Tales from a small town

about male singers...

2007-03-07T13:12:00.000-05:00

I have some theories about male singers. I don't pay too much attention to them, with a few noteable exceptions. I think singing is primarily a woman's domain. When you think of singing, you think of something beautiful. Harmony is a form of cooperation. When I think of cooperation, I think it's primarily a female trait. Masculenity and cooperation seem like diametrically opposing traits.

When I think of masculentity, I think of the lone cowboy on the trail, or the lone-wolf in some endeavour. You'll never see two truck drivers wanting to go to the bathroom together for moral support. They're lone-wolves.

The few notable exceptions in male singers and why I think they're notable:

Prince: I don't think he's gay. He may be bi, but I don't think he's gay (and even if he is, he's singing for you - not screwing you, so it doesn't matter). I think he's an extemely talented, driven virtuoso. Men who are jealous that he's scoring hotter chicks than they could ever get: you should be as "gay" as Prince.

Bon Jovi and John Mellencamp: neither one of these guys are what I'd call gifted singers. They're good, but they're not great - at singing. In my opinion, this is what they're great at: putting together a consistent package in terms of combining their looks, image, lyrics and lifestyle, and making all of those things form the tip of the spear that allows them to penetrate the rest of the riff-raff, propelling them to the top. Also, both of these guys have exceptional guitarists - which Bruce Springsteen lacks - or he'd be in the same category.

Bob Segar: gifted. A bit of advice: take some happy pills when writing your songs.

Mick Jagger: gifted.

Robert Plant: not an all-around singer, but no one can mimick a white woman coming to orgasm because of a black man better than you.

Trace Adkins: you suck as a singer, but your lyrics and personality set you apart. I dig the deep voice, I just wish you were on key. Is it too much of your sound engineers to electronically tweak your voice in the studio so at least your recordings are on key?

Micheal McDonald: gifted, but I'd never buy your CDs - but you are gifted.

And last but not least: Taylor Hicks. Everyone is asking, "What happened with him?" I've got a theory: I think he's the kind of guy who's going to do his own thing, regardless of what the contract may have stipulated. If he's not allowed to do his own thing (which it's obvious, he isn't) then I think he'll do as little as he can get away with, and through the goofy grin and likeable personality, tell the powers-that-be to politely fuck off, because I think as long as he can at least make a meager living doing what he loves, he doesn't care about the stardom - which makes me like him that much more than the rest.

Other than these guys (and maybe a few others who didn't get mentioned only because I can't think of them right now) I don't think of singing as a male thing.

I think people of both genders like singers to be hot sirens who can be both passionate and tender - and win the swimsuit competition if they had to.

That's just my theory.

The boys, March 6, 2007

2007-03-07T12:10:00.000-05:00

I didn't pay as much attention the guys.

The first one that came out: Blake Lewis: the human beat-box; he's an awesome performer. He'll wind up in the top 3, for sure.

Sundance Head: you've got potential, but you need a great voice coach. Maybe you should look up Kathrine McPhee's mother. Also, don't listen to your agent when he/she tells you to cry all the time. It looks affected.

Sanjaya: no, no one was surprised at all that you know how to hula. We'd be surprised if you were a soccer hooligan or a rugby player, or if you were ever a rider in a rodeo; but hula dancing fits you all so well. In fact, I don't know who's prettier: you or your sister. I think it would come down to whichever one of you wore a coconut bra the best. In the American Idol competition, stick to the Micheal Jackson, androgonyous nymph-like character, and don't turn your back on it. Micheal Jackson is huge for that reason, and you will be too, if you stick to that formula.

Brandon Rogers: you're a star.

Chris Sligh: you're a star.

The rest of you guys: go home. You suck.

The girls, February 28, 2007

2007-02-28T21:33:00.000-05:00

This is just advise I'd give the contestants after watching the show.

I'm a blue-collar guy with no formal training. If you don't like my opinions, oh well.

Gina Glocksen: Can’t sing Heart – don’t try. I thought Paula and Randy were too kind. Simon was right on. Didn’t like the dyed red stripe on her hair. Pick something less ambitious, and you’ll survive at least one more week. Sorry, but the back-up singer was better than you.

Alaina Alexander: good enough to be a “b-list”country star, headlining county fairs –and packing them in – but not a country super star. Would never make it in pop. Also: gain some weight – and get a manicure if you’re going to use your fingers to show people which number you are.

LaKisha Jones: This better not be another re-run of Mahndisa: a black girl who can sing, but since she won’t ever wind up on a beer poster, off the show sooner than she should be. This one’s a natural. Don’t bounce around when you sing: you’re every bit as good as the MoTown singers whose songs you’re singing. You don’t need to bounce.

Melinda Doolittle: Great voice, and your stage presence gets better every week. Another natural singer. Your outfit choice seemed like it was right out of the “Lesbians –R- Us” catalogue. Change it up a bit with your wardrobe – that’s the only thing you could improve. The intense tigress look and endearing smile are your look. Stick with a wardrobe choice that’ll enhance these opposing personality traits, and make you look taller.

Antonella Barba: Visually stunning in every respect: hair, teeth, looks and fashion sense. You wisely held back on the big notes you couldn’t hit if you went all the way with them, and held it together nicely as a result. You won’t make the top 3 in this competition, but your looks guarantee a good singing career. For what it’s worth: you’re the contestant I’d most like to see frolicking in a hot tub with Paula Abdul.

Jordin Sparks: Great singer. Your voice will get you in the top 3; your fashion sense could keep you out of it. Don’t wear baby-doll dresses unless you have some girls to show off. You are a great singer.

Stephanie Edwards: You’d be the whole package, if you’d just grow your hair a little. I think you are the whole package – you’re not the greatest singer, but you are a great singer, and out of the great singers, you’re the best looking.

Leslie Hunt: You seem like the nicest contestant in the competition. Bad song choice. Also, your deep, smoky, sensual voice and your nice, housewife-next-door persona are in a definite state of clash. Your choice of wardrobe? WTF! It was goofy and geeky. Watch some Edie Brickell videos and emulate – don’t copy her. Drop the Cyndi Lauper fashion sense, and you’ll have a great career, even if you don’t go all the way in this competition.

Haley Scarnato: You electrified the audience with your stage presence. This was a fun performance to watch. You have more stage presence and personality than most of the contestants. If you work on the vocals – a lot – you could be a contender for the top 3.
Sabrina Sloan: They saved the best for last: ‘nuff said.

3 DUIs, 4 wives and 8 kids

2007-01-03T08:48:00.000-05:00

Now that I'm on my new job as "Billy Big Rig," it's funny just how small this world is. The account I'm driving on is a good 50 miles from my house. You would think I wouldn't have anything in common with anyone there, since I don't have any ties to the town where I'm working.

Turns out my immediate supervisor grew up in a family who all worked for the same company where I had my 15 years of factory experience. The company I worked for has 4 factories in my state, and his family worked at one of those locations, just not the one where I worked.

When you work for this company (with the 4 factories in Ohio) the people who work there, tend to get a skewed view of the world, because this is a very good-paying company with great benefits, and in the past when they've gone on hiring binges, they've generally stuck with hiring almost exclusively, family members of current employees &/or veterans.

When you've got all your aunts/uncles/cousins/moms and dads all working for the same company making great money with great benefits, they tend to think of this company as the sun, with the universe revolving around that.

When my supervisor at the trucking company mentioned that almost his whole entire family worked for this company, my first reaction was to ask him, "Why aren't you there?" He said, (and this is sooooo true) he says, "Everyone I know who works there has had 3 DUIs, 4 wives and 8 kids. If I was going to live that lifestyle, I wanted to join the military where I could at least see the world before I got saddled with all that, instead of being tied down to the same town my whole life."

I told him, "I can tell just by what you said that you know what working for that company is all about!!"

Different location, same shit. Man, am I glad I'm outta there.

A new me

2007-01-01T02:45:00.000-05:00

I've dropped out of blogging since August, because I've been busy reinventing myself - which can be hard.

For those of you who've read my blog, you may know that I worked in a factory for 15 years. I got out of that and into truck driving. I started off driving a straight truck (which is not a semi) because if a straight truck is rated to only carry 10,000 pounds or less, all you need is a driver's license. That's the good part. The bad part is, because all you need is driver's license, just about anyone can do it, which means it has the "anyone-can-do-it" pay that comes with it.

I told the safety director/personnel director at the trucking company I was at, that the low pay meant I had to have 40 hours a week or more - not less. He told me that the only way I was going to make the money I was used to making at the factory, was to go through the driving academy that this nationally-recognized trucking company runs - graduate from that, and drive for them. "Don't worry about that," he confidently says, "they only take the best."

Two days later I put in my 2 weeks notice, because I was accepted at the academy. This academy gets 300,000 applicants a year. They only accept 1% of those, and out of that 1%, two-thirds fail the academy, and out of that, about 25% don't get their CDL (commercial driver's license, which allows yout to operate a semi in all 50 states, plus all the Canadian provinces.)

The academy is rough. It's designed to be just like the military, just without all the marching and excersizing. They tear you down mentally and emotionally, and build you up in their image. In fact, I don't think there isn't a male instructor there, who isn't a veteran of one of the branches of the armed forces. You're on the go from 7 a.m., until 9 p.m., then you go back to your hotel room for about 2 hours of homework that must be completed before the next day.

Until you get your CDL, you're a peice of shit in the eyes of the instructors, and you better not have an opinion about anything, without their prior, express written consent. You are told how lousy you are from the time you get there, until you leave. The academy is 2 weeks long, but there are no breaks for the weekend - you train all 14 days, as though all 14 days were a Monday. They yell at you, they scream at you, they cuss at you - while you're driving a semi.

People cry, they puke, and yes, they even have heart attacks - literally. The only good thing that can be said about the experience - and it is a good thing - is that by the time you're done, you go through a metamorphasis, and you become more focued and aware and confident about everything you do. The transformation is amazing. Then you begin to wonder how you ever functioned before - seriously.

It does have a funny moment; just one. They have computer simulators like I-Max. They take a semi cab, put it on a platform that can shake, rattle and roll in conjuntion with your "driving," and put a back-projected, wrap-around computer screen in front of it, with computer graphics so real, you actually forget you're in a simulator.

Because the interior of this cab is complete, you steer, accelerate and shift - and all the analogue gages on the dash board are hooked up to the computer so they read just like they would if you were actually driving on the road. Again, you get so wrapped up in this thing, you actually forget you're in a simulator.

The simulations they put you through are intense. You're driving down a mountain, and all of a sudden, it begins to rain - then the rain turns to ice - then cars start cutting in front of you. When you make sudden lane changes to avoid the cars, the load shifts on you, causing the truck to do unexpected things - just like in real life; but that's just the beginning: then, your brakes fail - while all of this stuff is happening.

Semis don't shift like cars. In a semi, you've got to match the speed you're going to the appropriate gear - at the appointed RPMs for that gear. All three things have to be correct to shift, or you can't shift - you'll just grind the gears. That means, you can't down-shift to slow down, because the load is pushing you, which makes the RPMs climb (with your speed) and if you're not at the correct RPMs, you can't shift at all: it's mechanically impossible.

Bottom line: you're shitting your pants. About that time, an instructor (and only if they like you, because if they think you're a pansy who can't take it, they won't do it to you) will crawl on his hands and knees to your driver's door, and pop up like a jack-in-the-box, and scream at the top of his lungs. Of course, you're the last to know this is going on, and all the instructors laugh with a demonic glee at your reaction: they call it "the death look," because you're convinced you're going to die.

There's just one other funny story, but this wasn't staged. There was a student at the academy who looks just like Snoop Doggy Dog. Same dress, same cooler-than-thou demeanor, everything. This guy's hotel room was right next door to an old man's hotel room. This old man was going through the academy as well. The old man had a mild heart attack in his hotel room (while doing the next-to-impossible homework, of course,) and he calls 911. The 911 dispatcher gets the room number wrong, and the cops and firemen bust down "Snoop's" door. The problem? "Snoop" was smokin a fatty!!! Talk about the look on someone's face! Could you imagine sitting there, smoking joint in the privacy of your hotel room, and all of a sudden, the cops bust your door down?

The cops told him since they didn't have a search warrant, they weren't going to arrest him for anything, but they were going to call the head administrator of the academy and tell them what they saw, because they don't want any dope smokers driving a big rig, posing a risk to the general public. He was gone the next day.

Was that really funny? No, because it involved two tragedies: a man having a heart attack (btw: he lived) and someone getting fired from a job through circumstances he had absolutely no control over. But, I'm not going to make any apologies for the fact that comedy and tragedy are oftentimes inexplicably intertwined.

Anyway, that's what I've been doing with myself during my absence from blogging.

Before I forget, "Happy New Year!" to everyone reading this.

OJT

2006-08-08T11:06:00.000-04:00

OJT: On the job training. The company I'm working for now, doesn't have any. I drive a straight truck. That's basically a semi-tractor with a huge cube fixed to the bed. The bed doesn't turn separately like a semi tractor/trailer does. Think of a produce truck - but I don't drive produce.

The company I'm at is a little family operation. The office people are great - and they are - but your "training" consists of "Here's the keys, here are the maps, the load needs to be there yesterday. Call us on your cell phone when you get unloaded."

I've figured something out: I love being a truck driver. But here's the downside, if the company doesn't provide training:

Break downs

One day, I back into a dock to get unloaded, and when I got unloaded, the damn truck wouldn't start. I had to be pulled from the dock. Since it was a stick shift, they told me to pop the clutch to get it going, which worked. When the guy who pulled me was taking off the chains, he says, "Damn! I'd get this checked out if I were you!" What was it, you might ask? Nothing but electrical sparks shooting out of the driver's side wheel well, that's all.

I pull out of the factory I was at, make a turn, get into the U-turn lane, make the stop to look both ways and as soon as I let my foot off the brake pedal, an alarm goes off in the cab. I look at the air pressure guage, and it went to zero. The significance of this? The truck has air powered brakes, so if you don't have air pressure, you don't have any brakes.

I call dispatch. The guy I'm talking to thinks I'm too new to judge what's a good reason to call an on-site mechanic, and he's thinking I'm just forgetting to press a button or release a lever, or something. He says, "Can you drive the truck to some big, empty parking lot, so if we have to tow it, the wrecker has easy access?"

I said, "You don't seem to understand the gravity of the situation! I don't have any brakes!"

The on-site mechanic was called. Turns out, the mechanics where I work, put the hot-wires from the battery, over the main air line. Not a big deal, as long as the hot-wires have insulation. In my case, the insulation became worn and caused a phenomonon called electrical arching. This is basically bolts of electricity randomly shooting out from the worn insulation. This caused my main air line to look like swiss cheese.

The on-site mechanic told me if I would have driven that truck any further, there would have been an electrical fire.

Another situation happened in Kentucky:

The heat guage starts to steadily rise. The red zone on the heat guage is 260 degrees, the normal operating temperature is 180 degrees. The needle gradually hits 200 degrees, and an alarm goes off in the cab. I remember dispatch telling me that this was a "hot load," meaning it had to be there as quick as I could get it, so I'm thinking, "since I'm not anywhere near the red-zone, even though this alarm is annoying, I'll just keep my eye on the guage and as long as it stays away from the red zone, I'll just keep driving till I get to a truck stop to put some more water in the radiator."

That was dumb as fuck!

You see, they failed to tell me in my lack of training, that if the heat alarm goes off for more than 10 minutes, the truck automatically goes into "engine protection mode." What's that, you might ask? It's where the freaking engine completely shuts down! I'm on a federal highway in the mountains of Kentucky (which you think would be safe,) and I'm downhill, hauling five tons of metal in the back, and I have no engine. The shoulder on the road is just barely wide enough to accomodate my truck. Just beyond the shoulder, is a drop-off so steep, you could toss a rock over the edge and count (one thousand one, one thousand two - and so on - before you'd hear it hit bottom) and I'm approaching a bridge with a concrete rail, and the bridge has absolutely no shoulder. There's nothing but jam packed traffic in both lanes while I'm riding the shoulder, and oh, yeah: since the engine's off, the power assist on my brakes isn't working either. That's not to say I don't have brakes, it's just I don't have power brakes. On trucks that big, with loads that heavy, power brakes aren't a luxury!

I had to stand on the brake, while grabbing the steering wheel at the bottom with both hands - palms-up - and do a curl with the steering wheel to get enough leverage to activate the brakes, before I either: slam into the concrete guard rail; pull into a mass of on-coming semi traffic; or go off the shoulder in the other direction, into oblivion.

