Lesson learned

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. My old truck sold and sold for a price thousands more than the dealers were offering for a trade-in. Tonight, I went out and celebrated the victory. The victory wasn’t that it sold as much as how it sold. It was a celebration of a lesson learned; learned about 40 years ago. It was my first professional job and I was meeting with my boss. He brought up that our sales were running behind budget. I had analyzed that and cited the market conditions that were reasons for it. He had been somewhat reclined in his executive chair, but sat up and leaned toward me. “Dorfman, I don’t hire people to come up with reasons why we’re behind budget. I can get hundreds of people who can do that. I pay people to find ways to hit our numbers.” Message and lesson received. Deciding to sell the truck on my own, as opposed to taking a lowball dealer trade-in price, I had researched the best places to advertise. I came up with three well-rated ones and placed the ads. I anticipated a good response because I had intentionally selected a hot seller when I bought the truck. I gave the ads a week to gain traction but it was tepid, at best. Analysis showed that someone had apparently acquired a number of similar models coming off lease and dumped them on the market. Great timing. But, the lesson is that you don’t sit back and suffer poor outcomes. You do something about it. I started by assessing my “product” and where it had differential advantages. Then, I listed the types of buyers to whom these advantages would have the most appeal. In this case, farmers, boaters, landscapers, trailer campers, etc. Using this template, I compiled an email list and composed a sales email the illustrated how this acquisition was a rare opportunity. The truck sold almost immediately. If you assign outside factors and other people responsibility for your outcomes, you lose. If you take responsibility and control, you win. It’s a lesson that served me well.

And the good news is...

Yes, I’ve been dormant, blogging wise. I’m reminded of an interview of a rock star from the 60s. She said the first album was easy to write. They were living out of a van and subsisting on potato chips. There was plenty of angst to drive the creative process. However, when that album hit big, they were driving Porsches and slurping down caviar. It was tough to write songs of woe and protest. Life is good. I’ve got no complaints. What compels this is more good news. I’m not the least tech-savvy person in the country. I listed a vehicle for sale on the web and received a call this afternoon from a number based in northern Indiana. The caller asked a few questions and, apparently satisfied, told me he was in town for a couple days and would like to look at it. I asked him where he would be coming from so I could give him directions. He described a section of Indianapolis. This puzzled me since I’m in Cincinnati. I informed him of this and it was his turn to be puzzled. As it turns out, he thought that any ads he turned up on the computer at the Indianapolis hotel where he was staying would be for vehicles for sale in Indianapolis. I gladly surrender my crown to him.

A half century of evolution

The summer after I graduated high school, I worked at a chain burger stand. One day, the manager told us he had to go somewhere for a few hours (probably to see his bookie) and to hold down the fort for a couple hours. I was working the fry table (which, back then, involved peeling, slicing and frying) but noticed a few eruptions at the front window. During a lull in the action, I asked the counter guys what was going on. They replied that we were out of cream and the coffee customers were getting pissed off. I asked what they planned to do about it and they looked at each other and then me, like I was the idiot. “I said,” intoned LaForgia with slow emphasis, as though to a small child or foreigner, “we’re out of cream.” Ivecchio chuckled in appreciation of the implied put-down. I could’ve explained that was the problem, not the solution, but I had never seen anyone profit by pointing out the mental shortcomings of these two. Instead, I popped the till, pulled out a one and walked across the street to buy a pint of cream. I returned and handed it to LaForgia. He looked at me as though I had turned water into Merlot. Fast forward a half century. Today, I was with some people and we decided to have an impromptu picnic. We stopped at a big grocery store to get some food at their deli. I ordered a sandwich and asked the woman to put some mustard on it. She informed me they were out of mustard. Out of mustard? Not fifty feet away, there were about 300 jars and squeeze bottles of mustard, but she’s out of mustard. She didn’t appear as lethal as LaForgia so I was about to respond but one of my companions who knows me pretty well dug her fingertips into my arm. A half of century of evolution and I’m not seeing any progress.

Garbage

I was in the waiting room of a car dealership while my car was being serviced. Two of the other customers started discussing the recent suicide of a young man. They exchanged “things they heard.” This rankled me but, recognizing what quality level of primates who fabricate and promulgate rumor, I didn’t think it would do any good to correct the information. While the mongers don’t merit any notice, I have personal knowledge of the young man, so it was irritating. What makes this so strident is that no one saw it coming. He was a splendid example of a young man. There were no mood swings, inappropriate anger, impulsive behavior, delusions, paranoia, instability or other symptoms of serious mental illness. The inexplicability creates a lack of closure, at least for me. He was just plain good and deserved much better. Certainly better than having garbage spreading unfounded aspersions about him.

