn’t “just me,” I did a search that incorporated their name and “rebate complaints.” No shortage of hits. Even allowing for the sour grapes factor, these people were obviously in the scam business. I emailed my complaint via their website. It took about a day for a response. I was informed that I had applied for an online-only rebate when I had purchased the product in the store. First of all, this hadn’t been listed on the rejection card, proving those claims were bogus. Secondly, their store promoted it and provided the rebate form. If the intent was to discourage further action, they misjudged their target. I dismissed the response as fertilizer and told them they had five days to mail a check or I would file complaints with the FTC and state attorney general, sue their store in small claims court and make it my hobby to publicize their tactics. I was provided with another website to take up my complaint. Another stall tactic? I chose “chat” over “email” to bring this matter to a head. Once again, I was informed that I had applied for a rebate that didn’t apply to in-store purchases. I said it was their store promotion, their in-store form and their personnel, so it was their problem, not mine. My only problem was obtaining court forms and compiling a list of websites to report their unethical practices. I received a stern warning about slander laws (actually, I believe it would be libel). My response was that her tactic probably worked on those unfamiliar with that, but truth was always a defense and I had copies of all submissions and had also copied all chats with their people, including her. I would welcome their legal action as it would generate more publicity plus the opportunity to countersue. And, for threatening me, I was going to strive to come up with at least a couple dozen more websites to post to. She responded that they would issue a check immediately and gave me a tracking number. A hard-fought win. On another front, I attempted to use my credit card this morning and was informed that they have a deny/confiscate order on it. Fortunately, the clerk was about two decades my senior so I was able to wrest it from her while suffering only superficial injuries. I got to my home computer and confirmed that the bank had closed the account. I called the customer service number on my card statement and, after running the gauntlet of selecting language, department, issue and five other things, was connected to a human after a wait that was a little shorter than the Peloponnesian War. She asked several questions, some already responded to in the aforementioned hoop jumping, before allowing me to state my case. She said I had the wrong department (the number listed on the statement) and sent me to Fraud. I went through the button pushing exercise before reaching someone there, only to be told that they had done nothing to my account and I needed to talk with the Customer Service department at the bank. I repeated that I had been referred by them and got a polite sorry-about-your-life. I jumped through the hoops to get a person in Customer Service again and this time was told I needed to talk with the Compromise Department. I was given a number and went through the automated selections, considering that opting for a different language might generate better understanding and results than I was receiving. Compromise admitted that they had slain my account because a merchant I dealt with had experienced a possible breach. A letter was going out to me today, explaining that. Was there anything else they could do for me? Yes, how about a phone call the next time so I don’t find myself out on a limb? “I said, we’re sending you a letter.” I’ll score that as a loss. It’s not easy being David. But, unless people go to the trouble, the Goliaths of the world will do more and more of what they can get away with.

Beep Beep

Last week, I was kayaking on the coast of Maine. One day, I was carrying my boat down a slope to the water and passed a group of paddlers who had just finished up. My eyes locked with one of them as recognition sparked. I had met Chris several years ago when I was in Bayfield, Wisconsin to paddle the Apostle Islands. He’s based there and imparted the mantra that’s on everyone’s lips in that town, “The Lake is the boss.” It’s also on t-shirts, signs and about anything else you could print on. Lake Superior takes no prisoners and all the ship wrecks on its floor attest to that. Even though the town makes a decent living from kayakers who journey to this mecca, they always suspect we’re in over our heads and will predict doom to your face. What mostly supports their viewpoint are those who paddle there without proper training or equipment. Why someone would venture out onto that killer expanse without preparation is beyond me. So, running into Chris planted the seed of this memory in my mind. I’ll add another thought that may seem unrelated, as many of mine do. “Beep Beep” was a song by the Playmates (1958). In a nutshell, the singer is rhapsodizing about driving his powerful, expensive car, up until he’s smoked by another guy in a Rambler (cheap car). Pretty much lets the air out of his balloon. After exchanging pleasantries with Chris, my paddling companion and I launched onto the open seas, headed out into the ocean for an island chain. While the weather and waves blessed us with good conditions, we knew that could change at any time. At first, we were a little “tight” as port receded into the distance. But, confidence swelled with time as well as no small amount of pride that we were taking on the North Atlantic. That is, until we reached the first island and rounded its tip to the far side. There, we encountered two paddlers in small, inexpensive rental kayaks. Kind of devalued our whole experience. They waved and shouted to us cheerily. My recollection was that all we could do was stare. Beep beep!

The Dinner Bell

No great insights into the meaning of life tonight. Just memories. A few years back, I got into reading a series of books by an author who sets her novels in Trenton, New Jersey, the site of my primary high school job. In one book, she alluded to a location that elicited some poignant (and humorous) memories. I was moved enough to hunt down her email address and thank her for the moment. That initiated and exchange of correspondence. It’s not like we email all the time, but we were in touch this week. The subject was The Dinner Bell. Back then, I worked in an auto supply store in a somewhat decrepit part of town (it’s a sliding scale in Trenton), mostly selling and installing tires, batteries, shocks, seat covers and an assortment of other related items. But, my primary responsibility occurred on Saturday mornings. I was to show up before the opening of the store, walk next door to The Dinner Bell, return and greet the arriving staff with coffee and doughnuts. A botched tire or seat cover job could earn me a frown. But, failing to have the provisions awaiting on Saturday was a capital offense. The Dinner Bell resembled a small road house you’d find out in the country. Wooden exterior with peeling paint. It was owned and run by Bud and Mary. Due to its proximity, we had many lunches there. Bud was a character. He looked and sometimes spoke like Will Rogers. If you were a regular, the ritual was to walk in, plop yourself down and ask Bud what was on the menu today. That was the setup for his response in a machine gun delivery, “Ham, ram, lamb, bear, beef, billy goat, buffalo and bacon.” Your response was to laugh. Every time. But he wasn’t the primary act. If Bud was there, so was Louie. He’d make his way around the diner to check on the quality of your food. By grabbing and eating some of it. He was also known to chatter loudly. Not great manners but somewhat understandable. Louie was a monkey. Try to sneak that by the health inspector these days. The supporting cast was the blue collar workers who ebbed and flowed through the place. There was always something going on. It was a fun place to be. My author friend told me that Bud died decades ago and Mary went to live with her sister in Asbury Park. The car dealer on the other side bought the property, knocked down the building (not that it needed a lot of help) and expanded their lot. The Dinner Bell may be gone, but it lives in our hearts.

Intelligent Life

I’m about over the delusions of my youth. One was that I bought into that intelligent life thing. Humans are brilliant. We split the atom. Eradicated major diseases. Conquered space travel. Developed the M&M so chocolate doesn’t melt in your hand. We’re pushing a score of 10 on the brain scale. The fallacy is in attributing the exceptions to the whole. And on the whole, my rating has plummeted to a two, with one being dumber than a bag of hair. My latest confirmation came this week when I received a friend request on FB from an attractive young lady, clad in a tube top that was imprinted with a suggestive phrase. I accepted because, by and large, these inquiries from unknowns are from other paddlers. And, one can always use a network for intelligence about local conditions. Shortly after accepting the request, I received a message from her. It said my photos were fabulous and I appeared to be in the condition of a star athlete. Both of these are credible since I travel to some exotic places and adhere to a strict diet of pasta and fermented grain. She included her phone number so we could talk and get to know each other. Yeah, like that’s going to happen. I go to my FB page to assess my profile photo for just how stupid I might appear. Not long after, I see a few alerts (or whatever they’re called) about some other men liking or commenting on her picture (assuming it’s even her), essentially fawning all over her to curry favor. Are you kidding me? Granted, guys attain a special level of stupid in these matters. But, are they really looking at her and then their own photos and information, concluding, “Yeah, she’s into me bigtime?” At least make her set the hook. Don’t jam it through your own cheek. The rating is creeping below one.