I was able to stop, with about 100 feet to spare, but that was majorly intense. I called dispatch, and got the problem resolved, but I just wish they would have told me about this wonderful, "Engine Protection Mode" thing, before I ever started driving, so I would have known to pull over immediately upon hearing the heat alarm.

From here on out, I hear an alarm - I don't care if it's a bird shit alarm, I'm pulling over, no matter where I'm at.

So, why would I love truck driving, after all of that?

I remember in the factory, my favorite jobs, were ones where I was all by myself. I'm not alone, because those jobs are always the ones that require the most seniority to hold. I used to be in labor pool, where you'd fill in for people who called in sick, or who were on vacation, and that's how I got to work some of the high seniority, "gravy" jobs - which were always jobs where you worked by yourself.

Truck driving is essentially that - but with the most spectacular scenery you can imagine. You hear all kinds of jokes about Kentucky, but Kentucky has some of the most beautiful scenery I've seen - and I've been to Hawaii! (Not that Kentucky is in the same league as Hawaii, but it's damn close sometimes - surprisingly!)

Driving over the ancient, iron bridges built over a hundred years ago, when the industrial age was just kicking into overdrive, looking down on the barges and ocean liners below, seeing the rusting hulks of once-great factories along the river banks - it's all there - and truly amazing at sunrise or sunset. The mountains, hills and hollers - it's all there. It beats the hell out of the factory, because in the factory, you're staring at the same cinder-block walls and the same conveyor lines, and the same vending machines, all day long; you're stuck with the same damn annoying people, who you spend more time with than your own family, but you can't treat them like you would your own family, or you'll get fired - which makes it that much worse!

Why the hell I spent fifteen years in a factory, I'll never know!

Pride and prejudice

2006-07-29T10:59:00.000-04:00

Pride:

Our middle son (the one with the severe asthma) came down stairs this morning in his helmet and shoulder pads. This is his first year of football, and I don't want this to sound corny or over the top, but I felt almost as much pride seeing him in football equipment, as I did when my wife walked down the isle in her wedding gown. I don't know what it was, but I felt this overwhelming sense of pride when seeing him in his helmet and shoulder pads.

He also has been labeled as a kid from the "wrong side of the tracks," because he got caught making out with this hot girl. Her parents actually told us we live on the wrong side of Lima Ave., and as a result, she isn't allowed to associate with our son. The reason that came out is, her parents were seemingly all pissed off about the "making out" thing, but when my wife pointed out that their daughter has been making out with a bunch of rich boys from her side of Lima Ave., "that was different." That's when it was explained to us that we're from the "wrong side" of Lima Ave.

Our son's been all down on himself lately, because the mothers of the clique of kids he used to hang out with (all from the "other side" of Lima Ave.) have been calling up other parents, telling them what a scoundrel our son is, and how they should keep their daughters away from him, because he's, "nothing but trouble." I can't believe it's gotten to this, but it has.

Getting all suited up has helped out his ego alot.

Southern Cross

2006-07-28T11:44:00.000-04:00

That's the song by Crosby Stihls and Nash I think about when hauling something. They've got all their "flags a flyin' " and they're "nicely making way."

First load yesterday. I had to go to the factory I used to work for. Well, not exactly. The company I used to work for has several divisions all over the state where I live, and I had to go to a division where I never worked.

It was weird, because the warehouse there, has the exact same smell as the warehouse at the division I used to work for. It's a combination of cardboard, styrofoam and propane exhaust. The concrete floor has the same shade of gray, same "safety-yellow" painted guard rails and door frames for the rest rooms and offices. Same "safety orange" squares painted on the floor which are supposed to designate where the forklift drivers have to stack the pallets. Same personalities: for the guys, it's usually the younger, weight-lifting, dyed and spikey-haired dude in his late teens, covered in tatoos. For the women, middle-aged, exact same appearance as the guys. If it wasn't for the fact the guys have more developed muscle tone, you'd swear the women could kick the guys' asses!

They're all real nice and laid-back.

It was cool because my run started at 4:30 AM, so I drove to the factory warehouse in complete darkness the whole way there. By the time I got out of the factory warehouse, the sun was just coming up. I was driving east anyway, so I was driving right into the rising sun, which was peeking out of sparsely arranged, orange and pink clouds. The van I was driving is huge. I'm every bit as tall as any semi on the road. That's cool, because when you get behind the wheel, it gives you a sense of power. That sense of power lasted until I was crossing a bridge over a major river. I was in the lane closest to the side, and the van is so far up off the ground, when you look out the passenger window, you can't see the gaurd rail - all you see is the river below you, so it creates an optical illusion that you're going to fall into the river below.

It also creates an illusion that your balls are going to creep up, into your stomach. It was right then and there, I decided I wasn't going to let this bother me, so instead, I focused on the natural beauty of the rising sun, the clouds, and how the sunshine bouced off the leaves of the trees lining the riverbank below. Once I focused on that, I lost the feeling that the truck was going to fall into the river, so my balls could return to their normal resting place.

I think I'll like this job.

whoo hoo (sort of)

2006-07-26T14:49:00.000-04:00

Well, I finally got my unemployed ass a job. Not that I really wanted one, this soon to being let go. I kinda wanted to sit back and enjoy things for a while, but there's also that panicked part of my mind telling me, "You better get some resumes circling now, because you're not sure how much of a lag there is, from the time you drop off your resume, until the final interview where they shake your hand - it could be months, under the best of conditions; God help 'ya if you wait till the money runs out to start looking!"

So, I applied for a job as an assistant manager to a rent-to-own place, which, as it turns out, is nothing more than harassing past-due accounts for money. No thanks. They acted like it was an opportunity of a life-time, and I had all I could do to keep a straight face while they were hyping it up. It was a sales position (even though it's collections) because they said you're re-selling the product they already bought, so it doesn't have to get repossesed. And as your incentive to make sure you do a good job over the phone (convincing them to pay), you're also the one who has to go out and reposses this stuff if it goes past 90 days due. Screw that! I'm not lugging some damned 400 pound washing machine down 4 flights of stairs with the mother crying, and the dad threatening to kick my ass! That job may have been the opportunity of a life time, but not my life time!

Anyway, I also applied for this job that's un-sales related - it's an expediter. I know what expediters in factories do, but I'm not too sure what they do for trucking companies, but that's what this was for. I had to harass this company, because it turned out the personnel office needed to hire for this position (which was why they put the ad in the paper) but they wouldn't hire for it, because they feel they're already back-logged with unrelated things. The safety guy said the hiring process does involve his department, and since the personnel office wouldn't keep on track, he decided he'd keep the process on track by getting "some warm body going through the motions on the D.O.T. certification," (which is part of his safety process and something I had to do if I wanted the job) so the safety guy basically tells me, "I can't hire you, but I can put you through all the safety requirements you'll need to fulfill as a prerequisite to get this job, then I can tell the personnel office all they have to do, is give you the thumbs up, and you can start driving for us." That's exactly what happened.

This is an "0n-call" job, which means I'll be issued a company cell phone. I'll be driving cube vans and flat trucks - anything that doesn't require a CDL, for loads that aren't big enough for an entire semi-trailer. My first choice was Waterloo, Iowa or someplace 50 miles from here. I chose the place 50 miles from here. Not that I'm scared to travel, but I do want to keep things simple and familiar while I'm new, until I get a hold of how they do things.

This is majorly fucked-up though, because I had a weird dream - a very vivid dream - a few years ago, that I'll never forget. I had a dream that I was driving relief supplies to a disaster area, that was just a few states away from where I live. In this dream, I was getting "disaster pay," and I remember I was really raking in the big bucks. (I was working in the factory then.)The weird thing of it is, my wife's aunt had a nightmare about a disaster close to us, on the very same night. She said her dream was really vivid as well. This is strange and kind of scary. In this instance, I'm hoping that dreams don't come true.

The reason I took the job, is because I've been cooped up in a factory my whole life, and with the exception of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport and the island of Oahu, I really haven't seen a whole lot of the country, and this is a good way to do it - to get paid.

Not only that, but in my travels, I'll be looking out for ways to contact segment producers, or friendly reporters or something - to get the word out about how municipalities all over the country, are getting screwed by their county's economic development practices. They are, and the subject is too boring for most people to care about it, and that's what the fat-cats rely on - and they're correct in assuming that no one will care. Maybe this job will provide me with a way to go somewhere that'll enable me to find people who can do a better job than me, in getting this message out. Who knows?

Time sure moves slower now

2006-07-25T00:12:00.000-04:00

Time sure moves slower now - and that's not all bad. I've got my retirement from the factory where I worked. It's not alot, but it's enough to get me by fairly well, for a while at least.

I take my kids places during their summer vacation, and it's nice. I took my youngest daughter along with one of her friends to the park today, and it was kind of funny. I'm watching these kids, and you can't help but notice how ethnicities must have some type of influence in their behaviors.

All of these kids were girls from the ages of around 5 to 11.

There were these black girls. They were proudly wearing their braided hair with the beads in the braids, swinging in unison with each step. They were wearing shorts with high-heeled sandals and jewelery. Their clothes perfectly matched, and there wasn't a stain anywhere in sight, even though they were both eating ice-cream cones - with no difficulty whatsoever in eating those cones without spilling a drop on their clothes.

There was the blonde girl: tall, with long hair. She was wearing flip-flops and just regular clothes. You could tell she had something for lunch that involved mustard and ketchup.

While the black girls were talking about different cliques of people they knew, the blonde girl (who wasn't playing in the same circle of friends as the black girls) was laying down the rules of freeze tag with her playmates, with all the seriousness of a corporate lawyer conducting a hostile take-0ver: "No tap-backs, no baby-gaurding, what do you guys think the boundries should be?" that sort of thing. She didn't give a damn about her clothes, but whoa to the little person who engages in "baby-gaurding" base! She had it all figured out.

They have this thing called the "bicycle." It's 2 metal posts, side-by-side, which hold up hand and foot pedals. You put your feet on the foot pedals, put your hands on the hand pedals, and your hands and feet are supposed to crank their respective pedals at the same speed, and in the same direction - in perfect unison. It's alot harder than it looks.

Most people either fall off, or crank the foot pedals one way, and the hand pedals the other way.

When you do it correctly, it produces a body motion, almost like a dance. It's pretty cool.

My youngest daughter (who's very athletic) got up there, and got the hand and foot pedals going in the same direction, at the same speed. My youngest daughter is six. Then, there was this heavy-set girl, about 11, whose mother and grandmother were oooohing and ahhhhing over my daughter on the bicycle, so the 11 year old, tells her mom and grandmother, "Ah, that's nothing!" and as soon as my daughter is done, she gets up there, and falls, and falls, and falls! (Hell, I probably would too!)

It was a picture-perfect day. The town I live in, is headquarters to an oil company, even though it's a small town (less than 50,000 people - and we're the largest population center within a 40 mile radius, so we're not a suburb of a bigger city!)

Because of all the oil money, the park is beautiful, when the weather's good, if you don't mind overlooking the shit-brown color of the river.

The ancient Sycamore trees go up and up forever. I love the way the bark of the Sycamores is two-toned, brown and off-white. When the sun shines through the canopy of leaves, the colors are brown, off-white, and gold, from the dappled sunlight, with broad, large, dark-green leaves bristling in the wind. These ancient Sycamores and Maples line the footpaths of the park, providing shade from every direction, on every inch of all the foot paths.

There's a huge, clam shell-shaped band shell, made of concrete and painted bone white and a variety of pastels. The bandshell is so huge, the human figure is dwarfed while on stage. This was made in 1940 by the Works Project Administration (WPA). The band shell isn't used that much, except for one or two outdoor concerts a year, and sometimes they'll show a regular movie to the public on a screen and video projector when some prominent citizen allows the city to borrow his AV equipment from his mansion.

I have a feeling the band shell isn't used to it's full potential, because it was made by the WPA, and that's just a little too communist for most of the voters, although it is kept in great condition by a group of musicians, who conduct yearly fundraisers for the upkeep.

At the falls, there's a stone memorial with a bronze plaque attatched, memorializing the lives of the firemen who drowned while trying to save 2 teenagers who decided to take a canoe over the falls. (The kids drowned as well.)

At the falls, there's also a shelter house, which is nothing more than a funky-shaped 40' tall roof, supported by masonary columns on one end, and a limestone-slab fireplace, whose chimney goes up all 4 stories, which was donated by one of the Fortune 500 companies that has a division or headquarters here. (Oh, and that's used all the time!)

Just behind the falls, on the other side of the river is the former Eastman-Kodak complex, and a row of Sycamore trees lining the river from the Eastman-Kodak complex, all the way to the country club.

In certain spots in almost every park are bronze plaques memorializing great natural gas wells that once stood there, and a brief history of how the gas boom of the 1880's, transformed the city.

Walking along the footpaths, you've got the lesbians, usually holding hands, and walking some big-ass dogs, along with the mothers of the underclass. These women push their umbrella stollers with babies in them, the babies wearing nothing but a diaper, regardless of whether it is male or female. The rest of the kids in their brood are running wild, while the mothers scream at them, as though they're on their last nerve.

Today was a picture-perfect day!

Keepin' up

2006-07-23T19:14:00.000-04:00

Yeah, so I get fired.

There were some clues I should have seen. Hindsight is always 20/20.

When I ran for county commissioner, I was invited as a guest on a morning radio talk show. It's very popular with office women. There are billboards of this morning show "couple;" she's kind of plain-Jane looking with a slightly dorky bent - but lovable - and he's about as effeminate-looking as Yanni - what with the long, feathered-back hair, porn-star moustache, hooked nose and goofy grin - kind of like a Geddy Lee look-a-like, but not as hip, if you know what I mean.

I've heard their show before, and this couple makes Larry King seem like a hard-hitting journalist. They're so positive and upbeat, and he's always the doofus, and she's always the smart one, and she always loves him no matter how doofy he is...I know, I know, stop before someone pukes, right? Right!

I get to their studio, and they make me wait in their "green room" forever. That didn't bother me at all - I'm not pretentious. Well, I found out why I had to wait so long. They were waiting for the owner of the radio station to get there. Why? Because he sat in the studio - right beside me - the whole time I was on the air.

Was this the typical, Larry King-esque interview they did for me? Oh hell no! It was an ambush!

Les Nessman of WKRP-fame would have been proud! I think he would have nominated them for the Golden Buckeye Award for radio excellence, this interview was so hard-hitting - and it was.

What's the significance of this? The owner of the radio station owns a huge factory in the town where I had the car dealership job. (The town where I had the car dealership job, is in the same county I live in.)

This guy doesn't like me, because I used to work for the economic development agency in his town - that's where I learned everything I know about economic development. He knows that I know, how the rich screw people through economic development, and he was afraid I would say something to that effect while on the air of his radio station.

Thank God for the McCain/Feingold act, because without it, I would have never been on his radio station to begin with!!!!!

Anyhow, this guy was pissing his pants over the thought of me talking about my stint in economic development in his town. I was so awestruck by his presence, I really never thought of that (this guy is phenominally wealthy!)

So, what does this have to do with the car dealership?

I was talking to the sales manager one day, and he asked me why I worked at the factory for 15 years, and never advanced. I told him I was involved in the union campaign, and when it lost by only 4%, the personnel department never forgot who was involved. I said, "They have long memories."

He replied, "The peersonnel office at the factory where you used to work isn't the only place with a long memory."

The guy who owns the factory, also pretty much runs the town where the dealership is.

I didn't think too much of this, because I'm not the paranoid type. But something else struck me, a few days before I was let go.

We've got this salesman who is really good. He's from another town in another county. He starts talking to me about the editorials I've written for my home-town's newspaper.

I asked him how he even came to reading those editorials, given he's a good 40 miles from the town where I live - and he neither lives or works in the town where I live - and he never lived or worked in the town where I live - so why would he not only be reading the editorials I've written about how crooked economic development is, but remember the name of the guy who wrote them???!!!!!

He said, "There's been talk." That's all he said. Two days later, I was fired.

I got fired

2006-07-17T00:15:00.000-04:00

Yeah, that's right: I got fired. It wasn't just that deal, there was another deal, where a business I sold a truck to, didn't have car insurance - at all. GMAC won't finance a vehicle without car insurance, and this place, just didn't have it, so the truck had to come back.

I went from leading the board, to having the manager circle-jerk all my prospects. Hell, I had a couple who, after spending 4 hours at my desk one day, spent another 4 hours at my desk the next day, waiting on the word about their financing (which we kept getting assured, would only be a "few more minutes") only to find out they'd been declined since the day before!

