Through my various businesses and organizations, I landed on numerous prospect and customer lists. I suppose I could get myself removed, but it helps keep me updated on emerging technologies. Well, about as current as I can get.
Today’s communication from a printer made it worthwhile, if only for the amusement value. It was promoting the use of printing as a medium of prospecting and selling. It was a well thought out treatise on how the most important documents in history were printed on paper, paper is tangible, paper has good retention, etc., etc.
The argument was compelling and the writing finely crafted. And, it probably would’ve been effective had he not sent it out via broadcast email.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
F***book
I previously blogged about the inaccurate stereotype of the grumpy old man. It isn’t me (feel free to differ). I’ve mellowed. The perspective is that time is limited on earth and the things and people who might’ve been worth the bother before carry no weight now.
And yet, some still manage to pierce the wall of indifference. I will grant them recognition for their extraordinary effort.
Taking top prize this week is Facebook, which some refer to, with reason, as F***book. Forget that they change the format, procedures, rules, etc. every seven seconds. That barely qualifies as an annoyance.
Every day, they inundate me with hundreds of friend suggestions. Why do they think I relate to the undertaker in Des Moines? Or, the basket weaver in Saigon? Doesn’t matter.
However, when I come across a fellow kayaker who I share some interest with and hit the friend button, FB grills me about if we are friends, co-workers, etc., warning that I may have my privileges suspended if I’m fishing. Whoa, back up the train!
First of all, upon registration, you ask the purpose of joining FB and include networking as a choice. Isn’t reaching out to those who share your interests networking? You promote FB as a networking tool and then threaten reprisals if I use it as such.
Secondly, what about that undertaker and basket weaver you shoved at me. Not to mention hundreds of others I have little or nothing in common with? FB recommends these complete strangers but warns about attempting to link with those whom I overlap with, under penalty of shutting off my friending and deeming me spam.
On the other end, I get these inquiries about people who have fired off friend request to me. FB is trying to verify that they are friend, co-worker or whatever so they can come down on them if they are not. No thanks. I can make my own decisions and don’t need FB to do it for me. And, I’m not going to abet FB in wreaking havoc on these people attempting to network by denying we have a prior connection. What I am willing to do is report every FB email I receive as spam. Have a taste of your own medicine.
Honorable mention goes to the Canadians, aka off-brand white people. In August, I was driving around Ontario, spreading tourist dollars to bolster their economy. En route, I drove on their equivalent to interstates, although some were designated toll roads.
If there had been a tool booth, I would’ve happily parted with the coin of the realm. But no, there were just signs, stating that they are tracking vehicles and you can save some money by buying a transponder and making it easier on them.
Right. I have to be in Snug Harbour in three hours, but I’m going to pull over, download a transponder application form, find a way to print it out, mail it in and wait at the ramp for the shipment. Get real.
I forgot about it until this week when an invoice arrived (they scan and trace your license plates). It was for $17 in tolls. Fair enough. Plus, $50 for not having a transponder. Tabernac! (Canadian cursing) I’ll gladly pay the toll. But, until you facilitate a reasonable way to pay it or acquire a transponder at the point of entry, you can suck maple syrup before you get the punitive fee.
That out of the way, I’m back to my mellow self.
And yet, some still manage to pierce the wall of indifference. I will grant them recognition for their extraordinary effort.
Taking top prize this week is Facebook, which some refer to, with reason, as F***book. Forget that they change the format, procedures, rules, etc. every seven seconds. That barely qualifies as an annoyance.
Every day, they inundate me with hundreds of friend suggestions. Why do they think I relate to the undertaker in Des Moines? Or, the basket weaver in Saigon? Doesn’t matter.
However, when I come across a fellow kayaker who I share some interest with and hit the friend button, FB grills me about if we are friends, co-workers, etc., warning that I may have my privileges suspended if I’m fishing. Whoa, back up the train!
First of all, upon registration, you ask the purpose of joining FB and include networking as a choice. Isn’t reaching out to those who share your interests networking? You promote FB as a networking tool and then threaten reprisals if I use it as such.