Labels

I do understand when this label thing got out of control. Some court awarded a huge judgment to a dolt who stuck his hand under a mower to see if it was running, chugged the lemon scented furniture wax or tried to give himself a pedicure with a table saw. Not to be outdone in setting inane precedents, other judges strived to get their names cited with even more outrageous cases. I get that. But, I thought that wave had peaked and we were leveling out at something just north of sanity. And, as a buyer of outdoor gear, I probably see the worst. Or, so I thought. Earlier this week, I bought two carabiners. You’ve probably seen a “biner” even if you didn’t know the name, possibly posing as a keychain. It’s a c-shaped piece of metal with a hinged gate across the open end. In the great outdoors, they are usually used to manage lines. I hadn’t bought one in some time and was surprised to find a large wad of folded paper secured around the gate. After cutting it free, I discovered it was the directions and disclaimers. You don’t need a lot of room for directions – press gate to open, release to close. If you can’t figure that out, you probably shouldn’t be using a biner. The remainder of the six pages more or less cautioned you about the use of the device and backpedaled away from any responsibility, should you manage to maim yourself in doing so. The owner’s manual of my first motorcycle had less verbiage. Outdoor clothing also seems to bristle with tags and labels although even I would be hard pressed to injure myself in its applications. Most of these ballyhoo the magical attributes with some caveats, of course. I fear it has come to the point where they’re just pinning any piece of paper available to everything that leaves the mill without giving it much thought. Today I received shipment of a storm shell. This is an outer layer composed of stout material that renders protection against the most extreme elements. So, you’re climbing a mountain ensconced in fleece or goose down. A storm crops up (rain, snow, sleet, hail – pick your poison). You whip this out and pull it on over your insulation layer. Done. So why does the plethora of tags dangling from this garment include a smiley sun with the text “UPF 30+?” I’m layered up but the sky has closed down and I’m being pelted with sleet. What do I care about this thing providing protection from the sun in the very good range? If they really want to overdo the label thing, it should be in the area of garment care. The print detailing cleaning precautions is readable only with an electron microscope and the symbols require an Egyptologist to decipher.

Watched Pots

The ability to track (like packages in transit) is a mixed blessing. It’s great to know what’s going on but it can also drive you (or, is it just me?) crazy. I ordered a sporting good last week and have been wearing out the keyboard tracking its crawl across the country. This is partly my doing in that I seek the best price and that often involves buying clearance from some trout fishing shop in Montana or similar situation. Of course, closer isn’t always better. There are mail order warehouses in the immediate area but the goods get shipped far and wide before they finally return to here because of the vagaries of the respective systems. That can be exasperating. My worst experiences in this area involved my travels to the Pacific Rim when I was in the product development business. My usual flight reached Singapore via Minneapolis and Tokyo, taking about 23 hours. On the headrest in front of you was a screen of about 2.5” x 3”. If you didn’t care to watch the insipid movie twelve times, you could track the flight progress. A map of the hemisphere appeared with the plane represented by a red dot. On that scale, movement of the dot wasn’t discernible. By hour fifteen, I was silently screaming and cursing at it to do so. A watched pot never boils, but I can’t help but watch it.

Faith

I was watching a program about a primitive society on one of my obscure channels. They commented on the bizarre religious rituals of the people. As opposed to drinking wine like it was blood or not eating pig flesh? I’m in touch with many of my high school friends and we’ve hit the mid-sixties. I’ve noticed a distinct migration to “faith” as the ills of old age beset them. I won’t go into a deep analysis of the fear and control origins of religion, nor dismiss the value. Doing the right thing produces positive outcomes and however you get there is almost irrelevant. I ran a mental health/drug & alcohol clinic and faith was the only thing that kept some in the program. If that’s what was needed, fine. But don’t lose sight of the fact that faith doesn’t do it alone. I had a coach who used to admonish us, “Pray like it’s up to God. But play like it’s up to you.”

Smart phone, dumb buyer

My phone contract is coming to an end and the carrier who has had little interest in my issues is suddenly my best friend. Surprise. The offer came proposing I upgrade to a better (smarter?) unit for as little as $49. It’s not that my phone lacks features. More like it has a mind of its own and I don’t find that to my liking. I did the research and decided on which of the alternatives I wanted. Off to the store. Before one of the youthful predators could pounce upon me, I angled for someone with a little gray in his hair. The callow ones speak a tongue unknown to me. Of course, he tries to talk me up to a more expensive model. But, I stick to my guns. I have a few basic usages and don’t need the functions he enumerates. I don’t even understand what they are. He finally recognizes that I’m a lost cause and grants me access to the product I came in to buy. We go to ring it up. I’m expecting a $49 sum, exclusive of the state’s override. But, it comes out to $129. I hold up my hand in a halting gesture. “It’s 49 after the $50 rebate,” he explains, as though to a small child. The email promotion didn’t mention this and I hate rebates. I won’t go into what a scam they are here, but I have little choice if I am to continue down this road. However, I do point out that he’s still $30 too rich. “That’s the upgrade charge.” Again, no mention of this in the email. “Then, the price is $79, not $49, as advertised.” “No, the phone is only $49.” I don’t point out we’ve already established that the actual price is $99. “The $30 is a separate charge.” “Then I’ll take just the phone without that.” “You can’t.” “Then it isn’t separate and is part of the cost of the phone.” “No, it’s a separate upgrade charge.” One of us is an idiot and I’m beginning to suspect it’s me. I fear that marketing has taken a cue from politicians and will tell you anything they want without fear of negative consequences.

The sun shined

Almost the only way to get the car, boat, motorcycle, etc. exactly the way you want it is to order it new. But, then you pay a premium price and take the massive first year depreciation hit. Once in a while, a great while, the stars align and you strike gold in the pre-owned market. But that’s very rare. And, it’s probably why I vividly recall the few times the wheel stopped at my number. The most notable example occurred shortly after I graduated college. I was pretty close to flat broke and a new car was out of the question. But, I got a burning desire for a specific car. It was a Firebird. The color was a metallic brown or bronze, kind of the color of a Japanese beetle wing. I don’t even know how I got that in my head because I cannot recall ever seeing a Firebird in that color. It may sound a little mundane but it wasn’t, especially if it was set off with a cream colored vinyl roof, which were very rad then. Trust me on this one, youngster. And, not any vinyl roof. It would be a half roof (the latter portion). This image was burned in my brain. Don’t ask me how. I had never seen one. I did need a car. But, my enthusiasm for looking had about the same magnitude as my bank account. One lunch hour, I took a walk around downtown. There was a big car dealer there at the time (believe it or not) and as I neared it, I pulled up abruptly. There, in the front row of the used car section, shining in all its glory was the car. I mean, THE car. The very one I had envisioned. Actually, it was even better, if that’s possible. Instead of the leading edge of the vinyl roof being cut straight across, it came to a subtle point, with a very cool arrow effect. Great nuance. No question about it, I had to have that car. If I had to beg, borrow or steal, I just had to. I did forgo the last option. But I did engage the first two. The odds of this kind of opportunity coming around again approached infinity. Fast forward. One of my favorite kayak makers came out with a new model. It was a bit radical and I was hesitant to pull the trigger. Besides, for some reason, this company had lapsed into a mode of incredibly unappealing choices in color. The only one that appealed to me is their Spiderman motif, a garish combination of bright reds and blues. I deliberated and deliberated. More conventional genres of boats had priority and I did nothing about this one. A model year and then some passed and the fire reignited. The selection of used ones was extremely meager, probably because this wasn’t a boat that would appeal to many. However, kayaks aren’t all that expensive and I’d be willing to bite the bullet for a new one. I am horrified to find that they’ve dropped the Spiderman option favoring one that looks like the surface of a stagnant pond and another that seems to depict a white rabbit that got run over while eating a raw egg. For months, I scour the country for used boats and retailers who might have some old inventory or demo kayaks. I can barely find the boat in the right size let alone one that’s in a color that wouldn’t make a vulture puke. I gave up. A couple friends of mine own a paddling shop and are had a demo event yesterday. One of them had to go to a funeral so I volunteered to help out. I got there early to help unload the trailer. There’s this bloated recreational boat the color of Bozo’s wig and that one in beige, a hue reminiscent of filing cabinets of the 70’s. And, so on. I’m working my way through the layers of mundane craft toward the center of the trailer when I’m pulled up short by a flash of brilliant blue and red. It can’t be. But, it is! Right model, but is it the right size? I’m almost afraid to look because of the potential letdown. Please, don’t tease me. I check and it is the right size, It’s THE boat! Better yet, it’s a demo. That is to say, cheap. A long time ago, I had a coach who would say, “The sun don’t shine on one dog’s ass all the time.” I’ve found that to be true, but I’m just glad yesterday it was my turn. Bu, it’s a little bigger than having your wish come true. It sets a tone that you’re on a roll. Today has been a great day.