For the last month or so, the sales manager has been circle-jerking all my prospects. Hell, I didn't know if I was a car salesman, or the guy next in line to take Jay Leno's spot, as much small talk I engaged in, while my people got circle-jerked.

I knew it was coming, too. I sold a truck to a guy who's a big-shot in the town where I'm from (where I work(ed) is a neighboring town.)

My sales manager let this guy basically slit my throat on the price of his truck. Trouble was, the sales manager allowed this to happen, gladly. I thought that was weird. He's never been happy about someone talking the price down, but for this guy, it seemed like an honor. Then, this guy had all kinds of post-sale demands that became my responsibility. For instance, I had to go back to his place of business after he took a trip to a livestock show, and get the rubber bed matt the dealership let him borrow. Then, I had to go back later on, and drive his truck back to the dealership, so we could put a cap and running boards (which he made the dealership include in the price) then I had to take the truck back.

A dealership usually does this sort of thing for customers who don't dicker with the price too much. This guy basically had us give him the truck at cost. My commission on that deal was $75, the deal was so skinny!

On one of my trips to his business, I saw the hand-writing on the wall. This small-town big-shot asks me, (with a very sardonic grin) "How are they treating you over there?" as if he knew. I said, "They treat me fine because I sell - I sold you a truck, didn't I?" He just smiled again, as if he knew better - and he did; but I didn't know it yet.

I sometimes wonder if me being the town radical didn't play a part in this. The guy I just described is firmly entrenched in my town's upper echelon of the inner-elite.

Even though the dealership started circle-jerking my customers, I was still selling, albeit not as much as I was before the circle-jerking happened. I honestly felt like a late-night talk show host, while entertaining people who were wondering (just like me) what the fuck was going on with their deals.

All I needed to do was impatiently tap my pencil on my desk and yell out, "How much time do we have, Hal," just like David Letterman, and that's about how things were for me, while my "guests" couldn't figure out whether to be mad or feel sorry for me.

My grandmother asked my daughter how she felt about me getting fired. My grandmother said, "Are you worried?" and my daughter said, "No. Daddy's talented. He'll figure something out."

That's sweet, and I wish I had as much confidence in myself as she does. Who knows? Maybe she knows something I don't. I sure hope so.

ode to Georgia Peach II

2006-07-07T12:14:00.000-04:00

Chris left a comment on a previous blog entry of mine, the entry titled: ode to Georgia Peach where the commenter says, "I like your entries, but I feel like I shoud wash my hands after reading them."

I can sympathize.

I haven't been blogging lately, because of the final outcome in the deal described in ode to Georgia Peach. I keep throwing in that link because the background provided in that entry is intregal to what I'm writing about now.

A brief summary:

This business owner "buys" a truck off of me. His banker calls and tells me this entreprenuer is good for the check, but the check won't be coming for a while, because the banker's just going on vacation for a week or so, but "as soon," as he gets back, the "check will be in the mail."

Banker dude comes back, still no check. A month passes, still no check. When we get the check and the title for the trade-in, we find out why things are, the way they are. The truck Mr. Entreprenuer-man was using as his trade-in, had a scrap title issued to it. Our dealership has had the truck all along, and you'd never guess it had a scrap title because it was painstakingly refurbished to the point it was flawless (except for the 125,000 miles on the odometer,) but other than that, it's a normal truck.

Trouble is, you can't get squat for a vehicle that has a scrap title, no matter what kind of shape it's in, because by state law, you have to tell the prospective customer up front (and make them sign an affidavid) that they know they're buying a vehicle with a scap title. That can never work to a dealership's advantage in a sale - it can only be used by the customer as leverage to get a rock-bottom price.

Now, the dealership is suing the customer for the difference between the Kelly Blue Book value on the truck without a scrap title, versus the value of the truck with a scrap title, which is a hell of alot of money.

I'm in the middle of all of this, and it's really made me out to look like a first class chump with the word, "Sucker" tatooed all over my face.

I left a good paying factory job with 15 years seniority for this. It's hard to believe something like this is happening to me. People are laughing about this at the dealership behind my back; they smirk to my face. This isn't fun, but it's something I'm going to have to get over.

Ode to Georgia Peach

2006-05-20T22:11:00.000-04:00

"I told you that I worked at KIA dealership before. When I was up there, I could tell a lot the saleman were strictly about business. But a lot of them were STRESSED! I couldn't believe the amount of pressure some of them had on them. " - Georgia Peach

Yeah - it's something else. When you say there's pressure, you ain't joking.

I just had an experience that...wow.

I sell a business owner a truck. Made good money off the sale - and he didn't get screwed either - we both won.

On the test drive, I tell him to romp on it; after all, I explained, you're paying alot of money for this, you better make sure you're getting everything you want.

"Oh, I won't be driving this into the ground - there's no need for me to break the speed limit on the test drive." (Famous last words.)

He signs the purchase agreement and takes delivery. His "banker-dude" calls and tells us he's good for the money, but the check won't be in until the middle of next week because "banker-dude" will be out of town till then, but, "...don't worry, your customer's good for the money."

My sales manager and the dealership finance manager start having a cow, because the check was supposed to be there no later than one week after delivery, and 10 days pass, and still no check. I wouldn't have a problem with them having a problem with that, but this business owner is holding out the golden carrot of me being the salesman to supply his new store's truck needs, if he likes this deal.

My sales manager is getting in my face: "Hey - it's been over a week, and we've got close to $20,000 worth of money that this guy is driving around for free, because you won't confront him about the money, because he's trying to sucker you into believing he's going to buy a whole bunch more vehicles off you. Let me ask you this, Mr. Hotshot salesman: if he can't come up with the cash for the first vehicle, why on earth do you think he's going to buy 3 more off you? What are you going to do about the money he owes us? I'm thinking of calling him myself!"

What I'm thinking is in hard brackets []

"Dave [fucker], I know you're pissed. You've got every right to be [you do] and I can see your point [fucker], but I want to believe this guy is going to open that new store, and I happen to feel that entreprenuers have special financial needs [they're either drop-dead broke or lottery-rich, and that changes from day-to-day] and if we show a little flexibility in addressing those needs at a time when he needs us the most, I'm thinking he'll be more likely to reciprocate, and use his money to buy our products." [Wishful thinking maybe; it sounds good on paper; maybe you're right - but I'm "all in" now, and I can't back down without looking like I've been had.]

"You know what this SOB's doing, don't you?"

"Stealing a truck?" I say dripping with sarcasm.

"No - he's waiting for something to go wrong with it, and he'll tell us that he's just going to drop the truck off, and forget the deal ever happened. This way, we either fix his truck for free, or you don't have a deal - get it? Now, do you think I should call him, or should I have the finance manager call him?"

"He's not doing that!" [Is he?]

Well, the manager was right. I get a call from the business owner: "Boris! Mr. Entreprenuer here. Hey, while I've got you on the phone, I noticed this wobble the truck gets at 75 mph and higher. When can you guys get my truck in, to get it fixed?"

"A wobble at 75 mph?"

"Yeah! Feels like the whole thing's gonna shake apart. That's without a load. Couldn't imagine what the damn thing would do with a bunch of steel in back, could you?"

"Wow."

"Hey, I don't have alot of time here, I need this done ASAP! When can you get me in?"

"Oh, yeah, getting you in here. Hey, while I've got you on the phone...funny how we were just talking about you. Look, the finance manager's about to have a cow, because your banker guy said the check would be here 3 days ago, and wouldn't you know, it's not here right now... no one's saying you're not good for it, because we know you are, but it would be really convenient for me, if you could have that stupid little check with you when you come in for service, so the finance manager doesn't have a stupid little cow worrying about it, you know? I mean, those bean counters, huh? They act like nervous old women, what can I say?"

"I'm leaving out of town tommorow at 10. I need to be scheduled no later than 8 AM tommorow morning, or I can't be there for a while, know what I mean?"

"Yeah - 8:AM tommorow. Let me put you on hold, call service, see if it's available, then I'll take you off hold and let you know."

"Let's just assume it is avaiable, and if it's not, give me a call back - otherwise, I'll see you tommorow at 8, OK?"

"Great! We'll get that wobble worked out, and I'll tell the finance manager he won't have to worry about the money, cause you'll be here with the check! That'll be super!"

I get up at 6:AM the next morning, bust ass to get to work by 8:AM, and there's Mr. Entreprenuer's truck, but one of his employees is driving it. [That can only mean one thing: the check ain't there!]

Me: "Hi there! I remember you from the shop. Where's Mr. Entreprenuer-man?"

"Oh, he had to leave town earlier than he originally thought. Is getting this wobble thing going to take long, because when Mr. Entreprenuer-man is gone, I'm the one in charge, so I don't want to leave the shop unattended too long."

"Oh, you know how it is! I'm sure you'll be in and out in no time. BTW, you wouldn't happen to have anything for me, would you?"

"The check? Oh, the check! Yeah, got it, right here."

[Fucker] "Whew! What a relief!"

"Yeah, I almost left it at the shop, wouldn't you know? Mr. Entreprenuer-man wants to know who'll pay for the diagnostic today."

"That's a great question. I don't know. Let me make a call."

I call the manager on his personal cell phone, given this is still before the dealership opens.

Me: "Got the check!" [Fucker]

"How much?"

"$16k, even."

"Where's the rest?"

"The rest?"

"Is there an echo in this connection? The rest! Where is it?"

"How much we talkin' about, here?"

"$571. Where is it?"

"Uhhh...."

"Ask him where my fuckin' money is."

Me to my customer's employee: "Seems as though this is a little short. My manager was wondering why."

"Who's paying for the diagnostic?"

"Uh, I was thinking we could figure out the financials on what we've already delivered to you, if you don't mind. Was there a reason there's still a balance owed?"

My boss hearing what I'm saying, shouting over his end, so it can be heard through my phone: "This is fucking perfect!"

My customer's employee: "Let me talk to him."

[Oh, great!]

They start talking, I didn't quite understand what it involved, but they both seemed happy. Then I get the phone handed back to me.

My customer's employee: "Who's paying for the diagnostic?"

Me to my boss: "He wants to know...."

"I heard. You know I was right all along about this, don't you? [Fucker] Didn't I call this a mile away? Tell him if he needs a ride back to the shop, you'll give him one right now."

"Do you need a ride back?"

"Depends on how long it'll take."

My boss on the phone: "I heard. tell him it'll take a half hour for us to find out how long it'll take, and remind him he's free to take a loaner, to get back to the shop if he needs to leave at any time. You're getting his mind off a question that doesn't anything to do with his money, and you're getting him to think about something that directly involves him. Remember: people can only process one thing at a time - the only thing they'll process, is stuff that relates to themselves, personally. Go ahead and tell him."

What do you know, it worked! The money issue was never brought up again.

The truck? Looks as though it may be a bent drive-shaft. We're not sure, but so far, the service manager told me the sales manager is willing to eat whatever it takes to get it fixed. See what Mr. Entrepreneur-man did? He's holding back until he gets a bill for $0, and that way he can pay the balance for a truck that's completely whole.

I don't have a problem with that as long as Mr. Entreprenuer-man doesn't bad-mouth the dealership for bending over backwards for him. I don't know, because it's too early to tell, but if the business owner seems hesitant about buying more trucks off me because of a bent drive-shaft that only pops up at 70 mph and higher, I'm going to say, "You see a problem, but what I see, is a dealership that stands behind its deals no matter what. Isn't that what everyone wants? Doesn't that give you a peace of mind, knowing your money that you're spending will be supported by people who care?"

If that don't seal the deal on the additional trucks, nothing can!

The trial close

2006-05-13T21:55:00.000-04:00

So, how do dealerships sell cars to people, when they can slap down a print-out from NADA or Kelly Blue Book, and tell you what the car is actually worth?

Ask Jerry. He'll tell you: it's the by-pass/trial close. I've seen it happen. So what does that mean?

Big Bad Bob walks into a dealership with a page fresh from the printer from his home computer. It's from the Kelly Blue Book website. He's armed with knowledge. He's not taking anyone's shit. He knows the value of the vehicle he wants. There's only one problem: he's not as smart as he thinks. Why do I say that? Because he's talking to Jerry. Jerry is the expert in handling Big Bad Bob. Jerry eats guys like Big Bad Bob for lunch.

Big Bad Bob: "Here's the car I want. This is a print-out from the internet: the Kelly Blue Book website. I won't pay one cent over it's value. I've got one question: can you sell me this car at this price, yes or no?"

Jerry: "Let me see the print-out."

"Bob" shoves it over.

Jerry studies it, as though he cares.

Bob: "Yes or no?"

Jerry, putting his hands in the air as though he's shoving Bob away: "I don't know. How's that for an honest answer? I just don't know if I can or not. Let me ask you something: why is this the car you want?"

Bob: "What do you care? All I want to know is, can you do this price or not!"

Jerry: "I understand you want this car: I get it - you don't have to sell me on that anymore. All I want to know is, why you want the car. Is that too much to ask or not, because I don't know."

Bob: "Because it's fuel efficient and Consumer Reports rates it number one in crash testing, and rates it very high in maintenence, is there any other reason?"

Jerry: "So what will you be doing in this car?"

Bob: "Driving it."

Jerry, laughing a little: "I understand that. But is this strictly a go-to-work vehicle, or are you going to be hauling kids around in it, or what?"

Bob: "All of that."

Jerry: "How many kids do you have?"

Bob: "3"

Jerry: "Is there a Mrs. Big Bad Bob?"

Bob: "Yeah."

Jerry: "So there's 5 people altogether, right?"

Bob: "That's why I picked out this car."

Jerry: "What about your childrens' friends? They can't ride along, or do you have to rely on their parents to take them where you and your kids are going?"

Bob: "Well, what does it matter?"

Jerry: "I guess it doesn't, does it? See, I was about to offer you a solution around that problem so you could take your kids and their friends - maybe even camping for a weekend - and get you about the same monthly payment you're at now, but I can see you're not interested in that, are you?"

Bob: "Well...."

Jerry: "That's OK - you're stuck on this car. It's not a bad car at all, if you don't mind paying four or five years on a loan for something that's going to limit how you live your life, but hey - that's your decision, isn't it? How old are your kids?"

Bob: "Well, let's see...One's about 3, and the other's around five, and I've got an 11 year-old."

Jerry: "How many times are they going to be 3, 5 & 11? See what I'm getting at? It's the memories you'll never get a chance to get back - if only you would've got a different vehcile that would allow your daughter to take her friend with her on your family camping trip - but I understand... you're stuck on this because Consumer Reports likes, aren't you?"

Bob: "It's a good car, isn't it?"

Jerry: "Great car; I just sold three of those last month to people who're very happy with them...Great car, if a car's what you need. Are you sure you need a car, Big Bad Bob?"

Bob: "I'm not sure. What else do you have."

Stop right there. Big Bad Bob doesn't have the Consumer Reports decree on the minivan Jerry's about to show Bob. Bob doesn't have the Kelly Blue Book or the NADA appraisals on the minivan Jerry's about to show Bob. Now, Bob is just another up who has no clue as to what the value of the vehicle he's about to buy.

Brilliant! Just brilliant. That's one form of the by-pass. Now, for the trial close:

So, what about this trial close thing? Jerry takes this guy on a test drive with a minivan, and as they're pulling in to the dealership, Jerry says, "So, if we could get to the right numbers on this thing, we could just get your shopping behind you and wrap this up and send you home in it right now, couldn't we?"

Bob: "I don't know."

Jerry: "What do you mean you don't know?"

Bob: "The price would have to be right."

Jerry knows this guy doesn't have a "right price" on this vehicle.

Jerry: "That's what I'm saying: If we could get to the set of numbers you have in your head on this vehicle, we could go ahead and just wrap this up right now, can't we?"

Bob: "For the right price."

Jerry: "So for the right price, we can wrap this up and send you home in it, right?"

Bob: "Yes."

After about 10 minutes:

Jerry over the PA system: "Clean-up to the showroom; clean-up to the showroom."

He talks to people like they're his bitch, but he does it in a way that they - for some reason - don't mind. I've got to figure that out.

It's no wonder....

2006-05-12T21:31:00.000-04:00

I'm up at the podium (where the manager sits) and I'm just watching the manager approve deals for other salesman. It's educational, because I like to know if the other salesmen are getting preferential treatment, or if they're swinging deals using methods I don't know anything about.

