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.