IT Angst

This may qualify as a rant so I wouldn’t blame you if you bailed out now. And, it’s more grumbling about the world of IT. For years I resisted the siren call of the tablet. The swim team my son coaches chipped in and presented him with an iPad and all he could do was extol its virtues to me. About that time, I was in a computer store and the next generation of those infernal devices had debuted. They were fire saling the older ones and I bit. One usage I saw applied to the many trips I do, mostly kayaking in beautiful places. If I wanted to view the photos and videos at the end of the day, I was relegated to do so on the stamp-sized screen on the back of the compact camera. Through my aging eyes, it appears to be a lab slide of amoebas. Since graphics are highly touted for the iPad, I could simply dump the work product into it each evening and enjoy the show. Or, so I assumed. Since Apple does not play well with others, there was but one port and it was limited to charging the beast and sucking up overpriced Apple software. So, the device was largely used for slingshotting avian projectiles at their porcine adversaries. On a recent trip into darkest Appalachia, the iPad was stolen from our campsite. Human depravity respects no bounds. As miffed as I was about this, there was a silver lining in that I was now free to get something more accommodating. I waited out the computer store for their holiday sale and bought a Windows-based tablet of a popular brand. It had a variety of ports. Although none appeared to be a direct match with the camera components, I was sure the solution must be simple. Back to the computer store. I found a clerk whose eyes appeared to focus in the same plane and asked for a micro USB to micro USB cable with two male ends, reflecting the connection I had to make and showing amazing IT acumen for me. He looked at me as though I were speaking the Vulcan tongue. I repeated my request more deliberately, like a tourist on foreign soil. “No such thing.” Did I detect a sneer? No such thing? If there are two ports like that that require connection, there must be. It’s a law or something, isn’t it? Time for another approach. This had to be a common application and simple, and I may have erred by jumping to my own solution. So, I simply stated what it was I was trying to accomplish. He nodded sagely; a post-adolescent Buddha. “You need an SD card reader.” It would be easier if I could just plug in the card, but the tablet did not accept the full-sized ones. But, I could live with one more device that would be in peril of loss in the morass that is my camera cabinet. “Okay, I’ll go for the card reader. Show me where it is and I’m on my way.” “Not so fast. The reader won’t hook up with the tablet. You’ll also need a converter cable.” Yeah, and some kid to show me how this daisy chain will have to be configured. So now, with the help of some high tech spaghetti, I can link the devices. At the risk of sounding like a geezer, I miss the days when makers of wall outlets and, say, coffee makers knew people would want to hook up and designed the products so a lot of extra crap wasn’t required. Bonus rant. The tablet comes with Windows NT, the evil twin of Windows 8. You can’t find half the common functions without wending your way through multiple cryptic screens. Except, of course, the Windows Store. That tile is front and center in your opening screen. I am generally suspicious of apps, but they did have one I could find useful and I bought it. It appeared to download with no fuss. But, when I opened it, the title screen would show for two seconds and then would disappear. I tried this multiple times with the same results. I restarted the tablet, updated it and did about everything else I could think of. I attempted to contact Microsoft. Phone help advised me that there was a wait that could extend to infinity. The “call me” option glitched when you clicked on “submit.” Probably a double entendre, there. Going to the forum of the users page revealed that I was far from the only one to experience the problem. However, it did include a response from a Microsoft tech who offered five possible solutions. While they appeared to be written in Pig Latin, or assumed you had an advanced degree from MIT, mere hours of web searching helped me decipher the suggestions. It took another couple hours to execute the instructions. And, you guessed it, no joy. I had sent a plaintive plea to the app publisher. The response was fairly prompt, informing me that the app had a glitch and they were working on an update. Really? If you had a defective product that wouldn’t function, would you put it out on the market? If you had a store, would you sell it?

Message Received

When I’ve taught communications, one of the things I stressed was that the normal result of an attempt to communicate something is partial miscommunication and you must adjust for it. That is, the message you think you’re sending isn’t exactly what is received. I’ve had a series of encounters this week that underscored that. The first was that I was invited to dinner by a former employee. I hadn’t seen Dave in decades. In his approach, he had said that he had learned a lot from me, came to be a success and wanted to express his appreciation. We met and, after the small talk, I asked what he remembered the most. He laughed and said it was my stories. He always repeated them and, in fact, when he told one of his current employees that he was meeting me for dinner, the guy replied, “Is that the guy in the urinal cake story?” Dave laughed at that. Having taught weekend college, I sensed that people didn’t absorb what they had little interest in. So, I wrapped lessons in entertaining stories. I’ve led a pretty entertaining life so coming up with them was no problem. The challenge was building a lesson into them to make them a management tool. “Did he get the lesson that was in that story?” I responded. Dave looked puzzled. “There was a lesson in that?” So much for people receiving the intended message. Then Dorothy was telling me that she had been discussing Bob’s shortcomings with some mutual acquaintances and they had the same perceptions as she did. Guess again. I’d heard from some of them and what they took from the discussions was that Dorothy sure likes to dish the dirt. I doubt that was her intended message. Today, I kayaked with a guy who taught me whitewater paddling many years ago. He said I had developed a good stroke. I reminded him that he had told me that a number of times during the paddling course. “No, when I said you had quite a stroke there, I meant it was one of the worst I’d seen.” The lesson in this (and I won’t obscure it with a story) is that the message you think you’re sending isn’t always the one that’s received.

End of Conversation

Okay, I’m in one of my pre-trip displacement writing jags. If you’re also looking for a way to burn the clock, read on. At the presentation (prior posting) a woman in the audience appeared to be inspecting me, for lack of a better term. I would describe her as attractive but what stood out was that no expense was spared on clothing, jewelry and cosmetics. Given her scrutiny, it came as little surprise when she approached me after the conclusion of the talk. “I couldn’t help but notice your shirt.” “My shirt?” The master of scintillating repartee. “Yes, the British Virgin Islands.” “Oh, that. I was there a few months ago.” “I had a chateau on Tortola. In the evenings, I loved to dine on the veranda (may be the first person I’ve met who had a veranda) after a long day on the yacht. Few things can compare to broiled lobster, an elegant chardonnay and a brilliant Caribbean sunset.” “I kayaked from scruffy little island to scruffy little island, shared the beach with a herd of hermit crabs and swilled local rum.” End of conversation.

The Tie

Today I gave a little talk about paddling safety as part of a Coast Guard education program. Afterwards, discussion with the other speakers led to the topic of certification of powerboat operators. That dredged up a memory for me. I told them I was certified. In 1963. I come from humble beginnings and my father often worked second jobs and came up with projects to help make ends meet. I was enlisted in these at an early age, being required to pull my weight. The primary project was acquiring retired police cars from the State of New Jersey at auction, restoring them and reselling. They were pretty easy to sell because they came with the powerful Ford Interceptor engine. One of the major aspects of the restoration was filling the three big holes (left from the siren, flashing light and whip antenna). We also picked up select other cars from junk dealers and other sources of lost causes. In this process, my father came across a derelict plywood runabout. We decided to restore this one for our own use. I would’ve been happy to rebuild it, speed tune the outboard and scorch the Delaware River. He, on the other hand, thought it would be a good idea to take a course and learn something about competent boat piloting. A novel concept. He signed us up for a Coast Guard course offered evenings at the local high school. Over the days this lasted, the instructor would joke about the possible ramifications when one of us outscored the other in the certification exam. I laughed along with him but it got me thinking about that. I decided I’d study for the test. Another novel concept. For me. This was well before the age of electronic scoring and posting results on the web. It would be weeks before the results were mailed out. I zipped home every day, determined to have the first look at the scores. When the day came, I was outmaneuvered by my mother, who was already dreading the possible conflicts. I ran into the kitchen and checked the mail pile. Nothing. I turned around and there she was, holding two envelopes aloft. I made a grab but she was too quick. She gave me mine but withheld the other. No amount of begging or cajoling could move her. It seemed to take an eternity for my father to get home. She presented his envelope, which he opened, shielding it from my view. Then, we engaged in a duel of wits, trying to get each other to cough up the number. When my mother had all she could endure of this, she commandeered the envelopes and perused the contents. “You both,” she announced, “got the same score.” What? Couldn’t be! We demanded to see the documentation. Still couldn’t be. I recalled all the instructor’s comments and couldn’t help but wonder if he had a thumb on the scale. Still do. So, with us equally qualified to pilot and make decisions, the tie eliminated any cause for argument between us. Yeah, right.