During a lull in the action, Jerry's looking right at me. I couldn't figure out why. It was uncomfortable. After a long, awkward silence, he says, "Sure! I wouldn't mind if you bought me a pop!" So I laugh, and raise my hand a little, to indicate that I was about to say something, and he says, "No! Seriously; I don't mind. I drink Sprite." So I laugh again and start to say something and he says, "That's really great of you to offer. I don't want you to feel awkward about this, it really doesn't bother me at all. It's so nice of you, by the way: I drink Sprite." Then he looks at me as if to say, "Hop to it, motherfucker."

So I said, "You know, it's no wonder you're the top salesman here. I'll tell you what: I'll get your damnned Sprite for you - on one condition."

"What's that?"

"You have to give me advice on how to sell cars."

"Why me?"

"Why not? You're the top banana, right?"

"Well..."

"So doesn't it stand to reason I should get something out of buying you a pop?"

"OK."

I get his freakin' pop, and an hour and a half rolls by, and he acts like we didn't have a deal. I nod to the empty can: "Hey! I held up my end of the bargain, now it's your turn."

"What do you mean?"

"My advice."

"Oh yeah. I meant to tell you: you're putting me in an awkward position here, because if I say the wrong thing unintentionally, you'll take it the wrong way and hate my guts. You're doing a great job - keep up the good work."

"That ain't going to cut it. I want you to teach me something."

He thinks for a while.

"OK, tell you what: you just say yes to everything I say, got it?"

"Sure."

"Hi, my name is Jerry - welcome to XYZ Motors; what's yours?"

"Boris."

"So Boris, find what you're looking for?"

"Yes."

"No, no you dumbass, you're not supposed to say yes to that or you won't learn anything."

"OK. 'No. I haven't seen what I'm looking for.' "

"What'ch'ya looking for?"

By now I'm thinking I better get the most out of my education with Jerry, so I fall into the role of who they call, "Big Bad Bob." Big Bad Bob is out on the lot everyday, taking the form of almost every male up there is. Big Bad Bob is an asshole who won't be taken lightly and he won't be talked into anything but what he came to look at.

Me: "I don't know. I really don't like anything I see."

"What'd'ya looking for?"

"Don't know."

"Great! We've got some 15 passenger church busses over here I can get you a great bargain on."

"I don't care about church busses."

"So you do have a little bit of an idea of what you're looking for if you know that church busses aren't of any interest, am I correct? Let me ask you this: what're ya trying to do?"

"I don't understand: 'what am I trying to do?' "

"You're here for a reason: is it information on vehicles, or is it pricing?"

"I want prices, and I specifically want the price on that one, right there. What is it?"

"So, if we could come to the right numbers on this vehicle, we could wrap it up, and send you home in it right now, couldn't we?"

"Hey, I just want the price."

"Great! Come on in!"

Then Jerry continues: "See what I just did there?"

"No."

"Big Bad Bob wants to be taken seriously as a player. He's treating the sales staff like shit and barking out orders. There's only one way for him to keep up his little power trip, and that's to show you he's a man of substance - otherwise, he's not the player he wants you to think he is. When I told you to come on in, what's your only response if you still want to be taken seriously as a player?

"I've got to come on in?"

"Precisely."

"Why?"

"Otherwise, he just looks like he's full of hot air, and Big Bad Bob is a man of action, and I just offered Big Bad Bob an action to take - kind of like a dare. You don't think Big Bad Bob is going to be too chicken to take on a tiny little dare, do you?"

I think that was the best fifty cents I ever spent!

the shrew

2006-05-11T22:55:00.000-04:00

I've got alot riding on this car sales thing working out - not to mention I can be more competitive sometimes, than I'd like to be.

Well, I've been sending out mailers from my own contacts database. This is a list of businesses in my town that I've compiled over the years when I'd do contract work on the side (while I was working at the factory) for business owners, either involving computers or some type of phone work. None of the other salesmen are contacting businesses. In fact, I don't think they ever have.

Yesterday, I called a guy who owns a radiator shop. He told me he wasn't sure of his hours for the rest of the week, so I should just call him in the morning, "...sometime between 8-10," and he'd have a better idea what his schedule is, so we could come up with a time for him to come in and look at a truck.

I thought, "Hey, why not just show up at his business tommorow morning [today] with the truck?" My manager OK'ed it, and instead of driving my car home last night, I drove the truck he's interested in to my house, so I could just pop in at his business since we both live in the same city. Did it, he drove it, he loved it and wants to buy it.

So what's the problem? We were working out some things he wanted the dealership to throw in for free to seal the deal, and it involved a little phone tag. The guy calls me later today at the dealership. He identifies himself as the owner of XYZ Radiator Shop [not really the name.]

The freakin' secretary for the dealership - without putting this guy on hold, yells out: "Which one of you guys is having radiator work done?" in a real annoyed voice, like she thought she was taking a personal call for me. I said, "Did he ask for Boris?" [not really my name.] Again, without putting him on hold, she says, "Yeah - there's two Boris' here and you both work in sales, so could you start telling people to include your first and last name when they call for you?"

I said, "Could you just transfer him to my extension?!!" She did. After the call, I said, "Did you know that guy owns a radiator shop, and he's buying a service truck off me?" She said, "How was I supposed to know why he called? He just said he was from XYZ Radiator and asked for you."

Did the guy buy? So far, so good. His banker called and said he was good for the money, but the check won't be cut till sometime next week, and if there was any problem with him taking delivery tommorow, we should just call him for the check number and amount. Evidently, this is a common occurance. I talked to the finance manager, and he told me if the guy comes in tommorow to take delivery, just let him drive off - he's good for it.

But that's not the point. The point is, this secretary doesn't like me. Unfortunately, she's considered a local hero, because her boyfriend frauded alot of people out of alot money and she cooperated with the FBI and turned him in - and they got him.

Argggggh!

I found out (much too late evidently) that she doesn't like people who talk about their kids, and she doens't like people who won't listen to country. She's also in love with a salesman who's not nuts about me, because I came from a factory, and he thinks that's a liability on the dealership, because it detracts from the professional image of an "automobile sales and leasing consultant."

I'm large and tall and I look like an NFL lineman - or a factory worker - even though I wear the collared, button-down shirts, slacks and leather shoes - I just look like an NFL lineman or factory worker who's wearing a collared, button-down shirt with slacks and leather shoes.

I can talk a smooth line of shit with the best of them, but at over six feet and near 300 pounds, I don't look like some preppy yupster who couldn't decide if I should finish med school or become a tennis coach at the country club and bang all the trophy wives while their husbands are overseas on business banging cheap hookers in Thailand. The rest of the salesmen have that air about them.

I'm still in a 3-way dog fight for 2nd place with 3 vehicles on the board so far - the leader has 4.

I don't mind recieving constructive criticism from people I consider to be brilliant, experienced, or both - even if they don't deliver it they way I'd like to recieve it, but that secretary is something else. I've got to kiss her ass a little because I know the owner likes her and she's also the one who transfers calls from people calling the dealership wanting to speak to a salesman - to whichever salesman she chooses, but damn!

Just another day in the life.

I do like selling cars. It beats working in a factory by about a million miles!

That's what Jerry does

2006-05-09T23:12:00.000-04:00

Yes! The training is over.

We did role-playing today - that's all we did. Of course, you don't get paid for training, but damn the education you get from a guy who grew up in the car business is unreal.

This guy's family owns a Dodge dealership and he had some kind of falling out with them, and he bought into a franchise of dealerships that totals 11 altogether. He grew the business he has now from practically nothing, and now he owns 3 out of the 11 dealerships; I don't think he's 40 yet. He's smart as hell.

He constantly talks about this one thing: "When it comes to a customer looking at cars on the lot, somebody's buying something: they're either buying a car from you, or you're buying their bullshit on how they're just looking. When's the last time you went into a supermarket and just decided to squeeze the produce, but had no intention of buying anything? You think these people are full of shit when they say they're just looking? Sure they are! They're buying a car - with or without you; so you might as well breeze past the b.s. and just get right down to business and get them sold. There's no better time to sell someone than when they're on the lot. Even if they come back, the best you can hope for, is to start from where you left off the last time, and that is the point at which they left. Do you want to make your money selling like that? I don't. I don't want you making your money that way either."

Dealing with common objections:

"I've got to talk this over with my wife. I'll just come back tommorow after we've had time to discuss this. We don't make any major decisions without eachother's input."

The owner's take on that? "It's bullshit."

I said, "Sounds like it makes perfect sens to me. I'm married, and my wife would just crap if I brought home a new vehicle without her input."

The owner: "How many people actually do that, though? Seriously! Think about this: Would you actually go on a car lot and decide to buy something before you talked to your wife? Of course not! This couple has been talking about a new vehicle for the past 5 weeks! They know exactly what they want, and excactly what they're willing to pay for it, before hubby sets foot on the lot. Here's the problem with hubby: he didn't see exactly what he wanted, or he thinks he should be getting a better deal than the numbers presented to him, or both. Trouble is, 9 times out of 10, he will never will see exactly what he wants because he's got a skewed outlook on the value of the vehicle he's looking at. In other words, he wants to buy a $20,000 for only $10,000. He'll never see a good deal - but that won't stop our competition from selling him something that's actually a good deal whether he thinks it is or not, because someone's selling him a truck or he wouldn't be at the dealership. That someone might as well be you!"

"Yeah, but how do you get around that?"

"Set a trap."

"Huh?"

"It's your job to get all chummy-chummy with the customers: remember the Miranda law? 'Anything you say, can, and will be held against you'? Talk to him at first before the sales process officially starts. Ask him if him and his wife have been talking about the truck. He'll tell you, because you both know this is coming up later. Ask him what her opinions about the truck are. While you're just being buddies, he'll tell you. Ask him why she's on board with him looking around. Maybe he's just replacing an old truck. Maybe they need it to haul a camper or boat. Ask. He'll tell you. When the objection finally comes up about wifey's approval, say, 'I can understand, but isn't this truck everything you two have been talking about for a long time now? So when you say you want to talk it over with her, is it the color, equipment, something I said, or do you just want to make sure you're getting the best deal possible?' Then, he'll tell you what the real objection is. It's probably price. Then say, 'If I could get the numbers to line up, you know, in a way that makes sense to you, we could just get this shopping behind you and wrap this up and send you home in it right now, couldn't we?' If he still persists on involving her, ask him where she is right now. Wherever that is, tell him we can just drive over to where she is in the new truck and present it for her approval. If she's at a job where she can't be reached until the end of her shift, you've got insurance forms in your desk that will provide him coverage for 24 hours and less than 50 miles. Make him sign that form, slap some dealer plates on that truck, and send his ass home. The next day, he'll be in to sign the check."

BTW: that's what Jerry does.

be a seller, not a teller

2006-05-07T00:26:00.000-04:00

Yeah, that's right: be a seller, not a teller. That's the motto of the car dealership I work at.

Here's the deal: I've been there about 6 weeks now. I'm half a car off from first place on the board. (A half a car is when one saleman turns over (TOs) a customer to another salesman, so they split the commission - it happens.)

I'm half a car out of first place, but I've been told something that I thought was pointed out to me in an effort to destroy my confidence or deflate my ego, or both; I wasn't sure. Turns out, even though I didn't like the delivery of the message, or the timing of the message, I happen to think the message is worth listening to.

The one salesman says to me, "Boris, how many sales have you made to people who were looking for a car that we didn't have on the lot?"

"None."

"So what you're telling me is, you've only sold to people because we had exactly what they were looking for, right?"

"Yeah - so what?"

"What's going to happen when your luck runs out, and everyone you talk to wants something that we don't have? Will you just turn them away and tell them to go somewhere else because we don't have what they were looking for?"

"Well, uh..."

"Never thought about that, did you?"

"Well, uh..."

"So you're going to say, 'Hey Mr. Customer-man, uh, we don't have exactly what you want, so why don't you just ease on down the road to one of our competitors, while I quietly sit here in the corner and go broke.' is that what you have planned?"

"Well, uh..."

"You're a teller, not a seller."

"Say what?"

"How much money do tellers at the bank make?"

"I guess minimum wage if they're lucky."

"Know why?"

"Uhhhhh...."

"Because that's all they're worth. The customer: 'Can I get that withdraw in 20s?/Could you deposit this in my checking?/Do you sell traveler's cheques?' Those are all yes or no questions. Seems to me, like you're answering alot of yes-or-no questions. 'Do you have this car in stock? No? OK, I'll just go somewhere else; bye!' I know you've been selling cars, but isn't that what's been going on?"

"Your point?"

"Well, like I said, what's going to happen when your luck runs out and everyone you talk to wants something other than what we have on the lot?"

"Hmmmmm."

"I can see this got the gears going, huh? You know, luck runs out for the new guys sooner or later. From that point on, you're going to have to rely on skill. Do you have skill?"

"I guess."

"If someone walks on this lot and says, 'Do you have this car, or that truck, with this feature, or that feature, and you know damn good and well we don't have it, could you sell them something we do have, instead?"

"Uhhhh..."

"Jerry does - and so do I."

"How?"

"Bypass price and inventory questions."

"What?"

"When a customer asks a price or inventory question, it's just a ploy so they can scratch you off their list. You're just helping them eliminate you as their salesman. Don't get me wrong, it's nothing personal, but the bank doesn't mind if you skip a mortgage payment or two, do they? According to NADA statistics, 86% of people bought a car that was different from the one they originally set out to buy - you're selling 0% of those people. Get it?"

"Tell me about this 'by-pass' thing."

"OK. Let's say you have a customer who says they have to have a 4x4 extended cab truck and all we have is a 2 wheel drive crew cab. What do you say?"

"Uhhhhhh..."

"That's why they walk away. You don't talk your way into a sale, you ask your way into a sale. He who asks the questions, controls the conversation; he who controls the conversation, gets what he wants. Dig?"

"I don't get it."

"Well, you ask this guy if he's willing to pay a huge amount for four wheel drive. Then, he might ask you, 'How much extra would I pay for four wheel drive?' You say, 'I don't know, proabably about $3,000. Is four wheel drive worth $3,000 to you? No? OK then, just make me an offer on this two wheel drive then.' "

"Yeah, but I don't know the differences in option packages like you do."

"Like I do? You think I keep that shit in my head?"

"You said, 'Four wheel drive would proabably cost an additional $3,000.' "

"Oh, so you think I know that for sure?"

"Hey, you're the one who said it."

"You didn't pay attention: I said, 'I don't know, probably around $3,000; do you want to pay $3,000 four wheel drive?' The important thing for you to note is, I qualified my statement with, 'I don't know....' but I implied that I do know. See the difference? A teller would just say, 'No, we don't have an extended cab in four wheel drive.' A seller would by-pass the inventory question with, 'I don't know, probably about $3,000; did you want to pay $3,000 for four wheel drive, or would you like to just make me an offer on this truck we have right here?' Nobody wants to pay an additional $3,000 for anything, so if the four wheel drive thing is simply an excuse and not an objection, you'll find out right there, and blow past people who just want to throw as many uneccessary obstacles in the way as they can. They want to buy a car, but they're just afraid to spend the money - even though they know they have to. They'll spend it alright, but it won't be on you, unless you can spot this subconcious buyers technique, which is really just a coping mechanism designed to help them handle how much money they're about to spend. See what I mean?"

"Yeah, thanks!"

I just thought of this while reading Maya's blog. She just got a job at a roofing company. She deals with intimidating old people. I deal with those too - they're called the top salesmen, and they get whatever they want. I feel your pain Maya, I really do. This'll be motivation to stay in school!

an e-mail to my wife

2006-05-03T22:53:00.000-04:00

Before I do a copy and paste from my e-mail account, I feel I have to set this up so no one gets the wrong impression.

The salesmen in the showroom were just pranking me. They really didn't call the police, nor did they actually think anything was wrong, they just wanted to get me worried, although there actually were slim-jim tracks on the driver's window of the Lexus, which is where these clowns got the idea to fuck with me. After it was all said and done, it was funny, but I wasn't laughing at the time.

For the customer's name, I'm going to slip some non-alpha/numeric characters in there, so this guy doesn't Google his name and think that car salesmen blog about their customers using their real names, but this guy's real name plays into the story. Just so you know, Mark and Jerry are the top salesmen, Dave is the sales manager. In blue, here's the e-mail I sent my wife on Monday:

Hey Beautiful Babydoll!

Just sold a truck. This was a split-tender deal, cash and Visa. I thought the deal was going south when it took forever, but it was a problem on the dealership's end, not the customer's.