Secondly, what about that undertaker and basket weaver you shoved at me. Not to mention hundreds of others I have little or nothing in common with? FB recommends these complete strangers but warns about attempting to link with those whom I overlap with, under penalty of shutting off my friending and deeming me spam.
On the other end, I get these inquiries about people who have fired off friend request to me. FB is trying to verify that they are friend, co-worker or whatever so they can come down on them if they are not. No thanks. I can make my own decisions and don’t need FB to do it for me. And, I’m not going to abet FB in wreaking havoc on these people attempting to network by denying we have a prior connection. What I am willing to do is report every FB email I receive as spam. Have a taste of your own medicine.
Honorable mention goes to the Canadians, aka off-brand white people. In August, I was driving around Ontario, spreading tourist dollars to bolster their economy. En route, I drove on their equivalent to interstates, although some were designated toll roads.
If there had been a tool booth, I would’ve happily parted with the coin of the realm. But no, there were just signs, stating that they are tracking vehicles and you can save some money by buying a transponder and making it easier on them.
Right. I have to be in Snug Harbour in three hours, but I’m going to pull over, download a transponder application form, find a way to print it out, mail it in and wait at the ramp for the shipment. Get real.
I forgot about it until this week when an invoice arrived (they scan and trace your license plates). It was for $17 in tolls. Fair enough. Plus, $50 for not having a transponder. Tabernac! (Canadian cursing) I’ll gladly pay the toll. But, until you facilitate a reasonable way to pay it or acquire a transponder at the point of entry, you can suck maple syrup before you get the punitive fee.
That out of the way, I’m back to my mellow self.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
So you want to be a CEO
I was treated to dinner tonight by a name you would recognize. He requested confidence, so I won’t even hint at his identity. I will footnote that this struck me as a little odd, considering the notoriety he’s seemed to enjoy, not to mention the large sums of money that went with it.
He’s come to grips with the fact that he’s at the end of that career and is eager to start a new one. He’s creating a company. His lawyer advised him to talk with a number of people about that and I was on the list.
I made a few of suggestions but the basic plan was decide what industry or company he had a passion for and approach an owner about employment that would transition into a buyout, giving him a chance to learn the ropes.
No sale. He wasn’t going to work for someone, he wanted to create his own thing from scratch that reflected him (and his name) and he wanted to do it now. He wasn’t that fussy about what industry and how it was trending, although he would like to do something cool.
There was more to it than that, but here’s what it boiled down to, although I’m not sure he was completely tuned in. He wanted the title of company president, the prestige of that along with being the founder, the corner office with a view and an army of minions poised to do his bidding. Whether or not it made money was almost irrelevant. He had money. Yes, but there’s more prestige in running something profitable.
Okay, this is easy. Kind of like designing a motorcycle that looks as hot as a Ducati but doesn’t have to match it in performance (or even run).
I gave him some basic building blocks of starting a company and asked if he had any questions about that. He wanted to know if I thought he should keep his present car or would a Porsche Panamera or Mercedes S class be more of a CEO image. He didn’t need me. He needed “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
I told him he didn’t have a passion for starting a company, which was what was required. What he wanted was to be a CEO. That didn’t seem to register and he just plowed ahead, almost giddy with the prospects.
When we were wrapping up, he laughed. “One thing I’m not going to miss is the nutty fans, especially the babes who try to latch onto you. Don’t get me wrong. Most of the people are cool, but there’s always a few who are just whacked out. I’ll be glad to move on from that.” Guess again.
I have found over the years that many employees covet the CEO’s position and think it’s all sweetness and light. They have no idea what the trials and tribulations are, especially in this area.
When you’re the CEO, you’re the authority figure. That’s fine, more or less, for the stable minds in the organization, which are the vast majority. But, there are others who have problems with authority. Or, some further out on the bell curve will engage in transference. That is, in their minds, the CEO becomes the former husband who dominated them, the father who never approved, the older sibling who bullied or some other figure who evokes inappropriate emotion and behavior.