PS

I’ve been railing about my mistreatment at the hands of the computer world. In all fairness, it hasn’t always been this way. In fact, in a time of need, the computer gods smiled upon me. It was in the early 90s. I was at a low point personally, financially and professionally. The major investor in a company I had started skipped town with company funds, not to mention millions he had scammed through the company from banks, vendors and government tax authorities. I was left holding the bag. More accurately, I was in a mile-deep hole with a ten-ton bag on top of me. I was doing what I could to dig out while fighting off the tax courts and process servers. That included freelance writing. The opportunity emerged to do an article on singles connections, which included the newborn computer sites. I glommed onto it. A few hurdles. I had no computer. I had almost no computer knowledge, having had mainframes in my businesses and they interfaced almost exclusively with my accounting, production, etc. departments. My knees had seldom been under a keyboard. I visited a friend at his office who had access to this thing called the internet, whatever that was. He turned on this large device that sat on his desk and we waited. Eventually, a box appeared on a bulky CRT monitor and he typed in some code. We waited. Icons eventually materialized on the screen. He clicked on one and we waited. “Does this thing ever actually work?” “What do you mean? It has to load.” “This is crap. It’s electricity. It moves at the speed of light. It should take like a tenth of a second.” I am not known for my patience. He shook his head and chuckled. When we did achieve connection, he showed me basic navigation. A lot of good that did. We all learn differently and my best shot is a printed page. I had told him my goal and he called up some dating sites. Amusing. I’ll digress here about the subject at hand. At the time of my financial, professional and potentially criminal (if the tax courts were able to pin my investor’s malfeasances on me) problems, what romantic relations or possibilities thereof scattered like roaches when the kitchen light comes on. Ironically, that was when I felt a need for companionship. So, the dating scene was of more interest than just the article. Okay, now I had some idea what the internet was and an inkling of how to use it. But, I still had no computer. My friend called up a few sites that retailed home versions. They sold for more than my aging car was worth. I was always worrying about how to cover my next paltry rent check for the shack where I was holed up and they wanted thousands for a box of electronics. We stepped down to the “refurbished” market. The cheapest thing I could find was barely basic and already a generation or two out of date. Beggars can’t be choosers. I used the one credit card that hadn’t been cut off, virtually ensuring its demise. The product arrived in about a week and had a wiring map that was prosaic enough for even me to understand. It took about twenty minutes to get everything plugged together. Let’s fire this mother up. I had been told that computers come with very few programs. So, it was a pleasant surprise when all kinds of games and stuff showed up on this one. Yes, it’s easy to look back and laugh at myself, now. All that crap was a Petri dish of malware. I was able to get to the web. And, with a little trial and error, I was finding the dating sites. But, drilling down to the details of each prospect often generated a protracted loading cycle, which sometimes just timed out. The processing moved with the speed of smoke. I called in markers for some free advice. That amounted to conjecture that it was choking on its own software and data to having substandard components. Diagnostics and tools weren’t what they are today and there was little I was able to do. It kind of worked okay for my writing needs, but the internet function was weak. I contacted the vendor, as it had a 30-day guarantee. Somewhat to my surprise, he said he’d make good. He vowed to send another computer. He didn’t mention returning this one and I didn’t bring it up. I did state that I didn’t want all the junk loaded onto it. That one arrived and I set it up. Per my request, it had almost no software. It even lacked a word processing program. Be careful what you wish for. Now, I was switching back and forth, hooking up the keyboard and monitor to whichever computer I was using for the function it could accomplish. And, they were both pokey as all get out. This was absurd. I can’t imagine how it occurred to me, but I got the idea of linking them together, combining the functions and maybe even enhancing the computer speed. Of course, I didn’t have a clue about how to do this. The computers had various ports and, by now, I had accumulated an impressive array of cables. Chimp logic (my specialty) dictated that you just start matching up ports with whatever cable ends fit, until you ran out of either cables or ports. Today, with greater knowledge, manuals, customer service numbers, user forums, etc., I can’t load one lousy program without running a gauntlet of ever-present issues before attaining functionality. Back then, the link-up clicked on the first blind attempt. I had two boxes humming happily away and providing my needs with alacrity. Somewhere along the line, I fell out of favor with the computer gods. But, there was a day when they looked out for me.

The final battle

It’s personal, now. Mano a machino. I against the collective acumen of hundreds of thousands of software/hardware engineers and technicians who have conspired to befuddle and exasperate anyone who enters their geeky realm. Damn the torpedoes. At the last juncture, the prudent strategy appeared to be to set up a home network. As noted, I have had previous difficulties with this. So, I set about it with tongue-jutting determination. The new computer complied, constructed a network and yielded a password to me. I dutifully printed it out, eliminating the possibility of error down the road. On the old computer, I wiped everything in networks clean. It’s the site of previous network skirmishes and who knows what wreckage remains. I began afresh and it displayed a password, which was duly recorded. Not taking a chance on whatever may lurk in the air, I connected the two with an ether cable via router. I held my breath as I called up the network configuration on the new computer. Yes! The old computer showed up. But, these things seldom end well so I delay the popping of corks. I click on the old computer icon and it requests a user name and password. User name and password for which computer or is it name for this operator but password to enter the other computer? I take my best guess and, of course, it denies access. Not a big problem since there are but three combinations left. Naturally, they all fail. I repeat the progression and still no joy. I am now faced with hours of playing around with this or possibly years. But wait, could there be a simple solution? I get on the old computer and find the menu I need. Hallelujah. There is an option to turn off password security, which I do. Back to the new box. Without a password sentry, I’m in the door on the old box. But, it is only showing files prefaced with “public.” I’d saved nothing to public. I have to copy the desired files to that. Okay, I can do this. I start with the photos, which number in the tens of thousands. That’s almost a decade of my considerable traveling. I copy and paste to the public file, holding my breath again. Yes! The little progress gauge pops up. But wait. It’s estimating a time span that will take us well into the evening. The hard drive is already circling the drain. I doubt if it will last through this and the subsequent copying to the new computer. I hit cancel. The heck with doing it the technically slick way. I wipe my external hard drive clean and download to it. If the old computer drive croaks after that, no problem. Actually, I have two external drives, one big and one small. So, I can alternate and simultaneously be downloading from the old and uploading to the new. I decide to triage, just in case the old girl crashes. Music will be the last out since most of that is captured on my iPod. Of course, that assumes when I sync it with the new computer, that computer mirrors it instead of the other way around, winding up with zilch. Big assumption. That leaves documents, pictures and video. Documents is the smallest file and probably has the most critical data, since it emanates from my brain. Or not. Regardless, it’s the first into the lifeboat. That downloads quickly into the small drive and I hook it up to the new box for uploading. The large drive gets plugged into the old computer to suck up the photos. The download box predicts a duration of hours. I check on the progress of the documents and it’s done. Before I start wiping these external drives, I make sure I can open the documents and that they haven’t arrived in some bizarre, inscrutable format. We’re golden. So, I check on the progress of the photos. It’s limping along. The old computer is flashing various warning messages, but none I haven’t seen since the drive commenced its death spiral. A watched pot never boils so I repair to the den to watch the tube and do crossword puzzles. I’m too antsy just to view television shows. The mind has to be working. At every commercial, I’m checking on the download. It’s coming along. I may pull this off. When I think the next commercial will be the end of it, the phone rings. I can tell by the number what it’s about. A friend’s father has died and I know that this concerns the funeral arrangements. I can’t blow this off. “Sorry, but I’m downloading photos. Call me back around ten with details on how you’re going to plant the poor guy.” The call ends and I go to my office. Uh-oh. The old computer is dead. Not in a sleep or power saver mode, cold dead. I power it back up, vaulting over the notices of abnormalities in the drive. When it’s done loading, I check the content of the external drive. It appears to have captured most of the data. Maybe it’s selective or possibly it can compress it somewhat. Do I attempt a second try or call it good enough? Since it appears to be exhaling its last gasp, I go with what I’ve got to try to salvage whatever video I can before it croaks. I issue the commands and am almost surprised when it begins to download. It’s an encore performance, but I’m satisfied. That is, I return to check on the progress and the screen is ebony. I resuscitate it and check the transferred data. Again, it appears most of it crossed the abyss. Or, maybe it’s some difference of measurement or whatever. At any rate, that will be the last I ask of this valiant warrior. I move the external drive over to the new computer and commence the transfer of videos. Now, it’s time for the final act. Almost like having a pet put to sleep. I haven’t decided where to donate the earthly remains, or as-is or with a new drive, or maybe just provide the organs so that a younger device may live on. But I cannot leave the data intact. I gently pat the old girl on her brow (above the CD/DVD drive) and then insert the wipe disk. She’s gone now but the memories linger on. Late nights editing video or pounding out this scree. Together, we brought happiness to others (or maybe something else). But, somewhere, in another dimension, she lives on, merrily losing data, denying access and spewing terse error messages. Farewell, my friend.