Group

I was hanging out with some acquaintances and one seemed antsy. Finally, she excused herself because she needed to decide what food to prepare for a party and make it. I asked what kind of party. It was the graduation party for her anxiety group. So, you’re agonizing over what to bring to…never mind. Stranger things have happened in and with group therapy. I ran a nonprofit mental health/drug & alcohol clinic for eight years. If a group was short on participants, the therapist would grab me to bring it up to critical mass (I usually worked late and was handy for them). There was no violation of privacy or anything as the therapist would identify me and get permission from the group. I haven’t encountered many outsiders who know much more about group therapy than the term. The advantages that most professionals in the field list are hope (participants can see others who have advanced in their healing), help from those who’ve “been there,” feeling that you’re not alone, catharsis and existential factors (group support and direction leads people to recognize they are responsible for their own actions and choices, as well as the results of them). To me, the last one is an important one because the weight of the group can sometimes accomplish this better than a single therapist. You can experience that single therapist’s frustration as part of a group and understand why their burnout rate is so high. I’ll illustrate two of the most common scenarios. They’re common enough in group situations that there’s no chance it will identify an individual. A man beats his wife for having dinner on the table a little late, maybe for the third or fourth time. He gets arrested. He’s enraged. Why did they arrest me? She made me do it! To this type of mind, he had no responsibility in this for his actions. She brought it on, not him, so she’s the one responsible for it. Yeah, there are people who dismiss their own responsibility for their actions like that (more than you want to know) and it takes a ton of effort to get them to see the light, if that ever happens. A variation of this shifting of reponsibility goes something like the estranged husband leaves a death threat on the woman’s answering machine. She calls the police and he’s arrested. He’s furious because she caused his arrest. In his mind, it’s not that he threatened her that caused his problems. It’s that she called the cops. She caused his problems. He had nothing to do with it. He did nothing wrong. Just so I’m not weighting the gender scale, a woman complained that her husband always yells at her when she doesn’t pay the bills and they get nailed with late fees and interest (she insists on handling the checkbook). Some probing revealed this occurs about four out of every six months. In her mind, he’s the problem and the only problem. So, if you’re in a lot and you park a wheel on his foot, the problem isn’t you’re crushing his appendage. The problem is he’s yelping about the pain? He’s the problem? By denying her responsibility, you can see that she has little chance of correcting behavior. That’s the problem. These people will have the same issues over and over with different people but they refuse to see that clearly illustrates wherein lies the problem. The group will attempt to play back the described scenario to them to help them grasp reality, but that’s usually met with a dodging of the facts and an attempt to turn it around. “You’re using my own words against me!” That’s the frustration and I pretty much ODed on people on create their own issues and then blame others. I give therapists a lot of credit for coping with this on a full time basis. But, the most exasperating encounter took place outside of group. A woman stormed into my office to complain about the treatment of her adolescent son, who found himself in group as a condition of parole on drug charges. Her complaint was that we stuck him in a group with a bunch of users. I explained that group worked on the principle of interacting with people who shared a common problem, which she dismissed out of hand. That’s what got him in this mess to begin with, associating with users (not his own decisions?). She demanded he be reassigned to another group or she’d sue. Who did she expect to be in a group for addiction therapy, nuns?

Challenges

Related to the two previous postings, I was asked to join the board of an organization that advocates the recreational usage of a particular watercourse. I declined but offered to render some marketing assistance. They were happy to accept and forwarded a draft of a flyer that promotes their next outing on the water for my perusal. It included the following: "*Warning: Ohio EPA recommends no contact with waters of the (deleted) because it has excessive levels of fecal coliform bacteria and other pathogens from time to time, especially within 48 to 72 hours of a rainstorm heavy enough to cause combined sewer overflows along the lower (deleted). It is your personal choice on whether to participate, based largely on the strength of your immune system and your willingness to take a calculated risk. If you have an open cut or weakened immunities, you should not go. We prefer adults, but have allowed youths accompanied by a parent. You will need to be sure-footed in some places. Be ready to climb out of the canoe to get past shallow spots and low-head dams. Potential safety hazards include sudden drop-offs, hidden holes, slippery algae, submerged obstacles and jagged objects. Germicidal gel and a simple first-aid kit will be available." I know I wrote that I’m looking for challenges, but…

Philosophies of aging

I bought a kayak. Okay, that’s hardly a news flash. But this one, a surfski, is a departure from the rest of the fleet, requiring enhancing and adding skills to meet its higher demands. The week prior, a friend bought a sea kayak of commodious proportions and ease. He’s a bit younger than me. I took care not to react critically, although he must’ve picked up some reaction. “At least I didn’t go to the expense of getting a wide boat made from composite.” I wasn’t thinking that or anything critical. More like I was musing about the difference in philosophies with neither being exclusively correct. He’s looking to make things easier in his “declining years” (wait till he’s my age). I get it. But, a race driver doesn’t take his/her foot off the gas in the final laps and neither do I. I have things to accomplish and learn before I cross that finish line. If I’m not moving up, it’s not living. But, that’s just my opinion.