I gave him the brief version although I don’t think it took root. In his eyes, I thought I saw him decorating his new office. Hope it’s big enough for his new fans.
He’s come to grips with the fact that he’s at the end of that career and is eager to start a new one. He’s creating a company. His lawyer advised him to talk with a number of people about that and I was on the list.
I made a few of suggestions but the basic plan was decide what industry or company he had a passion for and approach an owner about employment that would transition into a buyout, giving him a chance to learn the ropes.
No sale. He wasn’t going to work for someone, he wanted to create his own thing from scratch that reflected him (and his name) and he wanted to do it now. He wasn’t that fussy about what industry and how it was trending, although he would like to do something cool.
There was more to it than that, but here’s what it boiled down to, although I’m not sure he was completely tuned in. He wanted the title of company president, the prestige of that along with being the founder, the corner office with a view and an army of minions poised to do his bidding. Whether or not it made money was almost irrelevant. He had money. Yes, but there’s more prestige in running something profitable.
Okay, this is easy. Kind of like designing a motorcycle that looks as hot as a Ducati but doesn’t have to match it in performance (or even run).
I gave him some basic building blocks of starting a company and asked if he had any questions about that. He wanted to know if I thought he should keep his present car or would a Porsche Panamera or Mercedes S class be more of a CEO image. He didn’t need me. He needed “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
I told him he didn’t have a passion for starting a company, which was what was required. What he wanted was to be a CEO. That didn’t seem to register and he just plowed ahead, almost giddy with the prospects.
When we were wrapping up, he laughed. “One thing I’m not going to miss is the nutty fans, especially the babes who try to latch onto you. Don’t get me wrong. Most of the people are cool, but there’s always a few who are just whacked out. I’ll be glad to move on from that.” Guess again.
I have found over the years that many employees covet the CEO’s position and think it’s all sweetness and light. They have no idea what the trials and tribulations are, especially in this area.
When you’re the CEO, you’re the authority figure. That’s fine, more or less, for the stable minds in the organization, which are the vast majority. But, there are others who have problems with authority. Or, some further out on the bell curve will engage in transference. That is, in their minds, the CEO becomes the former husband who dominated them, the father who never approved, the older sibling who bullied or some other figure who evokes inappropriate emotion and behavior.
I gave him the brief version although I don’t think it took root. In his eyes, I thought I saw him decorating his new office. Hope it’s big enough for his new fans.
Not enough of a difference
Some old friends got together for lunch and to get caught up with each other. So, the main topic was what we’ve been doing with our lives.
Jeff wasn’t among us because he was off touring the Greek isles. This trip came hard on the heels of one to New Zealand. Bruce explained that Jeff had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and was making the most of the life her had left. He was dying.
Bruce turned to me. “You’re living the good life. What’s your reason?”
“Same reason. I’m dying. We’re all dying. The only difference is that Jeff has some idea when.”
Not enough of a difference for me.
Jeff wasn’t among us because he was off touring the Greek isles. This trip came hard on the heels of one to New Zealand. Bruce explained that Jeff had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and was making the most of the life her had left. He was dying.
Bruce turned to me. “You’re living the good life. What’s your reason?”
“Same reason. I’m dying. We’re all dying. The only difference is that Jeff has some idea when.”
Not enough of a difference for me.
Sunday, October 09, 2011
Weird
Thursdays were pretty intense at high school football practice. One day before the weekly game and players and coaches were ramping up into a frenzy. Thursdays were the days we had the most fights in practice. Thursdays were the days you could get a hard kick in the ass from a coach. Literally. Things were different then.
The blood was in the water and we smelled it. This is not a drill. The ears were laid back and the teeth were bared. Snap your chinstrap baby ‘cause I’m comin’ for ya.
So, it didn’t pass without notice when the head coach left the field about a half hour into practice one Thursday. But, notice was about all we gave it. There was work to be done.
Not long after he disappeared, an assistant coach looked toward the building, nodded and blew his whistle. He told us to double time it into the locker room. Someone asked why and he said because he said to and meant right now. No one was ever too happy after messing with coach Hart, so we ran in.