This was hilarious! It was a black guy who pulled up in a Lexus SUV. He wanted to know about the 1988 Silverado on the hill. I took a registration, and it turned out his name was Willie !H!o!o!d. I got him in the truck, and he said he had his wife in the Lexus. Since this was a single cab, there just wasn't enough room in the truck for all 3 of us, so I slapped my plate on it, drove him to the Lexus, and told him to have his wife hop in, and bring it back when he was done.

Well, Mark told me to get his driver's license. I told him it would be a bit awkward, since I told him to just take off. Mark shook his head.

Then, Mark goes out to the Lexus they left behind, and he says, "Look at the driver's door where the window meets the door. See those scratches? Those are marks from a slim-jim." They really were. Mark says, "You better hope this guy comes back from his test drive before Dave gets back from lunch, or you're screwed.

I said, "Why?" He says, "This guy obviously dropped off a stolen Lexus and now he's got our truck, you dumb-ass. How much more obvious does it need to be for you?"

Then, I go back into the show-room, and Jerry says, "Did you at least get his name?" I said, "Yeah: Willie !H!o!o!d."

Everybody starts laughing. "Willie !H!o!o!d?!!!!" "Willie !H!o!o!d?!!!! - how perfect is that for a black guy from Toledo? I guess Willie Horton woudv'e been too obvious of an alias, huh?"

I started getting worried.

Jerry takes the registration I just took and calls the Fostoria police department with the license plate number from the Lexus.

Then Dave walks in from lunch: "Would someone please explain to me why the Fostoria PD is calling me about a stolen vehicle? Whose is it?"

"My test drive."

"Why the fuck aren't you in it?"

I explained how the cab was just too small for 3 people.

"That's just fucking great. What do you think Jeff's going to think?"

But, the guy came back and actually bought the truck!!!!!

Whew!

Love,

Boris Yeltsin

You can't make this stuff up...

2006-05-01T22:14:00.000-04:00

So this is how last Friday went:

I'm remembering what the sales manager told me the previous Monday. He says, "Hey, if you don't wind up making this week what you make at the factory in a week (I'm on voluntary lay-off) it's over; you've got till Saturday to make $600 in commissions."

So, nothing Monday, Tuesday (my day off) Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday, I'm thinking I've got to have a miracle.

Friday morning, the dealership receptionist pages over the loudspeaker: "Sales 111; sales 111." That's when someone calls about a car and they don't have a salesman. I run my fat ass over to my desk (literally) and dial the extension and announce my name.

It's some guy who wants a 1 or 2 year old pickup for around $15-20,000. He says he's got great credit, and he wants to buy today. He was real picky about the gear ratio of the rear axle and I had to make sure it was a crew cab with a 5.3 liter engine. Sure enough, we have exactly what he wants, right down to the color.

I set the appointment for 5:PM so his wife could be along for the test drive. Around 4:30, I'm thinking I better fill out the buyer's order before he gets there, so I don't have to mess with things that can trip you up like having to go out on the lot and getting the VIN # and stock #, because I wanted to be at my desk with him and his wife the whole time, just in case I needed to be there to help prevent the ether from wearing off. (That's car dealership talk: ether is the excitement they feel when they're about to buy a car - as a salesman, you don't want that wearing off.)

So I go out on the lot to the truck. It's locked. Oh hell no! Worse than it being locked, I don't see the keys anywhere in it. So I'm thinking, "OK, just go inside and pull the deal jacket for the extra set of keys - no big whoop." WRONG!!!! There is no extra set of keys in the deal jacket. I start asking the other salesmen if they know where the keys to this truck are. No one knows, no one cares. The owner of the dealership is in, and he hears what's going on, and all he can say is, "Better find those damned keys before you appointment shows, that's all I gotta say." (He's all heart when it comes to money.)

The acting new car manager happens to hear what's going on, and he says, "I've got an idea." We go over to his desk, and he pulls out a slim jim and a black pair of leather gloves. I said, "We better hurry, because it's a quarter till and I don't want them to see you trying to break into their test drive."

While we're walking across the lot to get to the truck, this car pulls into the lot with a couple inside. They park the car right in front of Jerry and I's path, and the guy gets out and says, "Which one of you guys is Boris Yeltsin? I'm a little early for my test drive, but you guys bugged me enough about this truck (I called him 4 times on his cell phone while he was at work) so I'm anxious to see this thing!"

Jerry's wearing black leather gloves and walking at this guy with a slim-jim. I said, "Well, you're in luck, because Jerry's about to get us into your test drive right now." I didn't know what else to say. The guy says, "This ain't right." I'm thinking, "Of course it ain't right mister - turn around and run like hell!"

Jerry in all of his tact, says, "I'm too short to see down inside the door, so Boris, get on the other side of the truck and look at the lock on the driver's door; when you see it start to jiggle, hollar out!"

So Jerry, with no regard for what it may look like, or what kind of damage he may be doing to the inner door of the truck, starts moving the slim-jim up and down, like he's jacking it off.

"Do you know which lock I'm talking about, Boris?"

"Yeah Jerry, there's only one on the driver's door. Jerry, as much as I'd like to sit here and watch you do this, I was thinking we could get Mr. and Mrs. Smith here, inside for some refreshments. I know it won't take you long to do this."

"No, I'm curious now," says Mr. Smith. We'll watch - maybe even help.

The lock starts jiggling after about 5 mintues, so Jerry yanks up real hard, and releases the lock. OK, so we get the door open. Jerry's hyping it up like we're going to get the keys, so we look, and we look, and we look. Do you have any idea how many knooks and crannys a Chevy Silverado 3/4 ton has in the cab? We looked about 3 times, and still no keys.

So I lie - or at least I thought I was: "I know a spot where we can get a set of keys for this truck; let's just go inside and get some refreshments." I'm lying like a motherfucker, and I know it.

I get the couple settled at my desk, and I go back outside, thinking I'll look under the truck and put my head down and look on the ground over the path from the showroom to the truck, anything to find those damned keys.

I'm on my hands and knees feeling under the truck, when out of no where the service manager appears. He's never on the lot. He says, "Boris, what the f*** are you doing?" as he chuckles. I told him about the keys. All of a sudden, a big gust of wind blows really hard, and we both hear the tinkling sound of metal hitting pavement. Evidently, one of the salesmen pulled all the keys to all the trucks in that row, and placed those keys on the hood of this car the service manager was standing near. (This row of trucks was out in the grass near the ditch, far away from the lot, so the salesman put the keys to all of those trucks in that row, on the that car on the lot, so when the guy who puts the keys on this big metal ring goes around collecting the keys, he wouldn't have to walk out in the grass, all the way to the ditch.)

It would've been great if they told me that's where the keys were, but of course, they didn't.

So I find the keys to my truck, put them in the ignition, and take off like a bat out of hell toward the part of my building near my desk. I'm thinking it's getting a little hot in the truck, so I hit the button for the electric window, and wouldn't you know this truck has an "auto-down" feature, which means when you hit the button for the window, it goes all the way down. Great, right? Not when the slim-jim is still stuck between the window and the door. I hear this horrible screeching sound. It's the slim-jim. I hit the button to stop the noise, but the slim-jim got tangled up, down inside the door when the window went down, so it was stuck. It actually wrapped around the bottom of the window, but the slim-jim is so long, there's still about 8" of slim-jim sticking out of the door.

So, I go to my desk where our lovely couple is sitting, and I say, "Your chariot awaits." They go out to the truck, get inside, and we're off. The first thing the guy wants to do is roll the windows up and get the air on. I'm like, "NO!!!! Uh, I mean, just put the air on - the slim-jim is stuck inside the door - don't worry, we'll have service take care of that first thing in the morning!"

Then, everything looks like it's going good, and the guy says, "One thing I always do on a test-drive, is take my hands off the wheel while the vehicle is in motion, to see who the steering is."

He takes his hands off the wheel, and the truck pulls so hard to the right, I swear we pulled a few G's!

I just didn't know what to say. Needless to say, I didn't get the sale.

Our Monday morning meeting, we're reviewing some of the sales that were close, but not quite, and the owner of the dealership goes, "So Boris, why do you think this couple didn't buy when we had everything they were looking for?"

I felt like saying, "Everything but a competent staff," but I held that little nugget in. I said, "That thing pulls to the right like you wouldn't believe. We should have service look at it."

The owner says, "It wasn't the truck pulling - you must've done something to turn their "buy-switch off."

Then he goes into a tyrade about how, when it comes to people looking at cars, somebody's buying something: either the customer is buying a car, or the salesman is buying the customer's lies about why they don't want the car you've got them on - regardless, someone's buying something, whether you realize it or not."

I believe that, but I didn't want to say that I asked where the keys were and no one told me. Believe me, in that environment, you'll look like a whiney little bitch if you do that. All I could do was just take it.

It's a tough business, but after 15 years in a factory, I've come to the realization, every business is a tough business.

It was easier to sell weed in high school!

2006-04-27T22:45:00.000-04:00

Yeah, this is a bad time for the car business. Our top salesmen are having a tough time making ends meet. Sure, they're selling cars, but not enough to sustain their lifestyle. In fact, they've gone weeks at a time without selling cars. They've got it rough - or so they think; but it's what they think that counts. They're barely eeking out a living using the advanced horse-trading techniques they've picked up along the way when times were good. Me? I don't know those advanced techniques. I've sold 2 cars. Both at full sticker price - but I've only sold 2 cars - in one month.

I've got a guy right now who's attempting to put the dealership I work at, and another GM dealership in another city in a bidding war over his trade-in. He's got a 6 year-old Blazer he bought in cash brand-new and right now it's got really low miles; always been garaged in the winter, he's never had kids or pets, doesn't smoke, and has record of every oil change he's ever gotten.

The owner of the dealership was in today, and heard about my situation. He tells me: "He's putting us in a bidding war. There's only one way to win a bidding war, and that's to be the last bidder. I'm going to tell you how to put yourself in that spot."

I'm thinking: "Cool."

This is what he says. He says, "Tell him these exact words, and these exact words only. Write down what the NADA book says his Blazer is worth: it's $6,000." (That's what he told me the other dealership would give him.)

"Then," says the owner of the dealership, "write down the most optimum price an insane person desperate to make a deal would give him: $8,000; put the $8,000 figure over the $6,000 figure. You with me so far?"

"Yup."

"OK. Point to the bottom figure, and tell him, 'It sounds to me like in order to earn your business, we've got to be close to this high figure for your trade-in, right?' He'll shake his head up and down in agreement while dollar sign dance in his eyes. Then say, 'In order for us to reach that figure, we need you to whip out your check-book right now.' "

I said, "What if he doesn't?"

"He won't. He didn't even bring his check book. (I forgot to mention: everyone knows he's a cash buyer.) He didn't bring his check book because we're in the bidding stage still; there's no reason for him to bring it. It's not here. That's OK. You're building a sense of urgency. With me?"

"Yup - sense of urgency."

"OK, when he tells you he doesn't have his check book, you ask him, 'All things being equal, between us and them, which dealership would you buy from - in other words, if the other dealership gave you the exact same deal, would you buy from us or them?' "

"Why's that important?"

"You're springing a trap."

"Oh."

"There's no way in hell I'm giving this guy $8,000 for a 6 year-old Blazer."

"Shit."

"But, I'm putting you in position as last bidder, and that's where you want to be. He'll go to the other dealership, and tell them we'll give him $8,000 for his Blazer. They'll laugh him off the lot, thinking either he's lying or we're lying - doesn't matter - they won't give him $8,000 for his Blazer and I know it."

"Yeah, but...."

"Shhhhh. Don't worry. He'll come back and want the $8,000 trade-in. You tell him to whip out his check book because we can't write an offer without the check book present. Make sure when he calls you tommorow, that you tell him to bring his trade-in and check book. When he whips out the check book, tell him you've got to make a few calls to make it happen. Dave knows what's going on. Dave will tell you to tell him, 'Good news - we can beat the other dealership's trade-in, and we can get exactly the car you want in 24 hours." (Neither dealership has exactly what he wants.)

"How is going from $8,000 back down to $6,100 good news?"

"Remind him of the commitment he made to you yesterday, remember? When you asked him, 'All things being equal, where would you buy your car?' Then remind him that we're beating the other dealer's trade-in, so all things aren't equal, we're ahead. Then remind him that high gas prices are killing our SUV sales and because that's exactly the reason why he's trading his Blazer, don't you think it'll be tough for him to get more than what we're offering at the other dealership? He's already been through alot with all that driving; he's ready, and he knows he's getting top dollar - it's your job to remind him of that."

It was easier selling weed in high school!

Just a little update...

2006-04-21T21:58:00.000-04:00

For those of you who're familar with my previous post, the woman who was supposed to buy the Buick? She called me today and said her son got called away to some emergency meeting at work and couldn't be reached, and then him and his wife are going away for the weekend, but she'll be in touch with him sometime late Saturday or anytime on Sunday, and she'll have an answer for me Monday morning at the latest.

That's just the nature of the beast I guess. She did tell me she was interested on information on a "one-pay lease." I'm not allowed to tell her this, but I think if she goes for that, she's screwing herself. The way the deal was originally written as a purchase, with her trade-in and rebates, she could drive off with a brand-new LaCross CXL for $19,000. She's got the money in cash, because her husband just died over the winter and she's the recipient of his fat life insurance policy.

With the one-pay lease option, she can drive off with the same car for under $10,000; but, that's assuming she gives us her trade-in which is a fully-loaded '01 Oldmobile Silhouette in pristine condition - which also has a clear title. This one-pay lease is 3 years, 15,000 miles per year, which means she can put 45,000 miles on it. Aside from the fact this lease is less than half the purchase, if she were to die before the lease expires, she can designate a beneficiary who could drive it until the lease is up - and that beneficiary would just turn the car in, thus avoiding probate court altogether. (If she out-right owns the car, the car would be tied up in probate court upon her death, even if she does have a designated beneficiary; this was an important fact to her, as she's 75 years old, with Krohn's disease.)

After reading all of that, you might be thinking, "Down-side? What down-side?" The downside is this: She can outright own the car for $19,000 + trade for as long as she lives. We're giving her $6,500 for her trade, so if she puts in an additional $9,900 in cash, she's giving us over $16,000 and has to turn it back in after only 3 years. If she's still alive after 3 years, she's without wheels.

At the end of the lease, she can buy the car for the difference between the $19,000 cash payment that would've allowed her to out-right own it, minus the cost of the lease ($9,900). In other words, after already giving us $9,900 cash, (not to mention her trade) she'd have to cough up an additional $10,000! If she leases, then buys the car at the end of the lease, she's paying $29,000 for a $27,000 car and outright giving us her '01 Silhouette, which is in mint condition - and has a clear title (her husband paid cash for it, brand-new).

If she outright buys the new Buick, she's paying $27,000 for a $27,000 car, and her trade-in is factored into the deal in her favor; with the lease, she's just giving us her trade, plus an extra $2,000. The only advantage is, if she dies before the lease expires, the beneficiary won't have to worry about the car being tied up in probate court - and she pays half the cash to drive away with it. Those are the only 2 advantages.

Also, how does she know she'll even have $10,000 in 3 years? She's getting screwed!

If she dies in less than 3 years, it works for everybody: she's driving a $27,000 car for only $9,000 cash + trade. Rather than spending $19,000 (+trade) to out-right own it, she can drive off with it for a measly $9,900 (+trade). That frees up $10,000 cash for her, plus her beneficiary doesn't have to worry about the car being tied up in probate court.

If she lives longer than 3 years, there's no guarantee she'll even have the $10,000 to buy it, which puts her really far behind the 8-ball, because she doesn't have a trade-in either.

The way I see it, she's farther ahead just out-right owning it. Even if she becomes incapacitated and can't drive in less than 3 years, she at least has something she can sell to raise money for a home-health aide. If she stays healthy for the next 10 years, a ten year-old Buick is still a good car - and she only has to put gas, oil and the occassional set of tires on it. To me, it's a no-brainer. But, I know my manager would freak if I pointed out the obvious, if she was leaning toward a sucker deal.

She's not stupid. Not only that, she drives like a man. She test drove that car down a narrow country road: about the width of an alley. There was a dump-truck approaching from the on-coming lane, and she just casually nudged the steering wheel to the right a little, putting the passenger tires in the grass, while talking to me, without slowing down, or pausing her conversation. In fact, I think she even punched the gas to give the car a little more momentum while the passenger tires were in the grass! That's what a man would do, not some typical 75 year-old granny!