The war rages on

The war is not over. That is, the hostilities with the new computer. I was lulled into a false sense of security by the granting of web access and being able to pull up a semblance of the old Freecell game. I was actually pretty far along, thinking that the quirks of Windows 8 were the only remaining hurdles. It’s as though they polled users for what was useful and desirable in Windows 7 and eliminated those things in the new format. I can cope with change, but shouldn’t it be for the better? My mistake was thinking that the transfer of files from the old computer would be a slam dunk. What led to this erroneous conclusion was the fact that both computers contained Windows Easy Transfer and that I had already successfully used it to move the files from the old box to an external drive. Now, all that remained was to plug that drive into the new computer and upload with the Windows Easy Transfer program. What was I thinking? I plugged it in and the computer recognized a new device, according to plan. I called up Windows Easy Transfer and it cordially complied. The greeting was a simple wizard. Great. I answered a few questions followed by a click of the “Next” button and motored right along. I quickly arrived at the desired nexus. I happily issued the command to transfer. You’re probably ahead of me. Up came the error message, informing me I had insufficient disk space. Access denied! What? How could this be? It’s a brand new computer with powers and abilities beyond those of mortal boxes. I retraced my steps and wended my way through the process with the same results. And again. And again. It became apparent it wouldn’t change its mind. I backed up to where the destination drive was selected. It had chosen C. Okay, no problem. There should be room, but failing that, I knew that I had spent enough to gain the advantage of a D with room for terabytes of memory. I’m not even sure what that means but am pretty certain it indicates more space than I can imagine. Problem solved. Not so fast. The menu will not yield and insists upon dictating that the download be to a drive that it says has inadequate room, and then chides me for attempting to do so. Who writes this software, Joseph Heller? Having achieved internet connection, I have access to unlimited poor advice and misinformation. I do a search incorporating the error message and my prayers are answered. In the thousands. Apparently, Windows Easy Transfer is neither easy nor does it transfer anything for anyone. You would think that, with legions of failures documented in the ether, Windows would do something to remedy the situation. There are forums in which messages are posted with solutions. They are mostly responded to with tried-it/didn’t-work replies. Also, I would need a masters in IT from MIT before I attempted one of these, risking permanent damage to my operating system. Time to think this through which is neither an easy nor safe practice for me. The files are on the external drive. Why not just copy or move them? It sounds simple. Nothing is simple. The drive is hooked up so I click on the icon to examine the contents. The files are there but they are unnamed (in any recognizable form) and encrypted in some format I never heard of. I attempt to open one and it ain’t happening. Back to the web. I rub the magic lamp, figuratively, and ask how to decrypt or open this format. I should’ve guessed. You can’t. Or, at least not without a special program, a software engineering degree and clearance from the CIA. Thank you for playing. It seems as though I should be able to just run a cable from one box to the other and access the files. That would be too simple, but I’m off to the computer store in quest of a data transfer cable. Before making the purchase, I have the good sense to wander into the tech department to pose the question. I am directed to the “Technology Bar.” The bar turns out to be a glorified closet, in which sits a gnome who looks like he’d enjoy a spirited game of three-dimensional chess. I’d bet my new computer he rides a moped to work. But, I have hopes that he is my savior. I make my first mistake by greeting him verbally and starting to explain my problem. He waves me off and points to a computer at the portal. A card attached to it directs me to sign up for the next available place and type in my problem. We’re five feet apart and no one else is here. Can we just pretend we’re two human beings and converse? I’m pretty sure I can. But, I comply. He looks at his screen, reading my distress. He nods sagely and points to the folding chair in front of his table. I have been granted an audience. He explains that Windows Easy Transfer will only move files C to C, and will not permit selection of another destination drive. Well thanks for walking me through that, Socrates, but I think that’s what I just keystroked to you. What I need is a solution. I have unconsciously leaned across the table getting in range of his chicken neck. It seems to motivate him. He reels off a half a dozen ways to accomplish this in rapid fire speech. I’m pretty sure he’s speaking English, but I don’t understand a word of it. Most of it involves additional devices and setting up networks, which I haven’t had stellar results with. “Why can’t I just run a wire from one box to the other and access the files I want?” “You can but you still have to set up a network.” “But I don’t want to set up a network.” He shrugs. Then, a look creeps across his fish belly white face. I harbored the prayer that there was a simple fix and this has got to be it. “There is a way to just connect them with a wire and do it as simply as you want to.” I knew it! “How?” “Well, it’s a special cable. You pull the hard drive from your old computer and hook it up to the new one.” So now I’m taking apart computers for starters. And that’s simple. “Forget that. Look, you’ve talked with me for ten minutes and have probably figured out that I can barely find the word program on Windows 8. What do you recommend I do?” He suggested buying a wireless router and setting up a network for the transfer. I bought it and came home, but was too drained to attempt to pull the rabbit out of the hat today. The battle rages on.

Leave it at the door

We had a situation on our club web site that fortunately resolved itself. I’m not always that lucky and sometimes have to take action. One person posted a message and another, who differs from the first in the political spectrum, used the opportunity to get in a dig. Not even those who fall in that political camp deemed it appropriate. We’re about fun and people don’t want others dragging their own issues onto the stage. Leave it at the door. I wasn’t so fortunate on a recent group trip. There were a few instances where people chose to reflect their issues, making the group uncomfortable. They did it under the guise of “just kidding,” “it needed to be asked or pointed out,” or some other ruse, but no one is fooled by the thinly veiled acrimony. A number of the participants came to me to express how uncomfortable this made them feel. In one case, it was far from the first offense and I banned that person from future events. I don’t know what they were thinking. Was it that they imagined the group would turn against someone who had gone to considerable trouble and expense for their benefit and embrace those who offered absolutely nothing except negatives and disruption? Fat chance. Sometimes you have to clean up the mess, although I know leaders who won’t. You have to consider the welfare of the group. If someone attacks me on our web site, another web forum or whatever, I generally ignore it and leave them out on the limb looking foolish. Few, if any, take the message to reflect on the target. Rather, they look at it as the message poster having a problem. Therefore, I usually don’t care. But, if I receive feedback that it’s upsetting the group, I have little choice but to take action. Today, the target made the person introducing the issue look even more inane, so I didn’t have to do anything. I don’t kid myself that will be the last of it. Issues people don’t seem to take the cue. Do yourself a favor. Before you drag your issues into a situation where they are unwelcome, leave it at the door. You don’t want to look like “that guy.”