The head coach was waiting there with a weaselly looking guy with slicked back hair. He could’ve been a mob button man or maybe a repo guy. But, he wasn’t. “Guys, I want you to meet Al Davis. He runs the Oakland Raiders.”
Davis eyed us for a few seconds. “Youse guys are probably wondering what I’m doin’ here,” he said with a heavy Brooklyn accent. “You probably know we drafted Harry, who some of you probably watched play here. Maybe even knew ‘im. Anyway, the minute he put on his cleats, I knew he was Raider material. I asked ‘im where he got his attitude and he told me right here. I told myself the next time I got back east, I was gonna see dis place and here I am.”
There were a few moments of silence before Jerry said, “Forget this happy sh**. We got Wilson coming up tomorrow.”
The coach started forward but Davis held out his hand. He grinned. “That’s the attitude I’m talkin’ about.”
Jerry was a halfback and had all the flab and softness of a leaf spring off a Buick. He was as fit as they come and one of the toughest guys I’ve ever come across. At the end of that brief meeting, Davis told Jerry he’d be keeping an eye on him.
Starting that day, I kept an eye on Davis. I watched him build the winningest franchise in all of professional sports.
Yesterday, Davis died. So did Jerry. Weird.
The blood was in the water and we smelled it. This is not a drill. The ears were laid back and the teeth were bared. Snap your chinstrap baby ‘cause I’m comin’ for ya.
So, it didn’t pass without notice when the head coach left the field about a half hour into practice one Thursday. But, notice was about all we gave it. There was work to be done.
Not long after he disappeared, an assistant coach looked toward the building, nodded and blew his whistle. He told us to double time it into the locker room. Someone asked why and he said because he said to and meant right now. No one was ever too happy after messing with coach Hart, so we ran in.
The head coach was waiting there with a weaselly looking guy with slicked back hair. He could’ve been a mob button man or maybe a repo guy. But, he wasn’t. “Guys, I want you to meet Al Davis. He runs the Oakland Raiders.”
Davis eyed us for a few seconds. “Youse guys are probably wondering what I’m doin’ here,” he said with a heavy Brooklyn accent. “You probably know we drafted Harry, who some of you probably watched play here. Maybe even knew ‘im. Anyway, the minute he put on his cleats, I knew he was Raider material. I asked ‘im where he got his attitude and he told me right here. I told myself the next time I got back east, I was gonna see dis place and here I am.”
There were a few moments of silence before Jerry said, “Forget this happy sh**. We got Wilson coming up tomorrow.”
The coach started forward but Davis held out his hand. He grinned. “That’s the attitude I’m talkin’ about.”
Jerry was a halfback and had all the flab and softness of a leaf spring off a Buick. He was as fit as they come and one of the toughest guys I’ve ever come across. At the end of that brief meeting, Davis told Jerry he’d be keeping an eye on him.
Starting that day, I kept an eye on Davis. I watched him build the winningest franchise in all of professional sports.
Yesterday, Davis died. So did Jerry. Weird.
Friday, October 07, 2011
Aliens
There’s a scene in “Men in Black” where K is telling J that aliens have lived among us for some time and shows him a split screen of some of the wackier celebrities, politicians, etc. The implication is that they’re obvious if you give them any thought.
But, that’s fiction. The part about those people, I mean. In reality, there are aliens among us and I know who they are.
I returned to the gym today after a week’s vacation (and a couple days to recover from the vacation). While I was gone, someone evidently added a few pounds to each weight plate and lengthened the running track. Fifteen minutes into the workout, I was sweating enough to float an aircraft carrier.
I heard a greeting. Wiping the burning sweat from my eyes, I was able to make out Ed standing in front of me. He was returning from two weeks of vacation travel.
He told me he was signed up for one of those team races the coming weekend where you cover ridiculous distances with various forms of human powered locomotion in an attempt to generate extreme pain and induce cardiac arrest. And, you get a t-shirt. His partner became disabled (gee, what are the odds?) and he wanted to know if I would sub.