Boards

In the past three months, I’ve been invited to come on as many boards. I take such things seriously and declined in each case. If I don’t have the fire in the belly for it and won’t give a hundred percent, I don’t think it’s right to occupy a chair. The concept of boards for organizations and companies looks great on paper. Unfortunately, it often smashes upon the rocks of reality. A board should be an independent group of people who oversee the management of the entity, ensuring that business is conducted in a competent, moral and legal manner, congruent with the bylaws and mission. I see two areas where this often breaks down, starting with “independent.” CEOs sometimes sit on each other’s board. The tacit agreement is that, “I’ll support you in your company if you return the favor.” Or, the pay and/or prestige is attractive enough that the board member will accept the position with an understanding that he/she will not be intrusive and will rubber stamp whatever management wants. In any case, the required independence and objectivity is undermined. Somewhat related is that many people want and seek board positions for the prestige and perceived power, or how it dresses up a resume. However, they are unwilling to put in the requisite time and effort for delving into the entity and its field. Or, they are averse to challenging anything an established CEO cares to do. The result of the dilettante boards is the management can essentially operate without accountability. That’s why you constantly see management of charitable organizations lavishing excessive salaries and perks upon themselves or companies marketing substandard products. I believe that what is at the root of this is director & officer liability insurance. Coverage is almost of a blanket extent, protecting lapses in responsibility. In other words, there isn’t much downside in being lax or compliant. The solution is to restrict the limits of that protection so a director does have skin in the game. I believe that would eliminate those who take the appointments or duties casually.

Ragtop Man

“I’m a ragtop man.” I uttered that in the mid-sixties and heard it flung back at me in a movie almost 20 years later. I had a band in high school. I also worked in a car shop and drag raced. These two are connected. The members of the band decided we needed a cool vehicle to haul around our stuff. Since I was known for turning junkers into hot rods, all eyes turned to me. Steve, my partner in a variety of creative projects, prevailed upon me to find an old hearse and convert it into our band wagon. He was not very well tuned in because hearses weren’t cheap. We were in the midst of the surfing craze and the surfers were grabbing up hearses to haul their boards. Besides, I had determined that my next project would be a convertible, lusting for the wind blowing through my lush mane (yes, I had hair). I looked Steve in the eye. “I’m a ragtop man.” Steve would go on to be a prominent screenwriter and based a character upon me. I didn’t realize that until Nick Nolte laid the line on Eddie Murphy. I contacted Steve and he admitted using me as the model. When I asked about the possibility of royalties, the story changed to “loosely based upon you.” But, I digress. I didn’t get the convertible, at least not then. A local mob guy was shot in his trusty old limousine and I was able to get it cheap. The body had sat in the car which sat in a garage for an extended period before it was discovered. The weather wasn’t cool. The band usually rode with the windows down in it, regardless of air temperature. Later on, I had the means to be a ragtop man and went through a series of convertibles. But, they fell out of fashion and I was losing my passion for them anyway. Until a few months ago. Something clicked, some switch was thrown or whatever. And, it was a burning for old school. That is, not for some flashy, hey-look-at-me dart but rather just a barge with the top lopped off. This was for me to experience not others to view. I wanted the anti-cool droptop. I began a search. It was hard. Most modern convertibles are models that are trying to be cool. Some of the chic older ones merited preservation and are selling at premium price. But, chic isn’t what I wanted, anyway. I desired the nerd convertible. Hardly anyone bothered to care for them, much less restore them. They were rusting hulks in some field. I watched a movie and there was a squared-off Chevy Cavalier convertible with that hideous safety overreaction roll bar. Perfect. I did a web search of ads. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Ashes to ashes. I continued the search on a sporadic basis. There were hundreds of Mustangs, Eclipses, Miatas and other posers. Ugh. Maybe I had to compromise and change my standards. No, I forged on. Somewhere out there, there was something between the uber-priced classic Buicks and just-too-cute Toyota MR2s. I would find it. Yesterday was just one more of wading through hundreds of ads for effete offerings and I almost missed her. There she was in all her boxy clunkiness, a ’94 Olds Cutlass. A brand society had kicked to the curb. Old enough to depress the price but not so long in the tooth that it commanded classic bucks. Someone had cared for it, even though they had barely driven it (41,000 miles). I contacted the seller, trying to conceal the salivating, and set an appointment for the next day. I didn’t sleep last night, as is my custom. Be careful what you wish for. The phrase I repeated over and over as I drove to the meeting. I had researched the car and made a checklist of weak points to look out for. My greatest fears were confirmed. It was almost perfect. Now, it’s case of thinking it through. Be careful what you wish for.

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.