Resumption of the war with computers

Up to this point I’ve more than less accepted responsibility for my computer challenges. It’s a combination of my own quirks and being a product of another age. But, no more. I’ve been too conciliatory about this. It’s time to come out and state the unassailable truth. And that would be that the people who create hardware and software possess the communication skills of a block of quartz. I hope I’m not being ambiguous about my position. I recently had to change computers. I put it off as long as possible, but the hard drive was sending signals that it was about to put itself into a hospice. I could’ve performed an organ transplant, updating a few other components in the process, but the effort would be on a par with migrating to a new one. And, you still wind up with a box that’s a few years, which is to say, prehistoric in the IT world. Selecting and setting up the new system was one of the more traumatic episodes of my life. I’d rather sandpaper a rabid panther’s anus in a phone booth, but wasn’t granted the choice. I won’t impose upon you with the protracted saga of sorrows, but will select one minuscule sliver that exemplifies the whole. I had saved most of my program disks in a more or less (mostly less) organized fashion. But, moving to Windows 8 nullified some of them, in spite of assurances from the publishers to the contrary. Some offered solutions that “incomprehensible” wouldn’t begin to describe. If I was capable of understanding these technical gyrations, much less performing them, I would’ve built my own equipment and written the software. In this isolated case I’m using to embody the overall experience, I gave up and bought a new program. The gaudy box promised not only the original content (scant, if the truth be told, which they chose not to do), but that I could obtain a thousand times that as a bonus by visiting their web site, free of charge. Do people still believe anything is free? This is obviously a ploy to coerce my personal data for future promotion. So, I loaded the software, in spite of the fact that the process barely resembled the instructions, which appeared to apply to some previous version. Along the way, I was presented with numerous decisions in a language that resembled English only in the characters it employed. Most choices were made with the flip of a quarter. With a little trial and error, and the better part of an hour, it seemed to be functioning. The program included a video “tutorial” which essentially said that they really couldn’t explain anything in ten minutes and I’d have to go to the voluminous manual on their site to accomplish much beyond opening the program. Of course, I’d have to register (provide personal information) to access that. Having attained “liftoff,” it was time to collect the freebie. I clicked the button on the screen and was whisked to the site. As anticipated, it required the surrendering of my name and other particulars. Having defeated me on that account, they graciously flashed the screen with the promised bonus content. But, it showed only a “buy now” button. I backed up and repeated the approach several times to ascertain if I had missed a fork in the road. Not so. I crept into the purchase process to see if a free option emerged. The only possibility I could detect was the box for a coupon code. I turned the software carton inside out but could locate no coupon. So, I clicked the customer service tab. As is usually the case, they tried to deflect me to a FAQ solution, which I wrestled with for a while. Finding no joy there, I drilled down until they relented with a contact page. They are always reluctant to allow you to communicate with the man behind the curtain. I filled in the blanks and clicked send. The button faded but nothing else happened until the page timed out. I repeated the process several times with the same result. I searched the web for a solution. I didn’t find one but did locate a forum of rants which contained a customer service email address. I used that and, miracle of miracles, received the automated response that I would get a real response in the near future. Wonders haven’t ceased. The next day, I got an email that directed me to one of several incomprehensible lines in the set-up instructions. It had no description or label, so how would anyone know it was a coupon code? I returned to the purchase process and inserted the code. The page liked it and gave me the go ahead to download, which I did. It showed one of those progress meters but didn’t divulge where it was downloading to. No additional content showed up in my computer’s files. It’s a new computer so it isn’t like it could be a needle in a haystack. Back to the customer service email. The response was that at the bottom of the download page, which you would have to scroll down to see and who does that, there is a line that tells you what file it’s going to (which is buried deep within the purchased program) and gives you the option of it then automatically loading into the software I had purchased. I found the line, in a font readable only with an electron microscope. Having not seen it, I hadn’t checked the box that would’ve executed the next step of adding it to the program menu. Back to my new friend in customer service. He instructed me to unzip it, saving it to a file within the program, specifying the exact name of that file. After some gyrations with Windows 8, it finally coughed up the documents page and I could find no such folder. But, there was a similar one that contained the other initially provided content, so I unzipped and downloaded to it. Fine, but it still didn’t show up on the program menu. I hated to bother my new friend in customer service, but had no choice. He said I had to find the “add” button in the program and specify that file. I did and added that file. Or, thought I did. It did not appear in the menu. I repeated a couple times with no success. More correspondence with customer service. It would’ve been helpful if he had passed along all the steps up front. I could almost hear the sigh in his email. He said it would be called ______ in the menu, a name different from the file. And how is anyone supposed to connect those dots? So, problem solved. But wait, as they say on TV ads, don’t respond yet. There’s more. The package had contained a second disk with more bonus content. I loaded that and an additional program icon appeared on my desktop. Huh? It had loaded the free trial version of the program, not additional content as the disk was labeled. Just what I needed, a duplicate to eat up drive space. Well, not a duplicate since the trial version was so prosaic as to almost have no function. Loading just one program consumed the equivalent of a lip-biting workday. You can extrapolate to imagine the entire process. Now, all that remains is mastering Windows 8. If that works out, I’ll shoot for creating peace in the Middle East.

Closure

If you’ve had your fill of my pre-trip babbling, especially about gear issues, you won’t like this. Bail out now and save yourself. I achieved closure today with a trip to the tailor to pick up something I left for alteration. The saga began late last summer, during my trip to Alaska. There is an affliction I coined Guide Fever. When people engage an outfitter to take them on a wilderness trek, they tend to assume that the gear employed by the guide is the ultimate. When they return to civilization, they rush out to buy duplicates of whatever the guide wore or used. Some of the participants of this trip fell prey to that. I did not succumb, although I won’t claim it was because of strength of resolve. The guides actually had pretty crappy stuff. The crew of the boat that shuttled us out to our launch point has some flashy duds but, in the absence of making a guest appearance on “Deadliest Catch,” I saw little point in following their lead on extreme foul weather gear. My Achilles Heel did not emerge until the end of the trip when we boarded a bus that would take us from Seward back to Anchorage. There, I encountered a young man wearing the absolutely coolest hiking pants I have ever laid eyes upon. They bore a couple graphic icons but no wording that would reveal the brand. I didn’t hesitate to ask him. He smiled pleasantly and responded in a language that might’ve been English. The German, Austrian Dutch or whatever accent was far too thick for me to discern. I feigned partial deafness (not a stretch for me) and repeated the question. He repeated the smile and response. I returned the smile, just as though I understood. I turned to my companions and asked what he had said. They laughed and shrugged. Rats! The unresolved issue nettled me. And, I’m not one who surrenders easily. When I got home, I did web searches for “hiking pants,” appending the name of various countries. It was an arduous task but I finally surfaced the page of a manufacturer that displayed the product I sought. It was not in English, but that hardly mattered. I could apply a translation option but that would do little good if the product wasn’t available here. So, the next search was the brand name with “U.S.” appended. Darn few outlets came up and those that did asked stroke-inducing prices. With so few outlets on this side of the pond, discount sources were unlikely. I tried, but came up empty. There was no way I was going to pay a healthy three-figure price for a pair of hiking pants. So, I reluctantly curtailed the search. I am on a restricted list of people who receive weekly (more or less) notifications of discounts on quality outdoor goods. A couple weeks ago, and much to my surprise, this brand showed up. I feverishly clicked through to that page and found a variety of their products at substantial discount. Eureka, the mother lode! I decided on a pair of pants. The waist sizes were provided but not the inseam. This is an issue for me because manufacturers seem to think I should have longer legs for my girth. Their minimum inseam is usually a couple inches too long. So, I’m well familiar with the options. If they have the adjustable cuffs, I can cinch those down and go with a baggy look in the legs. If not, I can roll up the cuffs or go to the expense of a tailor. Or, I can do some Kentucky tailoring (walk around in them until the excessive material shreds away). The pants arrived last week and I eagerly pulled them on, expecting the two-inch surplus of leg. Wrong. They must assume that someone of my width jumps center for the Lakers. If the legs had been an inch longer, the cuffs would’ve been in another room. So, it was off to the tailor. I picked them up today, ending the epic quest on a high note. Wait, not so fast. I wash clothing before putting it into service. I located the laundry warning tag. Yes, it had the universal symbols. Unfortunately, four lines of them, each contradicting the others. Under each one was a line of a different language. Do laundry practices vary by country? Doesn’t matter. None of the languages was English so I have no idea which applies. It never ends.