Here’s a guy who’s been off his program twice as long as I have (although I spent my week as though the plane was going down) and he’s ready to go out and pump his limbs across half a small state. It’s going to take me a month just to get back to where I can make the control panel on the stationary bike light up.
He’s not the only one. Another friend who doesn’t train at all, as far as I know, called me last year and asked what I was doing that weekend. I told him I was competing in an open water swim across the Ohio River and back. He said that sounded like it could be a hoot and asked how he could sign up.
I trained for six months and my heart was about punching through my chest at the finish line. He had no preparation and not only finished, but beat me. And then, I crawled out of the water and found him trying to pick up the woman who had driven me to the race.
When I was in high school, I competed in water polo during the summer, up until football practice started in August. Water polo is somewhere between sprint swimming and wrestling, making it an exhausting workout. The first week of football practice included running up and down the bleachers in the heat of the day. Gary, who spent his summers working in a frozen custard stand, would lap me on the stands, barely breathing hard.
Humans, like me, sweat, strain and grunt to achieve some small measure of muscle tone and endurance, however fleeting. These others, my friends, are the aliens.
But, that’s fiction. The part about those people, I mean. In reality, there are aliens among us and I know who they are.
I returned to the gym today after a week’s vacation (and a couple days to recover from the vacation). While I was gone, someone evidently added a few pounds to each weight plate and lengthened the running track. Fifteen minutes into the workout, I was sweating enough to float an aircraft carrier.
I heard a greeting. Wiping the burning sweat from my eyes, I was able to make out Ed standing in front of me. He was returning from two weeks of vacation travel.
He told me he was signed up for one of those team races the coming weekend where you cover ridiculous distances with various forms of human powered locomotion in an attempt to generate extreme pain and induce cardiac arrest. And, you get a t-shirt. His partner became disabled (gee, what are the odds?) and he wanted to know if I would sub.
Here’s a guy who’s been off his program twice as long as I have (although I spent my week as though the plane was going down) and he’s ready to go out and pump his limbs across half a small state. It’s going to take me a month just to get back to where I can make the control panel on the stationary bike light up.
He’s not the only one. Another friend who doesn’t train at all, as far as I know, called me last year and asked what I was doing that weekend. I told him I was competing in an open water swim across the Ohio River and back. He said that sounded like it could be a hoot and asked how he could sign up.
I trained for six months and my heart was about punching through my chest at the finish line. He had no preparation and not only finished, but beat me. And then, I crawled out of the water and found him trying to pick up the woman who had driven me to the race.
When I was in high school, I competed in water polo during the summer, up until football practice started in August. Water polo is somewhere between sprint swimming and wrestling, making it an exhausting workout. The first week of football practice included running up and down the bleachers in the heat of the day. Gary, who spent his summers working in a frozen custard stand, would lap me on the stands, barely breathing hard.
Humans, like me, sweat, strain and grunt to achieve some small measure of muscle tone and endurance, however fleeting. These others, my friends, are the aliens.
Thursday, October 06, 2011
Popcorn
If money was no object. We’ve heard the phrase many times but it’s never been the case for me. Even at the peaks of my entrepreneurial career when I indulged myself somewhat, I never let go of my blue collar roots. I always think I could be back to living on pork n’ beans tomorrow, so I keep a good cushion for a soft landing. And, as I’ve aged, material things mean much less compared to the true joys of life.
But, I have had a taste of the high life now and then. This past week was the latest.
I had visited the enclave of the Midwestern very rich decades ago. I was starting a business and went to visit a potential investor at his place in northern Michigan. He picked me up at a small airport and drove miles up the coast, turning down a long driveway with overarching trees. That led to a house on the lake with a dock out back, equipped with runabout, sailboat, jet ski and a few other water toys. We entered and I was struck by the high ceilings, rich woodwork, polished marble, beveled glass and other details that are usually too expensive to be from the present day. “I hope you don’t mind being quartered in the guest house,” he intoned seriously. This was the guest house? It was about double the size of anywhere I had lived. I won’t even attempt a description of the palatial principal residence.