Given the fact she isn't stupid, I just hope she doesn't take this one-pay lease as an insult and take it out on me by not buying the car. My manager is the one who originally brought it up.

I guess we'll find out on Monday!

We're not in Kansas anymore

2006-04-14T22:28:00.000-04:00

This has been an educational experience, working for this car dealership. I've got 15 years seniority at the factory job. I needed a change of pace, so I took a voluntary lay-off at the factory and got a job as a car salesman. At the factory job, 15 years will get you alot of good jobs where you're the top dog - or at least you've got a gravy job where all the new hires do the heavy lifting. At the dealership, I'm the new guy that gets crapped on. It's different.

Here's the way it works: at a dealership, you've got one or two guys who sell more cars than everyone else combined. In the eyes of management, those guys are gods. Those guys call the shots. Those guys influence trade-in values. Those guys tell customers, without consulting with the business manager, how much the customer will get for the trade-in, even if the trade-in hasn't been driven by anyone at the dealership yet.

As a newbie, you do that, and you're toast. You're not allowed to tell people what their trade-in is worth, because you honestly have no clue. When people get hung up on the idea that their car is special because they changed the oil every 2,500 miles religiously, and because of that, they've got to get 3 times the Kelly Blue Book value, there isn't a whole lot I can say.

The top salesmen know the profile of an "up" who's a "lay-down-and-buy." (An "up" is a person who comes in off the street with no prior relationship with the dealership.) A "lay-down-and-buy" is a person who will sign a purchase order on the first set of numbers presented to them, who also won't question the trade-in allowance.

If a top salesman goes after an up, that means there's a good chance that up is a lay-down-and-buy. If a newbie gets in the way of a top salesman after an up, it's not pretty after the up leaves.

So, as the new guy, you're more than welcome to puruse the "bad credit/no credit" types all you want. While you're at it, if you happen to get the ups with the "Guns don't kill people, I kill people" t-shirt on, and that person happens to have a swastika tatoo on his forehead and crossed eyes, so much the better.

Somehow, someway, you have to hang in there and hope a "lay-down-and-buy" comes in during lunch hour, or after the top guys leave (which for them, is usually 2 hours early - unless the "fish" are bitin'!)

This is how a new guy builds a clintel: bottom feeding. When a salesman quits, the customers he has are called orphans. Do you think a new guy gets orphans? No. The orphans are split amongst the two top guys. That's just how it works.

I happened to wait on an old lady who came in at the beginning of the week. When this old lady pulled up, all the salesmen were at a computer where they were watching the highlight reels from ESPN.com, and this woman just so happened to pull up when the salesman were watching the clip of LaBron James when he injured his ankle.

This woman's husband just died, and left her with a fat life insurance policy. She's very indecisive which is maddening, but I can sympathize with her, as this is the first car-buying decision she's ever made in her entire life. (It was either her dad or her husband who decided which cars she would buy.) She test drove 5 vehicles, and she still can't make up her mind - although she's got it narrowed down to 3.

With this being Easter weekend, she doesn't want to get involved with buying a new car this week, because her oldest son is coming down from Chicago, and she's afraid he'll get upset if she doesn't somehow include him in the decision.

Since he will be with her on Sunday when the dealership is closed, I devised a plan where I'm going to put the 3 cars she's narrowed it down to, on display in front of the dealership. I'm going to hang bright-yellow tags from the rear-view mirror of each car, and each tag will have her name written with a fat, Sharpie marker. Each car will be freshly detailed, which will make them really stand out as this has been a very rainy spring, and as a result, the cars on the lot are covered in rain-drop dust.

One of the nice things about being a salesman is, you get to tell the detail people which cars to wash and they've got to do it. I get along really well with the detail people, because I talk to them - which the other salesmen do too, but I don't snicker behind their backs when they leave, and the detail people know it. I don't like that about the other salesmen, because I think it's sad, but the other salesmen, by and large, are making six figures a year, and the detail people are making minimum wage, so in the eyes of the salesmen, the detail people are laughable.

Anyhow, that's what I'm doing. She's seeing her family off on Monday; on Tuesday she's getting a colonoscopy (which I got to hear all the details about why that was ordered - something to do with her slippery bowels) but anyway, I've got her coming back Wednesday - tentatively - to bring in her trade-in, and hopefully swap titles. I told her I'd call her an hour before the appointment to see if she was up to it. If not, we could do the next day.

She's got it down to 2, '06 Buicks and an '06 Grand Prix GT. (She's leaning toward the GT, and I think she's afraid if her son sees that in her driveway on Easter, he'll freak out.)

She made the mistake of telling me she belongs to a knitting club. If I sell her a car, I'll be mining her for referrals so I can get her buddies from the knitting club in there to test drive some cars! Hell, I don't care how many stories about slippery bowels or false teeth or Depends Undergarmets I have to endure: bring it on grandmas! Just buy some new Buicks or Pontiacs while you're at it!

oops!

2006-04-13T22:32:00.000-04:00

Little Tim was in the garden filling in a hole when his neighbour peered over the fence. Interested in what the cheeky-faced youngster was up to, he politely asked, "What are you up to there, Tim?" "My goldfish died," replied Tim tearfully, without looking up, "and I've just buried him." The neighbour was concerned, "That's an awfully big hole for a goldfish, isn't it?" Tim patted down the last heap of earth then replied, "That's because he's inside your fucking cat."

they must like me

2006-04-07T20:53:00.000-04:00

I was getting a little worried about how the other salesmen would take me. We've got a few grizzled veterans who've been in some type of car sales since they were in their 20's, but for the younger ones, they're college educated, and I'm middle-aged - and I've been in a factory most of my adult life - not on a car lot.

The younger ones started out by treating me with a very condescending attitude - it was almost as though they felt I didn't belong there, so in order to do me the favor of pointing that out, they'd treat me like I was their personal slave. I don't want to make waves and make myself appear as though I'm too radical, but on the other hand, I also wanted to show them that I'm dealing from a position of strength. In other words, I'm older, therefore I should be smarter. If I can't show them I'm dealing from a position of strength, then I'm either out the door because I'm too hard to get along with, or I'm out the door, because no one will take me under their wing and show me the ropes - because I'm too radical, and too old, and so forth. So what's a fat, old, blue-collar bastard to do in this situation?

Deal from a position of strength. There's alot you can take from any relationship you're in, regardless of gender, religion or socio-economic background, and apply it to a completely different set of circumstances, because after all, people are people.

I remember in the factory, when working the "high-seniority" departments, the old-timers had a sense of entitlement about them. It didn't matter if the "old-timer" was a guy who hired in right out of high school back in the 1970's who's only in his 40s or 50s, or if it's real "old-timers," who have dentures, a plethera of medication to take every morning and problems with incontinence; doesn't matter: high seniority carries a sense of entitlement, regardless of your age.

I remember these high-seniority people not willing to do alot of work that was considered exclusively the domain of low-seniority people, who should just be thankful to be working in a high-seniority department, where they can take breaks longer than the "blue-book" allows. (Which is true: those low-seniority people should be thankful to be in a high-seniority area!)

Anyway, the bottom line is, these high seniority people wouldn't do grunt work.

So what do I do at the dealership to deal from a position of strength?

The veteran car salesmen usually don't meet customers out on the lot, because these guys have enough repeat business to make a good living, without "duking" customers, or even having to worry about "ups," period. (Duking customers is meeting them out on the lot; ups are people who browse the lot, but don't have a previous relationship with the dealership or any of it's salesmen.)

The veterans stay inside and wait for the fresh meat to come to them. I thought to myself, "There's an opportunity!" I started duking customers immediately. Now, I'll go out there and introduce myself, then ask if they're working with a salesman, and if they are, what that salesman's name is. Then, I'll go through the "investigative process" with the customer, asking them why they're at the dealership, and what they're interested in looking at. I write it all down on a memo pad that fits in my shirt pocket, and ask the customers to come in, so they can meet their salesman. (Most of the time, people browsing cars out on the lot already have a salesman, and because I'm new, it's never me!)

The top salesman loves me for doing this, because he's sold alot of additional cars because of me, and now he's taking me under his wing. He even pranked me last night, which is a good sign in an all-male environment - which this is.

The other salesmen hate it, because now they have to be nice to me - whether they want to or not. If I was to get a little pissy, maybe I'd neglect to tell their "too-entitled" asses, that their customer is out there, looking to buy a car - from them. They resent this, because they know if I decided to just forget to tell them, they're out of a sale - and who's really going to blame the new guy for forgetting something, anyway?

See? I am dealing from a position of strength! Factory workers aren't as dumb as these guys think. All I have to do now is sell. I was talking to one of the managers, and he told me that it's not uncommon for guys to go months without selling something when they first start out. I don't have that long, because once the training salary is over, I'm feeding 6 other mouths, and I've got to start selling! I've got one more week of training salary.

I've been so close, so many times. The one critique I consistently get is, I'm either too soft on the close, or too hard. They have a saying there: "The difference between persistence and annoyance is technique."

They say you have to fulfill the dual roles of drill sargeant and trusted advisor, and establish yourself as being capable in both of those roles, within about ten minutes of the coversation. Anyone wonder why the real good car salesmen live in neighborhoods where they've got doctors and lawyers playing tennis with them at the subdivion's clubhouse?

I don't have to be that good to top what I made in the factory, I've just got to make sure I don't blow the sales opportunities I'll have in this upcoming sale. I was watching training videos when the last sale was going on, and when I got done with the videos, the sale was over. Now they've got another sale going on next week, I'll have a better understanding of not being too nervous to follow the process and recite the scripts as though the scripts are normal conversation.

This will be challenging.

Happy news II

2006-04-01T18:50:00.000-05:00

I've been at this dealership almost a week now. Most of my time has been spent watching training videos; seriously. You watch, and you watch, and you watch. But, it's good because at least they don't throw your ass out on the floor and expect you to be born with the knowledge of how the whole thing works. (Plus I'm drawing a training salary, so that's cool.)

The one thing I don't like is, they expect you to take the product knowledge DVDs home with you and watch them on your time. You watch the "psychology behind the sale" DVDs on their time, you watch which car has a 3 year/36,000 mile warantee, and which car has a 5 year/50,000 mile warantee on your own time. Can't have it all, I guess.

Anyway, today was the first day they wanted me to interact with ups. An up is someone who drives or walks in, unannounced, who doesn't have a salesman or any prior relationship with the dealership. But that's not all. Since I'm done watching videos, I'm also the "slave" for a while, too. I had to take glass cleaner and wipe all the paint announcing a sale that ended yesterday, off all the showroom windows. That was a chore. I learned how to make the coffee, I learned the procedure for putting the keys in all the cars in the morning; I also changed the lettering on the sign out front from "Buy a car and get an HDTV big screen tv," to "Spring into a new car."

That was in addition to talking to ups. The first guy I talked to had a salesman, but he had the best salesman in the dealership, and that guy already had 3 people he was selling to. I was told to "keep the customer warm." That's not implying a homosexual experience, you just have to chat them up, and learn as much as you can about what they want, so when the salesman does come around, the paperwork can get started without all the initial chit-chat.

I found out this guy is a GM employee, who's a journeyman machinist. He just bought his wife a brand new car at another GM dealership last week, so this decision was all his. We picked out his truck together. We did a walk-around to look for dings and scratches, which, believe it or not, come with brand-new vehicles from the train ride, or handling. We found a bunch he wanted taken care of.

We walked back into the dealership. His salesman passed him off to another salesman, and the guy bought the truck we picked out. That pissed me off. I told the sales manager about that. The sales manager told me that until I actually sell a vehicle, I'm a nobody, and no salesman in his right mind is going to pass off a sure "buy," to a nobody.

I had another up, this time, an elderly couple who didn't want to stick around because it was a steady 20 mph wind and it was only 50 degrees. Of course, that was my fault, even though I got the guy to give me all his info on what he wanted to trade in, including the VIN # and mileage. According to the sales manager, I allowed this man to control the conversation, which resulted in him leaving.

But, later on, I found a couple on the lot who were looking at a Vibe. They loved it, and I got all the info on them including both of their social security numbers and DOBs, but they wouldn't sign it to give us permission to check their credit. Since they wouldn't sign the registration, I had to T.O. (turn over) them to the sales manager, who got the best salesman on the floor (Mark) to talk to them. They wouldn't sign the registration for him, either.

They did tell the Mark that they loved the car, and if they can get a good trade-in price on all 3 junkers they have in the driveway, they'll buy the Vibe.

While all of this is going on, the Mrs. takes a restroom break, so I go to the podium to talk to the sales manager, Dave. Dave tells me that he's not sure if I can have this couple, because Mark was talking to a couple last night who wanted a black Vibe, and if this is the same couple, they're Mark's anyway. I said, "There's no way that's possible." Dave asks why I'm so sure. I said, "Because, the first question out of my mouth when I initially talked to them was, 'Are you working with a salesman right now?' and they told me 'no.' " Dave said, "That's what I wanted to hear; they're all yours."

I think they're going to buy. We left it off that I'd call them on Tuesday night to see when they could come in on Wednesday to finish the process. (The rebates change in their favor Tuesday night.) I think they're going to buy this Vibe. They loved it. I always thought a Vibe was uglier than hell, but damn, they're really nice on the inside, plus they get great mileage.

One of this dealership's big statistics is, 85% of all people who visit a dealership, made a conscious decision to buy before leaving home. Therefore, the light-switch is on - don't do anything to turn it off. Today, I proved that 2 out of the 3 people I talked to, didn't have their light-switch turned off - and the elderly couple still may buy, because they guy told me he was leaving only because his wife couldn't take the cold.

All in all, I'd say it was a good day.

psychology behind the sale

2006-03-30T22:26:00.000-05:00

OK, for the last 3 days I've been sitting at a table in an upstairs room of this dealership, watching training videos. The process is tedious, but what you learn is fascinating.

First of all, on my first day, me and the new car manager are walking up the stairs of the dealership first thing in the morning, and I say, "I take it my physical turned out OK?" He said, "I don't know, I haven't even got to my desk yet." I'm thinking to myself, "Oh, great! Now, I'm looking like some kind of Dead-Head, hippie or something." So we get inside and he takes me to the administrative office and asks the office manager's assistant if my results were OK. She says, "I don't know, I haven't got them yet." I said, "The testing facility told me yesterday that they sent the results to you around 11:AM. Did you get them yet?" She said she'd check. I'm thinking, "Damn, I'm collecting unemployment, I don't want to be working somewhere that doesn't want me because I flunked a drug screen, damn it, can't these people get their head out of their ass?"

So a few hours goes by, and the girl says to me that she read the results and everything was OK. Then she gives me this shit-eating-smirk like she's saying, "Worried, weren't you? I know what you do, I know what you do!"

But back to the training. Yes, it's tedious. Today, I spent about 9 hours in front of a tv; yesterday it was 8. But today was my 12 hour day, which meant the other three was at the sales manager's command center, so I could watch from the sales manager's perspective how deals are put together.

That was not interesting. The videos were. They're a fairly large dealership. They're big into 2 things: statistics and technology. They have a statistic for everything, and you're expected to remember them. One of the most interesting ones is, 96% of the people who get a price without giving a commitment to buy, won't buy from the dealership who gave them the price. When I first heard that, I'm thinking to myself, "Yeah, right! They're just saying that because they don't want the sales force talking price until the prospect is all hot and bothered over the car." In fact, the sales manager told me to ask questions about the videos when it was time for me to sit in the command center. So I did.

I said, "I find it very hard to believe that if you give someone a price without them giving you a commitment to buy, they won't buy from you 96% of the time. It would seem to me if you were nice enough to get them what they want right off the bat, they'd feel an obligation to at least buy maybe 50% of the time, if not more."

He said, "Let me give you an example of something that happened to me. I had a friend of mine who had a credit score in the low 800s (damn near perfect, for those of you keeping track at home.) He calls me up and says he's a busy guy and he wanted a price quote over the phone on a car he had his eye on. This guy's got money and good credit, so he could pretty much afford anything on the lot, and the car he wanted the price on, was one of the most expensive.

All I see are dlollar signs in my eyes, so without thinking, I get him the price over the phone. A few weeks later, I see him driving that car, but I know he didn't buy it off me. So I ask him where he got the car and why he didn't buy it off me? He says, 'After you gave me the price, I used that price to shop a few other dealers, and I found one who would beat the price you gave me. What do I look like, an idiot? Of course I bought from them!' So, that's why you never discuss price with a customer unless they have so much time invested in your deal, that they'd feel silly for starting the whole process all over again at another dealership."