Qualms

Last week, I vowed not to buy any more outdoors clothing or equipment. And, every week before that. Vowing and doing are two different things. Unfortunately (or fortunately), my endless quest for upgrades at discount prices has landed me on a few lists. Yeah, I receive promotions from all the catalog people, but this is beyond that. These appear to be a bit more selective and give you first crack at prime goods. Very little in the way of pink sandals or camouflage toothbrushes. I’m guessing they do a merge-purge of multiple buyer lists and cull the volume buyers. The stuff is way cool and at excellent pricing. But, I still try to resist. Last week, I weakened. The item practically jumped off the screen. It was the ultimate I’ve seen in its genre of outerwear. It screamed for action. I drew my credit card in a movement that would’ve awed the Sundance Kid. It arrived today and I was elated that it lived up to its billing. That is, at first blush. You’ve probably seen those lists of reasons you should wash a new garment before you wear it. I’m not sure I buy into all that but why take a chance? So, the new baby needed a bath before I could take it out to do some major profiling. Just to be sure, I checked the tag to see what was verboten. Huh? Hand wash. No washer, no dryer. If it can’t stand up to that, how will it fare in the wilds? What a wuss.

Quiksilver

You wouldn’t expect me to cozy up to Quiksilver, a company that makes skateboarding, snowboarding and surfing products targeted at people about a third of my age. In fact, half the time I’m reading product descriptions, I have to open another window to search for translations of the contemporary argot. I backed into the relationship by coming across a discounted pair of their board shorts, which turned out to be close to the perfect bottoms for paddling. I have since acquired a second pair of the same model and a third they make under a different brand name. And, while this is reason enough to establish an affinity, I just realized, while packing for a trip, that they have provided yet another reason to like them. At the risk of appearing to jump topic, within the past month, I acquired a couple pairs of pants. While the manufacturers were different, they were both more age-appropriate for me than Quiksilver. I didn’t realize until I received the products that there was some elastic built into the waistbands, enabling them to reach beyond the designated size. What’s the message there? It’s either, “you’ll let yourself go to pot before these pants wear out” or “you’re probably one of those people who deludes himself and orders smaller.” While there may be some practical thought behind it, I’m not wild about the implications. On the other hand, the Quiksilver shorts come with two sets of eyelets with the laces threaded through those further apart. The message there is “we think you’ll get even more buff.” How can you not like these guys? Or, maybe it’s just that I’m into my pre-trip displacement activity writing (babble).

Know Your Why

I was browsing the aisles of a sporting goods store when a spritely, young employee bounded up to me. “Can I help you with anything?” she bubbled. I was about to reply in the negative but pointed to the wording on the front of a shirt. “KNOW YOUR WHY.” “You can interpret that for me.” She looked at me as though I was a mummy just emerging from numerous centuries in the depths of a tomb. Maybe she wasn’t that far off. “RGIII said that. It means if you know why you’re doing something, like working out, you’re more likely to succeed at it.” Her visage transformed into one in awe of the sagacious wisdom emanating from the young quarterback/philosopher. I restrained my reflex of responding with a sardonic observation of my own and thanked her for the help. Actually, as workout slogans go, it’s not bad. “Just do it.” This would be the inverse of the above. I understand that it’s intended to move you past excuses and rationalizations to a starting point, but I need reasons. I like to know why, for example, I should change my oil at 3,000 miles, avoid swimming for an hour after meals and pass a healthcare act without knowing the content. “Train like your worst enemy is watching you.” Can’t think of who that might be or why I would care. Since leaving the competitive business world, I’m a little weak on making enemies. I head a couple organizations and the lead dog almost always gets targeted by head cases and losers who equate that position with their fathers, exes or whatever, but they don’t matter. This one does nothing for me. “No pain, no gain.” I bought into this mantra decades ago, which is why every workout I do now involves a great deal of pain. It doesn’t work because, at this stage of the game, pain could easily mean injury, which could suspend workouts for weeks or even months. Then, there’s the challenge of starting up again. I’m more of a “no pain, no problem” person, now. “Defend this House.” What house and how does a half hour on the elliptical keep it safe? “What the mind believes, the body achieves.” My body is more inclined to say, “Good luck with that one.” “The finish line is just the beginning of a new race.” You mean, I have to do this again? “Strong is what happens when you run out of weak.” Not even sure I know what that means. “To show everyone who said I can’t that I can.” Sorry, doesn’t work for the inwardly directed. “If it’s worth having it’s worth fighting for.” Or, delegating the fighting part to someone else. “To see what your body was intended to look like.” I have old photos of me as a young child and the original intent seemed to be along the lines of a cherub, to cast it in a positive light. I’ve been working against the plan my whole life. “To wake up and feel fierce.” I’ll settle for Part A. “To be confident enough to run in only a sports bra and shorts.” No amount of working out will get me there. All that aside, and getting back to the opening concept, why do I do it? Not an easy question to answer. I feel better about myself and everything else. Why? I don’t know. It might be because I feel more energized, stronger, etc. than my age. Or, maybe that it helps me enjoy other activities. Possibly, it’s part of my programming from starting out in organized sports at an early age. It’s something you’re supposed to do like other people might view going to church, sending greeting cards or changing their sheets. Was there ever a slogan that stayed with me? I had a coach who quoted Field Marshal Alexander Suvorov, “Train hard, fight easy.” I found that applied far beyond the sidelines of a playing field.

It's who not where

I was getting suited up in the locker room when a guy came out of the shower and began to dress. He gave me one of those uber-friendly greetings. Not part of my repertoire but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. I assumed he was looking for more than a grunt in acknowledgement so I scanned his belongings for a clue. A racket. I asked him if he had a good game. That seemed to puzzle him momentarily as he appeared lost in thought. “You know, I think I did okay. For me, it’s not about that. It’s a little about the exercise and a lot about the camaraderie. Great people. Does that make sense?” “Perfect sense.” Over the past few months, I’ve given almost a half dozen talks about kayaking. These included video of various trips I’ve been on. In every case, the same question emerged, “Where was your favorite trip?” My stock answer is that the trips are like your children. They’re all different and there are no favorites. But, in fact, there were some I enjoyed more than others. Citing them wouldn’t answer the question about preferred location, however. It was more a question of who than where. A few weeks ago, I did a paddling trip, island-to-island in the British Virgin Islands. It was a diverse group but the chemistry was incredible. We’re still emailing almost on a daily basis. This week, we had a pre-trip meeting for an upcoming group trip to Florida. For the participants, it’s a chance to ask questions and get a better sense of the trip. For me, it’s an opportunity to get a feel for the group. Will they mesh? Is anyone likely to be a disruptive factor? I’m very happy to say it’s a good group and I anticipate having a blast. To some extent, it’s self-selective. Balanced people are more comfortable with balanced people and issues people tend to gravitate to their own kind. But, as a trip leader, you have to be aware of the problem children and draw the line for them. It only takes one to diminish the experience for everyone. So, I understood what the guy in the locker room was saying. It isn’t where or what. It’s who.