Nor will I try to describe the lifestyle, other than to say that you do nothing for yourself that a small army of help couldn’t do for you. And, that no item, no matter how prosaic, escapes the quest for the best. I can live without gold plated bathroom fixtures but apparently they can’t.
That was a little more extreme than last week, but was good preparation for it. The home became available for our use through an acquaintance of my traveling companion. It lies within the bounds of a gated community in a posh area of northern Michigan. Like many such communities I’ve seen, this one had its own golf course. Unlike some, it also had its own riding stables. Wait, I’m not done. It backed up to and included several mountains (such as mountains are in that area) and had its own ski slopes and lifts. You could practically walk out your back door and be swept up to the summits.
That’s why it was available now. The owner skis, but doesn’t indulge in the other activities. It’s a different mindset to plop down few million on a place you’ll use only a portion of the year.
One of the first things my companion wanted to do was to go into town to shop. Okay. She’s the host. I’ll play. She might’ve sensed my slightly less than enthusiastic reaction because she added, “They have an outdoors store.” Now we’re rockin’.
We entered a clothing store and she went left to the women’s section. I went right and was scanning the sports shirts, looking for something that wasn’t well into three figures.
An elegant woman approached and asked if she could help me. “Yeah, tell me why this shirt is worth $250.”
From her expression, you might think I had asked why water feels wet. “Why it’s a (brand I’ve never heard of and don’t recall).”
I could’ve pointed out it was still just cotton, dye, etc., but it was obvious I still just wouldn’t get it. She moved on to more promising prospect.
We wended our way through a few more such shops and finally arrived at the promised pot of gold. The outfitter. I managed not to trample my friend entering, but just.
It was unlike any outdoors store I had ever seen. To begin with, there weren’t the usual stacks of clothing. Everything was artfully laid out like a high end department store. The brands were not only the top echelon but the highest strata of those lines. While my closet does contain some of these logos, it’s invariably because I bought them through one of the liquidation sites carrying last year’s designs at clearance pricing.
This was heaven. But, the price tags were hell. The standard (for this village) impeccable clerk inquired if she could be of assistance. “Do you have discount racks with season-end stuff?” I thought I detected a flinch at either “discount” or “racks.”
“We don’t usually mark down. But you might find something of interest there.” She indicated a single display. At my customary Bass Pro of Dick’s Sporting Goods store, there would be multiple racks and tables of clearance items. Here there were a few lowly remnants on a table off to the side. I found one very cool jacket in my size that was discounted a hundred bucks. I didn’t need it but how cool would that be? I mustered up my self control and moved on.
I arrived at the paddling department, the Holy Grail. Inventory was sparse, perhaps making room for the upcoming ski season. However, there was one outstanding example of the British kayak industry. $3,900. “She’s beauty, isn’t she?” I turned to find a man who I would learn was the owner of the store and a fellow paddler.
“To say the least. Any wiggle room in the price?”
He smiled. “I think I know why you’re asking but, no. Around here, people buy those boats like popcorn. In this town, those are the expensive kayaks.” He indicated a couple cedar strip boats with intricate inlays that carried five figure price tags.
We chatted a bit, exchanging paddling experiences, but it was time for me to go. The jacket still loomed in my mind and I grabbed it before good sense could reassert itself.
I was getting rung up when a woman breezed by the counter. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt (albeit of a designer origin) and jewelry worth more than my first house. “Have those skis and boots sent to the house, Gina. And, by the way, Justin is getting ready to go back to school in Florida and he’d probably like that pretty blue kayak (the $3900 one). Have that sent over, too.” Apparently people like her don’t have to be rung up, much less carry their goods.
And, around here, people buy those boats like popcorn.
But, I have had a taste of the high life now and then. This past week was the latest.