It's a game of attrition. Once I get a little more familar with the stats, maybe I'll share them. They're so interesting. How they blend statistics and psychology, to me, is nothing short of facsinating; really. The more accurate way of reflecting their sales approach would be to describe it as a weave of statistics and psychology.

They base the stats on any purchase you make where you're most likely to go to more than one place to check out a product. Could be shoes, tools, houses, cars, whatever. This excludes impulse purchases and groceries. It's funny too, because the training videos I watch are actual classes the principal of the dealership has video taped while training his salesmen. This dealer subscribes to some service that tracks current statistics on buying habits. He subscribes to another service that explains how to weave psychology into the stats as a way to apply the two, to selling a ton of big-ticket items.

Some of the salesmen in the video are still there, and they told me that when the principal did his surveys on the salesmen in the class about what they bought, and whether or not they bought at the first place they went to - and how those stats mirrored what the stats say from the subscription service, they told me that wasn't a set-up; it was all candid and unplanned - but they matched, and that's the fascinating thing - that something so seemlingly random and sporadic can be rendered down to statistics that're dead-nuts accurate in almost any group as it applies to almost any buying behavior. Isn't that interesting?

Happy news

2006-03-27T22:24:00.000-05:00

Got the job. Seriously. I'm not going to get too excited because I had to do a drug screen, and I took a few hits of weed over New Year's, but outside of that, I'm clean. I don't know if that's still in my system or not, but if it's not, the job is mine. I'll find out tommorow for sure.

I interviewed at a car dealership yesterday; new car sales. The new car manager told me the process was going to take a few days because I had to be interviewed by a bunch of people. He asked me if that was going to be a problem. I said, "No. I'm on voluntary layoff and collecting unemployment; take all the time you need." I wasn't kidding. I think he thought I was.

Anyway, he kept going over and over about how the process was going to take a long time, and he hopes I wasn't in need of a job right away because of all the people who're involved in the hiring process. In fact, he looked pretty bored with me and the interview.

Then, there was that one magical moment, where it seemed like everything clicked. We were talking about a past job of mine where I was a telemarketer for a group health insurance agency. During this interview, the new car manager and I were talking about the never-ending professional rivalry between car salesmen and insurance agents - which, there is one, believe it or not.

Me: "Yeah, I remember my boss at the group health agency telling me our biggest competition isn't other insurance companies, it's car dealerships."

Dave: "Oh really? Why?"

Me: "He told me that when a rich man hits a mid-life crisis, there are two things he can do: he can plan for his own death by having an insurance agent tell him how a universal life plan is a great vehicle for estate planning so he can leave as much tax-free money as he can to his loved ones, which would be the right decision..."

Dave: "Or?"

Me: "He can go out and buy a shiny Corvette and cruise downtown during lunch, checking out all the female executives and secretaries, which..."

Dave: [leaning forward, really focusing on what I'm about to say] "...yes..."

Me: "...would also be the right decision."

Dave: "I like your style! Uh, we're going to walk over to this other office here, and put this interview process on the fast track. Around here, we really believe that with all the cars on the market today, playing to emotion is oftentimes the sure-fire closing technique, know what I mean?"

So much for my freakin' voluntary layoff being a time of leisure! (Not that it was anyway.) I got interviewed by a bunch of people. This is a fairly large dealership. At the end of the process, the new car manager came into the office where I was being interviewed (keep in mind, two hours had passed) and he said, "We're prepared to give you the job. Can you start Wednesday?"

The thing I really like about this dealership is, there isn't anyone wearing a suit. Nobody. Not even the principal of the dealership wears a suit. Oxford shirts with the gold, Chevy "Bad-bowtie" embroidered slightly below the collar and to the right, and during the summer, knit polo shirts with the same embroidery. Pants with a crease and leather shoes. That's about it.

Yesterday Jake got sent home from school again for throwing up. Wouldn't you know, there's more activity going on at the demoliton site. We took him to the doctor today. I told the doctor about the activity at the demolition site, and he said, "Yeah, but didn't I read in the paper that the EPA checked everything out, and they didn't find anything?"

I said, "Yeah, it's no wonder they didn't find anything." I explained how the EPA allowed this company to provide them with their own dirt samples rather than the EPA taking the samples themselves, and I explained how the EPA gave them time to hire an environmental consultant to pick the lab where the samples would be tested at, and I capped it off by saying that the EPA allowed the company to pay for the samples, which meant the company is the lab's customer, not the EPA's.

I honestly don't think this doctor expected such an eloquent, information-packed outburst coming from a guy who looks like a combination between Kevin James and Jack Black.

He knows the process is crooked, everybody in this town knows there's enough money floating around here to buy any government agency off at any time. In fact, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if there was some kind of "bribe pool" that all the rich folks contribute to, so that no government agency is able to establish a precedent of tough enforcement on any one industry, keeping all industries safe.

Anyway, this doctor comes back with something like 6 weeks worth of Prilosec samples, and he says, "Have him take these. If the vomitting continues, bring him back in at any time, and I'll write a referral to any specialist you want to see."

If he misses 3 more days, we're getting hauled up to juvenile court for truancy, even though he's really sick. Trouble is, whenever he vomits at school, we get him the closest appointment we can, but by the time of the appointment, he's fine - so no doctor will give a diagnosis based on symptoms the kid is not exhibiting. Take him to the ER, and you're looking at a minimum of a 3 hour wait for a non-life threatening ailment - even if there isn't another soul around, so it'd just be more of the same. Crazy.

Swithching gears to the foreclosure, the good news is, the judge had us get a lawyer, and the lawyer pretty much put the kabosh on the foreclosure, and he talked to our oldest son who has the trust, to make sure that he really wants to have this money taken out of the trust to get us current on the mortgage. After that, the mortgage company called me up and put me on a conference call between them and our lawyer. Funny how the mortgage company went from the pit bull they've been in the past, to a harmless, fluffy little kitten, saying "please" and saying "thank you." Funny how that works when you have a lawyer on your side who specializes in preventing foreclosures.

See, the mortgage company told us that even if we did send them enough to get current, they may not accept the payment, because they said they'd probably be more interested in just taking the house. They told us we'd have to Western Union the payment, but to make sure that right before we do, to call their processing center, to make sure they'd accept it.

With this lawyer, he told the mortgage company that he was sending a check from his law firm's account, and they would like it - that's exactly what he said. The mortgage company was like, "Did you plan on sending that to the regular address, or would you like a special address with a special attention, to make sure it gets to the correct person in time?"

The lawyer said, "I'm sending this check to the regular address, and if it doesn't get to the correct person from there, we're going to have some problems then, aren't we?"

"Yes sir!"

I thought that was funny. So much for the tough-guy routine they've been playing with us. I'll tell you, hiring that lawyer was the smartest thing the judge had us do. (Of course, the judge picked him out, so you know he's got to be good!)

So, it's been a roller coaster ride, but with the exception of our one son with the stomach problems, everything's really looking up. Even with Jake, his blood cell counts are within the normal range. If his white blood cell counts would have been elevated, it could be a sign of cancer, but so far, his blood cell counts are normal, so it looks like everything's going to be fine.

Lucy, you have some 'splain-in' to do!

2006-03-26T14:24:00.000-05:00

Bad news/Good news

Bad news:

One thing I can safely say about my wife without going on a rant that would make me look like a lunatic (given the current circumstances) is that she is a die-hard drama queen. Being a big-time drama queen tends to make her act like a drama magnet. Being married to her has put me in the middle of some fairly large dramas - but this one takes the cake. I can say for sure, there's never been a dull moment, but I'm getting too old for this.

After cooling down to the point where I can be somewhat civil, I asked her how it got to this point. She told me that to the best of her recollection, when we closed on this home loan, we signed a paper that said we were accepting credit insurance that would waive our mortgage payments in the event of an inability for either one of us to work. Because she had an episode of post-partum congestive heart failure after our last baby was born (see what I mean about drama?!!) she wasn't able to work at the job she held at the time as an assistant manager to a Dominos Pizza restaurant. (Don't worry readers: there are 2 types of congestive heart failure that are reversable: post-partum is one of them; Mom's doing fine now!)

Because she wasn't able to work at her job, and because she evidently called the company who has our first mortgage, and asked them to file a claim even though the financial institution who has our first mortgage, doesn't do credit insurance, she said because they told us they were a full service agency, they'd file the claim for us.

Because they told her they'd do it for us, she thought they did, and because she didn't hear anything from anyone, she thought the claim had been filed, and as a result, no payments were necessary.

This makes a bunch of sense from a Lucy/Desi Arnaz standpoint, but I'm still sticking to my guns on my theory that she wants to dump the house so she's free to move to NC to be closer to her dad.

Good News

The good news is, after all the effort I've put into shedding light on our city's shady economic development practices, (with constant editorials, running for county commissioner and making this topic the platform of my campaign and making sure that during my newspaper and radio interviews, that everyone knew what was really going on) by pointing out our economic development agency purposely refuses to offer tax breaks to good paying factories, an article appeared in yesterday's paper that said our economic development agency is announcing that two different companies are seriously considering our city as a location for their factories: one factory pays $15 an hour, the other? $24 an hour!!! OK, OK, we're not talking thousands of jobs, or even hundreds of jobs. I think both factories combined will employ something like 75 people, but it's a start.

As Homer Simpson would say: "Wooo Hoooo!"

That, again?!!!

2006-03-26T00:28:00.000-05:00

The scene starts out with a married couple arguing about the eviction notice from the sheriff that's sure to come.

Tom: Are you going to just stop what you're doing and listen to me?

Gina: Yeah, yeah, whatever. You always treat me like I don't know what I'm doing.

Tom: You're the one who made concious decision to not make any house payments since December, even though we've got 2 incomes and recieved $14,000 in one month - over and above our incomes - and you still didn't make the house payment!

Gina: Oh, you're bringing that up again?!!!

a simple diversion

2006-03-24T22:33:00.000-05:00

Last post was about the biggest downer I could ever think of. Update: as far as the house goes, my wife is frantically working on getting enough money to Western Union Countrywide, so it doesn't have to go into auction. I'm not holding my breath, and in fact, I'm kind of resigned to the fact that we'll be living in an apartment soon. Luckily, with so many kids, public assisted housing is a slam-dunk, even though I'm not nuts about the idea - I'll take it any day, over living under an overpass in a cardboard box.

The interview: when I called the dealership yesterday, I talked to a salesman who told me to come in anytime between the hours of 9-5. I showed up today and talked to the assistant manager, and he told me to take an application and bring it back filled out, and I'll have an interview Monday at 10:AM between him and the manager. I could tell he liked the fact I could read without moving my lips and I can construct sentences without committing too many gramatical and technical errors. Evidently, applicants who posses those qualities must be in short supply.

I am seen as somewhat of a radical in NW Ohio, so I don't know if my reputation will have an effect on me, but if it doesn't, I'm still collecting unemployment, so it's no big deal. In fact, I really didn't take a voluntary lay-off to work anyway, but I know a good car salesman can make way better money than a factory worker.

I had to blow some steam off today. With everything that's going on - the pressure's really getting to my wife. She went into hyper-bitch mode today, which is understandable given the circumstances, but given the circumstances, I ain't in the mood, so I had to get out of the house.

There's a wine shop right across the street from the headquarters of the oil company we have here. Since it's a big-time oil company, the shop has alchoholic beverages from all over the world - top shelf stuff, of course. So, we've got a measley few hundred bucks left, so I decided to spend a little on me. For $10, I got a 4 pack of this beer from England, called Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout. This stuff is awesome! The link is to a website where they judge beers - in this instance it's Samuel Smith's; look at the reviews if you get a chance! (This brewery is so old-fashioned, they don't have their own website!)

If you ever get a chance to drink this stuff, please - do yourself a favor and try it at least once, before you die. It's that good! I got me a 4 pack of that, and I went to a drive-thru and got a pack of Swisher Sweet wood tips, and had me a cigar with my beer. I even drove around town while smoking this cigar. Hell, I've got a new car for the time being, I might as well live it up at least once!

I realized something while I was driving around: you gotta live!

who are you?

2006-03-23T22:48:00.000-05:00

Mahndisa, I find it interesting that you suggested I think about writing comedy. Comedy and tragedy are the two twin masks that people associate with theater. Having said that, I should be a comedic genious on the lines of Ray Romano given the amount of heartache that's come into my life lately.

Yesterday was the 3rd anniversary of my brother Andy's suicide. I don't talk about it much because I don't know what to say. The signs were all there - in fact, a guy at work asked me if my brother was suicidal (while Andy was still alive) because Andy gave me his truck and the guy at work said that was a sign. The truck ran very good, but it was old and crappy looking - and a gas-hog. Andy told me he knew he couldn't get much on a trade-in, and it would be more valuable if I had it. Evidently, he was thinking of doing something that was very out of character for him: getting a loan for a car.

Andy was the type of tight-wad who paid cash, or he didn't need it. I explained to the guy at work that my brother's life was looking up - in fact, he was doing something out of character and actually thinking of getting a newer car - and even getting a loan for it: "He's fine; things are really looking up for him," I said to the guy at work. I honestly thought that. The guy at work just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Hey, you know him better than I do! Glad to hear things are going so well - didn't mean to imply anything was wrong!"

I just bought this really nice Dodge Dakota pickup truck. It wasn't new, but darn close. Really nice looking vehicle. In fact, it was the first vehicle I went into debt for since I was pussy-whipped into buying a Renualt Alliance because this hot-looking girl I was going with, thought it was cute. (It was that or a Renault Del Fuego, and I thought the Del Fuego was either a woman's car, or a gay man's car, so I went with the Alliance.) I was 18 when I bought the Renault. Anyway, I was 33 then and hadn't taken a loan out on a vehicle since I was 18. I was very proud of this pickup I just bought.

I kept trying to get Andy to look at the truck. I wanted to show it off. I thought he'd be happy about it. Under normal circumstances, I'm sure he would be. He didn't want to see it. Then, he stepped outside to have a smoke, and said, "Let's see the truck." So he smoked while I explained some of the features. It looked to me as though he thought I was bragging, so I cut it out. I just said, "I'm sure you've got the credit rating to buy something like this - it's easier than you think." He just shook his head. This after he was telling everyone how he was going to get a loan for a car. I couldn't figure it out.

So a few days later, I go to Columbus to visit my other brother, Ed. Before we go to Ed's house, me, my wife and my oldest daughter who was 6 at the time, go to this super high-end Chinese restaurant in the swankiest mall in Columbus - Polaris. The restaurant was Molly Woo's. The interesting thing about Molly Woo's is the fact the entire dining room is done in red, from floor to ceiling. It's a huge room and the color is a bright, blood red. For anyone who doesn't think color can set &/or change moods, sure hasn't seen the dining room at Molly Woo's. It's striking. The food? Out of this world!

I had their sushi sampler, and the waiter brought out this stuff that looked just like lime sherbert. Hannah thought it was lime sherbert. It wasn't lime sherbert. It was this super, super hot paste that evidently goes with sushi. It's made from peppers that're are almost as hot as habeneros. That wasn't too fun for Hannah. That was the foreshadowing of things to come. My wife is a very panicky person, and when Hannah was freaking out over the green paste, my wife went into a tizzy.

That was a downer. Then, we get to Ed's house. Again, I'm showing off the truck, and Ed had the same reaction as Andy did - but for a different reason. This was March 22nd. I said, "Ed, what's wrong?" He said, "Andy shot himself this morning, and I didn't know when would be a good time to tell you." I said, "Is he OK?" and Ed shook his head. I said, "Is he going to make it?" and Ed shook his head. It went just like that.

It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. I went back into Ed's house, and my wife and Ed's mother-in-law and Ed's wife were all crying. Hannah couldn't figure out why, but she was crying too. It seemed like I was simply in a bad dream - but the dream didn't go away.

We start back to Findlay, and on the way home, still in Columbus, I stop for gas. This truck had an anti-theft feature that I've never experiened: if you manually unlock a door using the lock itself (rather than the unlock button) and if the keys are in the ignition, the car alarm will go off. I never knew such a feature existed. So there I am, 2 hours after hearing about Andy, and I can't shut the damn car alarm off at the gas station, and the ignition was frozen because the alarm was going off. People were staring at me - I just wanted to crawl into the wood work, because it was getting freaky. It was like my truck was possesed or something - and the timing of this couldn't have been worse. It forced me to take a deep breath, and calmly look through the owner's manual, while my wife freaked out - and Hannah started crying again.