It's not easy being me

I spoke too soon. That is, when I wrote about it being a breeze to pack for the upcoming kayaking trip through the Virgin Islands. With the short pack list and temps not varying much away from 80 day or night, it’s simple. If you’re not me. I am me. So, it’s not enough to cull out the few required items. They have to be the ones just perfect for the trek. Let’s begin with the prosaic two bathing suits. You take two and alternate from day to day. What’s the problem? The problem is, I think. I think that the leg length should be long enough to protect my lily white thighs from tropical rays, but not so long I can’t hike them up to answer nature’s call. I think that there will be ample shelling opportunities and I need voluminous pockets to squirrel away the treasures. I think that the mesh liner shouldn’t be too coarse because I’ll be sitting on it for long hours. I think I think too much. From years of power sailing, power boating, paddling and even swimming, I own quite an array of the product. The angst is in selecting a couple pair that will suffice as opposed to scouring the web for the perfect match to specifications. So, let’s think about the two synthetic long sleeve t-shirts. I have no shortage of these, except I equate long sleeves with chilly weather. So, mine tend to be dark of color and heavy of weight. I can see why I’d want to at least start with longs sleeves. But, am I paying all that airfare to come back with no tan? You can only push sleeves up so far. And, what about this configuration? A button shirt would provide more opportunity to adjust ventilation and has a collar to turn up should the neck begin to broil. The buttons might be uncomfortable under a lifejacket. There is some leeway here because something “to wear around camp” is also on the list. So, I could slot the button shirt there and use it as needed. Of course, if I wear it to paddle, it probably won’t be in good shape for camp or hiking into the small towns (bars) that exist on a few of the remote islands. A hat. What could be simpler? A baseball cap is about as prosaic as you can get and it packs easily. But, should I take one that wicks away sweat or that provides protection from rain? Or, bump it up to a full brim for protection of the ears and neck? I can envision days of high winds, so I’ll need a means to secure whichever mode I go with. The sandals actually provide an oasis of serenity in all this. The pair I use for paddling are also good for hiking around. I spent several days digging deep into closets and drawers to amass piles of candidates, sorted by category. Then commenced the arduous task of elimination. It starts easy but gets extremely difficult to make those final cuts. Days later, that’s completed and I’m looking at a few small piles on the sofa. I try to slam the brakes on my brain, but it’s thinking again, generating all kinds of scenarios where a piece of gear will be rendered useless. What if I drop food on the front of my shirt? If? Look who we’re talking about here. By the end of the first day, you’ll be able to look at me and reel off the complete menu. The temp will be in the eighties. I’m not going to want short sleeves at some point? Items in the reject piles begin to crawl up onto the sofa. I email the guide and ask what size dry bag we’ll be provided with. He responds and I do a test pack. I’m okay. Maybe I should just take my own dry bag to be sure. I’m too much about being sure. This trait creeps over into other prep. I’ll be landing on an island and taking a ferry to a smaller one. There, I will stay the night at an inn before walking to the guide’s office in the morning. I search the web for maps and plot my path from the ferry to the inn and then to the office. It’s only a matter of blocks on each leg and you may even be able to see all the destinations standing in one place, but I map the route. So, we’re good. Are you kidding? I switch over to map sites that also have satellite views, zooming down to street level. I want to be able to recognize landmarks at the turns on my route, as well as the buildings that are my destinations. I now know the small town as well as I know my own neighborhood. That almost makes me feel prepared. In the guide’s response to my question about the dry bag, he added, “Please don’t fail to be at my place on time.” Not a problem. I’ll be sitting on his step before sunrise.

Wisdom

I gave a talk last week and told the audience at the start that I couldn’t even begin to cover all I knew about the subject in an hour. However, I would provide something even better; wisdom. To me, wisdom isn’t knowing the answers. It’s knowing what questions to ask. I tried to illustrate that point but I’m never sure how much registers. As example, some time back I took over a company that refurbished ATMs and sold them to credit unions and small banks. This was a market avoided by the big companies because they’d buy one or two units and it’s difficult to make money at that volume. Shortly after I assumed control, an employee brought me a brochure for a credit union trade show. We barely made money exhibiting at it but it was one of the best marketing efforts we’d had. So, the answer sought was if we would go to it this year or not. The answer was almost irrelevant since the outcome wouldn’t affect our outcomes significantly one way or the other. Instead, I asked the question, how can we reach this market at little or no cost? I won’t bore you with the creative problem solving process. What I arrived at was printing a pamphlet on how small financial institutions could increase their profitability through an ATM program. I told all the state credit union associations that I would make it available as a free public service. All that had to do was let me know how many they wanted for their members. The response was overwhelming. I shipped them in bulk to the associations, who inserted them in their newsletters and other mailers they sent out to their members, which made them look good. It spared me list rental, postage and lettershop expense and, as a big plus, carried the implied endorsement of the associations that mailed them out. Of course, the pamphlet had my company’s logo and contact information. It was a very profitable promotion and didn’t come from having the right answer to the trade show question. It resulted from asking the right question.

No problem

I’m preparing for a trip kayaking from island to island and camping in the Caribbean. It’s being led by a guide and today I received an email from him that had a suggested packing list attached to it. He wrote, “Many people overpack. If you follow my suggestions, you’ll be fine. I hope that won’t be a problem.” I had done some sailing in my youth but that pursuit got put on hold with college, marriage and children. But, in the 80s, I got a potent itch to sail the high seas. I was a member of a club that had nothing to do with this, but I felt out some of the other members about renting a sailboat and plying the clear waters of the Caribbean. I had my crew. The first trip was a success and it became an annual event. However, we sailed a different part of the area each time. The other variance was packing. On the first trip, I crammed a large duffel bag full of clothing only to find I hardly unzipped it after the first day at sea. Lesson learned. On subsequent trips, I took a small gym bag with two bathing suits and an equal number of shirts. At the beginning of each day, I would switch them out. I keystroked my reply to the guide. “No, that won’t be any problem at all.”

Earning it

This morning I did an archeological dig. I found what I was looking for and stuffed it into my gym bag. From the stratum in which it was located, I’d date it somewhere in the Paleolithic Age, or my senior year in high school. The dig was in a closet. I throw away almost nothing. The wheels were set into motion earlier this week at the gym. “Look at that fool,” said Clem, jutting his chin toward a young man strutting around in a college football jersey, or replica thereof. “I’ll bet that pansy has never even worn a cup.” That’s when I thought of Clucker. Well, it was the second time in the past month if you count learning of his death. He lived down the street from me in my youth and we attended the same schools. I thought of no good way to mark his passing until Clem voiced his opinion. What I dug out of my closet was a practice jersey from high school days. I believe the last time I wore it I was with Clucker at the Jersey shore. We had both been on football teams together since grade school. As we neared the end of junior high, his parents invested substantial money in orthodontics and forbade him from engaging in any activity that might jeopardize the results. He felt bad enough having to forgo such male activities and, being the typical Philly adolescents, we didn’t help matters any. He was referred to as “Richie” prior to this. I think you have enough input to noodle out the derivation of his subsequent nickname. Game and practice uniforms were the property of the school. Of course, you wanted one, but stealing a game jersey earned you the death penalty or pretty close to it. On the other hand, practice jerseys got a lot more wear and tear and were cheaper. You might be able to slide by with that, which I did. They were good bait for trolling for girls down the shore, especially if they came from our team. It was late in the summer of ’66 and Clucker and I were working the boardwalk in Wildwood. He ducked into a souvenir shop to score a Coke and I leaned on the railing to scope out targets. I was giving this task a lot of attention and didn’t immediately hear him yelling to me. “C’mere. You gotta see this.” He was waving me toward the store. I followed him in. He led me to a table that was mobbed with teenagers scarfing up shirts with numerals on them, like sports uniforms. While it’s commonplace now, it was virtually unheard of then. “Do you believe this shit? This is completely whipped (an idiom of the time). You oughtta have to earn it,” he grumbled, gesturing toward my jersey. Given that he had been robbed of the chance, this really grated upon him. But, I couldn’t disagree. You earn it running up and down the bleachers in the searing heat of late August when everyone else is lounging by the pool. You earn it after school every day working your butt off and getting screamed at while others are hanging out. And, you earn it on frigid Friday nights when even a minor collision feels like it might shatter a frozen bone. So, to commemorate the life and death of Clucker, I exhumed and wore my practice jersey to the gym today. As luck would have it, Clem took note and I awaited the comment. But, he just grinned and gave me the thumbs up. He knew. In a related note, a few years ago, I noticed my son was wearing the t-shirt of the championship swim team he coaches. Wanting to support the team and take some pride in his accomplishment, I offered to buy one. “You don’t buy these,” he admonished. “You earn them.” You reap what you sow.