I had visited the enclave of the Midwestern very rich decades ago. I was starting a business and went to visit a potential investor at his place in northern Michigan. He picked me up at a small airport and drove miles up the coast, turning down a long driveway with overarching trees. That led to a house on the lake with a dock out back, equipped with runabout, sailboat, jet ski and a few other water toys. We entered and I was struck by the high ceilings, rich woodwork, polished marble, beveled glass and other details that are usually too expensive to be from the present day. “I hope you don’t mind being quartered in the guest house,” he intoned seriously. This was the guest house? It was about double the size of anywhere I had lived. I won’t even attempt a description of the palatial principal residence.
Nor will I try to describe the lifestyle, other than to say that you do nothing for yourself that a small army of help couldn’t do for you. And, that no item, no matter how prosaic, escapes the quest for the best. I can live without gold plated bathroom fixtures but apparently they can’t.
That was a little more extreme than last week, but was good preparation for it. The home became available for our use through an acquaintance of my traveling companion. It lies within the bounds of a gated community in a posh area of northern Michigan. Like many such communities I’ve seen, this one had its own golf course. Unlike some, it also had its own riding stables. Wait, I’m not done. It backed up to and included several mountains (such as mountains are in that area) and had its own ski slopes and lifts. You could practically walk out your back door and be swept up to the summits.
That’s why it was available now. The owner skis, but doesn’t indulge in the other activities. It’s a different mindset to plop down few million on a place you’ll use only a portion of the year.
One of the first things my companion wanted to do was to go into town to shop. Okay. She’s the host. I’ll play. She might’ve sensed my slightly less than enthusiastic reaction because she added, “They have an outdoors store.” Now we’re rockin’.
We entered a clothing store and she went left to the women’s section. I went right and was scanning the sports shirts, looking for something that wasn’t well into three figures.
An elegant woman approached and asked if she could help me. “Yeah, tell me why this shirt is worth $250.”
From her expression, you might think I had asked why water feels wet. “Why it’s a (brand I’ve never heard of and don’t recall).”
I could’ve pointed out it was still just cotton, dye, etc., but it was obvious I still just wouldn’t get it. She moved on to more promising prospect.
We wended our way through a few more such shops and finally arrived at the promised pot of gold. The outfitter. I managed not to trample my friend entering, but just.
It was unlike any outdoors store I had ever seen. To begin with, there weren’t the usual stacks of clothing. Everything was artfully laid out like a high end department store. The brands were not only the top echelon but the highest strata of those lines. While my closet does contain some of these logos, it’s invariably because I bought them through one of the liquidation sites carrying last year’s designs at clearance pricing.
This was heaven. But, the price tags were hell. The standard (for this village) impeccable clerk inquired if she could be of assistance. “Do you have discount racks with season-end stuff?” I thought I detected a flinch at either “discount” or “racks.”
“We don’t usually mark down. But you might find something of interest there.” She indicated a single display. At my customary Bass Pro of Dick’s Sporting Goods store, there would be multiple racks and tables of clearance items. Here there were a few lowly remnants on a table off to the side. I found one very cool jacket in my size that was discounted a hundred bucks. I didn’t need it but how cool would that be? I mustered up my self control and moved on.
I arrived at the paddling department, the Holy Grail. Inventory was sparse, perhaps making room for the upcoming ski season. However, there was one outstanding example of the British kayak industry. $3,900. “She’s beauty, isn’t she?” I turned to find a man who I would learn was the owner of the store and a fellow paddler.
“To say the least. Any wiggle room in the price?”
He smiled. “I think I know why you’re asking but, no. Around here, people buy those boats like popcorn. In this town, those are the expensive kayaks.” He indicated a couple cedar strip boats with intricate inlays that carried five figure price tags.
We chatted a bit, exchanging paddling experiences, but it was time for me to go. The jacket still loomed in my mind and I grabbed it before good sense could reassert itself.
I was getting rung up when a woman breezed by the counter. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt (albeit of a designer origin) and jewelry worth more than my first house. “Have those skis and boots sent to the house, Gina. And, by the way, Justin is getting ready to go back to school in Florida and he’d probably like that pretty blue kayak (the $3900 one). Have that sent over, too.” Apparently people like her don’t have to be rung up, much less carry their goods.
And, around here, people buy those boats like popcorn.
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