On a seemingly unrelated note, my wife and I have been involved in this fight against this factory that's located one street over from us. They're demolishing the factory, and as a result of the demolition, a toxic cloud of smoke blanketed our neighborhood. People have been getting sick and the OEPA hasn't done anything about it, despite the fact that my wife and I have been circulating petitions; she's been generating media attention, I've been helping with this stuff by writing editorials, and we were working together as a team.

We haven't had the ideal marriage, but it looked like we were working together as a team for the first time in a long time. I'm on about the 2nd week of a voluntary lay-off right now, so I'm home all the time. Yesterday was March 22nd. The phone rings, and even though the caller ID displayed a number I didn't recognize, for some reason, I picked it up. It was the bank who has our mortgage. They informed me that we're in what they call, "pre-forclosure." I'm like, "What?!!!" And the guy says, "Yeah - you guys haven't made a payment since December of last year." I said, "How often is it, that someone is allowed to go 5 months without paying, and still have their house?" He said, "There's been a record number of bankruptcies this year, and we're really behind. If you don't have 5 months worth of payments by the time the foreclosure committee meets some time in the next 2 weeks, we're calling your sherrif." I told him it must've been some administrative mistake on their part.

I told my wife about it when she got home. It wasn't a mistake. The ironic thing of it is, we've had 2 incomes, plus we just got an $8,000 tax return and we just sold our 3 acres of land we had out in the country and walked away with $6,000 from that. So we've had 2 incomes and $14,000 float through our hands, and now I find out we're 5 months behind on our mortgage. WTF?

My wife says, "I asked Countrywide to send us a refinance packet, they assured me it was on it's way, and I've been waiting on it. I thought since they never sent it, I could spend the mortgage money on something else." She asked for that back in January.

She's been upset because her dad is getting married. Her dad is a widower, and during the hoidays last year, her dad's finance ordered her dad to take down all the pictures he had on the walls of her mother. That traumatized my wife. This explains why the payments stopped in December.

Her dad is having a house built on the coast of NC, and he's retiring from Whirlpool (where we both work) and he's going to live in NC from here on out.

I think since we owe more on the house than it's worth, I think my wife figured defaulting on the mortgage was the only way to get out from under it, and I think she's going to move to NC so she can be with her dad. I think she desparately wants to get back at her dad's fiance, so I think she'll be providing a confrontational presence, as an agitator, and I think she thinks she's doing this for her mom's honor, or something; like if she can break her dad and his new wife up, it'll be "one for her mom," that type of thinking.

We've got 5 kids, but nevermind that.

You would think this would be a tremdous downer, but it's kind of liberating. Not because I don't want to see my kids, but I was watching this special on PBS tonight about the history of socialism, and I found that Lenin became a hard-core communist, because he first pursued socialism, but the workers wouldn't unite, so he thought he'd have to become a professional revolutionary, and unite the workers - over their heads - so to speak.

I'm so glad to hear this, because when I ran for county commissioner, I wasn't a socialist, but I thought the message I was bringing forward would garner more votes, because I though the big union at our local tire plant would get behind me, hook line and sinker, and the president of the union basically blew me off.

The bad news about my house on the anniversary of my brother's death, put things into perspective for me. I'm pissing in the wind.

I've got an interview at a car dealership tommorow. Rather than worrying about politics and economic development (hey - these people are getting screwed as a result of the economid development practices which are super-shady) but even so, I'm just going to let it drop, and do what I do best: talk to people. Don't know if I'll get the job, but I don't care. The excitement of going on job interview will take my mind off things, and if they really like me, maybe this is my ticket out of Whirlpool. Once I get a little experience behind me, I can go anywhere - even NC to see my kids - and maybe live there. Who knows?

That look....

2006-03-19T13:24:00.000-05:00

Yeah, so I reach this really uncool milestone: I'm now officially over 300 lbs. That's the bad news. The good news is, I'm also over that awkward stage between buff and overweight. You know, where there's still enough muscle to suck it in, but too much fat to make it matter, so you wind up looking like a very plump, number eight? Also, when you're in between youth and middle age, and your face is still thin, and still retains that hard, "military look," but your body shape doesn't match? So you think you've still got a shot at the good 'ol days when the face and military-styled face matched; but you secretly knew those days were gone forever?

Fear no more! Now, I'm officially into "large and in charge!" When I was leaner and meaner, people didn't trust me, because when I'm not smiling, I've been told I've got this seriously hard-ass look that scares people. I guess there must be something to it, because children and dogs don't second guess me. Even around mean dogs, if I snap my fingers, they'll usually cock their head to one side, as if they're waiting for a command. My sister-in-law is amazed at how well her kids listen to me. They don't even listen to her mom that well, and in that family, her mom is the alpha matriarch.

So now, I'm all squishy, so I'm much less threatening, which is cool. When I was much thinner, as long as I kept a smile on my face or kept from getting angry, women would usually find excuses to come over and talk to me. It usually wasn't the other way around. When my wife announced our engagement where we both worked, alot of cattiness erupted. That was then. Now, women don't give me a second look. But, I've figured out a way around that. Am I married? Yes. But do I enjoy going through life thinking my days of being attractive are long gone? No. So, the other day, I was looking for a little ego boost, and lucky for me, I got it.

I was at the video store. There was this young woman behind the counter. It's obvious that she's been in some type of organized athletic endeavor, probably since she's been able to walk. You can tell, just by the svelt muscle structure and naturally sculpted look. She was thin, but not because she starved herself - she was thin because it was mostly muscle with just a little layer of feminine fat, to let you know that she's all woman.

Some guy who looked like a homeless bum was in front of me, chatting her up, like he had a snowball's chance in hell. He's trying to convince her that he gets bored after watching a movie, and needs to do something - he can't watch two movies in a row.

She's shaking her head up and down with politeness, but you can tell that her interest in the conversation was forced so she wouldn't come off looking elitist. I'm watching her while she's ringing up his order, and all I can think while staring at her ass is, "Why don't you just step out of those clothes, hop up on the counter in a buns-up position, and just let me stroke you while you have about 4 or 5 orgasms, while I figure out which hole to put it in first?" Naw, guys really don't think that way - yeah, right. (Every 5 seconds!)

When the homeless guy is rung up and walking out the door, she nods in his direction and rolls her eyes. I couldn't believe someone like her is even caring what someone like me thinks - about what she thinks. So, I figure I'm going to see how far this'll go.

As I said before, people have told me that I have this look that can scare them. It's a "I mean business look," but it's not psycho; it's cold and calculating. The polynesian girls in Hawaii loved it - they said it reminded them of Steven Segal. (Whatever!)

Now that I'm all squishy and everything, I figure, "Since my body is no longer mean and threatening, I wonder if I could give this girl 'my look' and I wonder what her reaction would be?"

I stare directly into her eyes, lean into her so she could practically feel my breath when I talked, and I said, "Do you sell popcorn?" I didn't know what else to say to extend the conversation. She explained that they did, and she walked over and pointed directly at the popcorn display, and she said they also have trial mix and a huge selection of chocolates and hard candies. I'm thinking at this point, she's a commissioned salesperson. I didn't move my feet, but I did look over where she was pointing. She comes back to the counter to ring me up. I give her a slight smirk, as though she might have a booger hanging from her nose, but maybe I'm too polite to say anything. Then, I go back to the look, not saying anything.

Her eyes never left mine. There's a big line behind me, and I've got the cash in my pocket, but I thought I'd use the ATM card instead. People behind me were getting visibly annoyed. She looked at them, smiled at me, and said, "That's OK; no problem," with a big smile on her face. My smirk returns. This time, it's more friendly.

"Are you aware that you have 3 movies with three different return dates?" Before I could say anything, she goes over to the printer, hits a button, and my transaction prints off. She carefully rips it off the printer, slowly walks back over to the register, while at the same time, studying the printout.

"Did anyone ever show you how to read these return dates?" Forget 'the look,' and 'the smirk,' I'm just down-right shocked. Before I could say anything, she goes on: "There aren't any dashes, and the year appears first in a four digit format, then the date, then the month. It's confusing because they're all numbers - at least I thought it was when someone first showed me." She smiles.

I (without even thinking) give her a wink and a nod, and say, "Thanks." I used the printout to give her a half-ass salute, and I walked out the door, walking on sunshine. I lost my body, but I've gained the ability to use a look that used to scare people, into something that evidently some women like.

I've always liked Fridays.

New People

2006-03-17T21:31:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I've added new people. Under the newly added American Heroes section, I've added a blogger named Swallowed Alive. He's a Navy guy attatched to an army unit, doing a stint in Iraq for Uncle Sam. Great blog. Seriously. If you get the time, check out a post he wrote called, The Mexican's Weapon It's sure to make you think. I only link well-written blogs, and this guy draws you in.

Another new person on the links is Georgia Peach. She's a hottie, and she's every guy's dream. Not because she goes too far on HNT (but it wouldn't hurt my feelings if she did) but because of how cool she is in her relationship with her boyfriend. Damn, I wish my wife was that cool! She brings a vibrance to the blogosphere, that's tough to match.

And last but not least, Birdy. Tough, gritty, New York. This guy is to New York, what Emienem is to Detroit. Just like the movie 8 Mile, Birdy works in a factory for a long time, then achieves success as an entertainment executive.

But speaking of people in the entertainment industry, I've got Intellectual Insurgent linked to my blog. Talk about tough, hard-hitting blogs! Her and Mahndisa both, have blogs that really make you think. Mahndisa makes you think from the right, Intellectual Insurgent makes you think from the left. Both mix it up on each other's blogs too. Great, great reads.

Some of the people I've had on there a while:

VX: in a class all by herself. Doesn't try to be hot - that's what sets her aside from all the posers out there who think they're God's gift to humanity. VX is in grrrrrrrreat shape, but readily admits to driving a Japanese beer can, and filling it up with smelly jogging shoes, because she jogs in any and all weather. To me, that's hot. Not because I like smelly sneakers (I don't) but because she admits to being a human being, rather than some untouchable waif. I hate those people.

Leesa: makes you think, but not from a moral standpoint like Intellectual Insurgent and Mahndisa; Leesa makes you think about life itself, and has a powerful ability to do that.

Then there's my original link; last, but not least, is Maya. Maya is a great writer who's in a blue funk right now, questioning everything about her life. She's the most engaging and marvelous writer I've read, and I wish she'd go back to the days of yore, where she'd write these epic-lengthed posts, that made you forget just how much time you were spending, reading what she wrote. Come back, Maya!

Hope this covers everyone. Now, I'm off to watch my favorite Friday night show: Numb3rs. Good night!

Sons that make their dads proud

2006-03-14T16:29:00.000-05:00

Got these images via e-mail, and I thought I'd share them with you.

I don't know what I like more: the ball game shot, or the mom getting her skirt lifted up!

Happy blog!

2006-03-11T19:04:00.000-05:00

So it's about 60 degrees (F) and the sun's shining. My youngest daughter begged and begged me to take her to her friend's house. After I saw that nothing was on tv, I decided to grab the dog's leash, and kill 3 birds with 1 stone, and get me, my daughter and my dog out of the house.

We walked to my daughter's school which is about 5 blocks from where we live. On the way, we stopped at her friend's house. She was there. She could come out. We all walked to the school.

I didn't let my dog off the leash right away because there were some punks hanging around, and I wasn't sure if they had their shots - or if they were even neutered, so I kept the dog on the leash. Once the punks rode away on their bikes, the dog got to run with all my daughter's friends, and the dog and my daughter and everyone else looked happy.

The street the school is on, runs east and west. We walked west, toward our house. The sun was setting. I never noticed this before, but the sidewalks on that street are perfectly straight and unbroken. The pavement is remarkably void of pot-holes, so the sun beams back into your eyes, a golden hue while reflecting off the street during this time of day at sun set.

I was wearing my Carhart, but it was unzipped and I could feel the warm breeze. My youngest daughter and her friend were holding hands while skipping down the sidewalk. The dog was happy.

Hey, this sure beats tv!

Someone at Vanderbuilt really likes me!

2006-03-07T19:12:00.000-05:00

I've got that Site Meter on my blog, and there's someone from Vanderbuilt that spends alot of time on my blog. Good for you! Feel free to make a comment, if you'd like.

I don't know whether to make this blog serious or funny. I've got something major happening in my life right now that's taking up alot of time. There's a factory one street over from me that they're tearing down - a factory that's been making plastics since 1927! Well, there's alot of stuff in the air, and the EPA isn't doing much about it. That's the bad thing. The good thing is, our local newspaper is about as far from this demolition project as we are (but in the opposite direction) and they're breathing it everytime the wind blows cross-ways.

The EPA is giving them the run-around too, but not as bad - but it's still the run-around. I've found something out in the process of all this: the EPA is in the back pocket of corporate America; no doubt in my mind about that whatsoever.

My wife complained to the OEPA (Ohio EPA) and they told her that we'd have to call our city health department, because in alot of cases, the city can handle small complaints better than they can, as they (the OEPA) is terribly understaffed, this would really help them out alot. They told her if it was a big deal, our city's health department would contact them, and then they'd do something about it.

Incredible, isn't it? As they say in those $19.99 tv commercials, "Wait! There's more!"

You see, once that call was made guess what? The factory only did its demolition at night. But wait, there's more. My wife called the OEPA and seriously bitched about it. She said, "Look - at this point, there's nothing you can do to stop me from contacting our local media, but if you act quickly, you can make it look as though this was a simple oversight on your part, which will make you look less incompitent if you act now, and have something intelligent to say when the local media does contact you on this."

They (the OEPA) did something all right. They asked the factory if they'd be nice enough to provide them with a soil sample. Well, the factory complied - but not before contacting an Environmental Consultant firm so they could give this factory advise on which was the best lab to use, because - the OEPA allowed the factory to pick their own lab! But wait, there's more! The OEPA allowed this factory to pay for their testing, which meant the factory was the lab's customer, not the OEPA's. But wait, there's more! The last name of the person who owns the environmental consulting company shares a last name with a guy who's a partner at a local law firm - a law firm who represents our economic development agency. As the Church Lady would say, "Isn't that special?"

Since our paper got stonewalled everytime they turned around, they told us that we'd have to provide them with a petition of at least 60 people who'd be willing to put their signature on a testimony that they have either smelled an obnoxious industrial odor, or have gotten really sick since the demolition began. No problem - got it. Me and the Missus got all the signatures, then some.

Well, my wife puts a flyer up at a local supermarket in the neighborhood, and we get a call from a trailer that's on the opposite side of this factory, that's located on a "street" that looks like nothing more than the factory's employee parking lot. I found this trailer, and it's on the border between five different industries, 2 of which are oil companies. In fact, this trailer sits all by itself as a residential structure. Kind of a freak of zoning, if you will. The people who live there were telling me that they saw a blue, powdery substance on the ground near their trailer, and it was being mixed into the ground by front-end loaders that were working the area.

Our son has a major lung infection, and residents of the neighborhood have listed on the petition things like major sinus trouble, rashes and unexplained, occassional bouts of nausea.

Our paper has already done 2 stories: one on the front page, and one on the front page of the local section. Since we got the required 60 signatures, they said they'll make this a series until something gets done.

I just hope there isn't some cluster of some weird-ass cancer in five or ten years, because the smell that came out of that factory was nothing more than pure evil. I know industrial smells, because we have a tire factory, a refinery, another plastics factory, an oil storage facility, a stone quarry, a stone and asphalt recycling quarry, and a rail spur all in the area. Plus, I've worked at another factory on the other side of town for the last 15 years, and I've never smelled anything as bad as the smell that came out of that demolition project.

Well, enough of this - I've got an episode of American Idol to watch. I need something to get this off my mind! (Simon always cracks me up.)

Middle America

2006-02-26T13:22:00.000-05:00

I've been posting comments on Intellectual Insurgent's blog. She's an entertainment lawyer from LA. Since our worlds are completely different, it's been alot of fun checking out how she thinks. She's very articulate - but you wouldn't expect anything less from a lawyer now, would you? She definately doesn't disappoint. Neither do her frequent contributors, like BombsOverBaghdad, or Chris. All worth checking out.

Anyway, Intellectual Insurgent and I were getting into a discussion about why middle-America is, the way it is. She says that middle-America is getting screwed on wages, benefits and the corporations are busting up the unions. That's all true. She doesn't understand why they're putting up with it. To be quite honest, neither do I. I do have some insights, having lived here my whole life.

People in middle-America are very independent. They don't like the government, they don't trust the government, and as a result, alot of them would rather cut their right nut off, than take any type of government assistance.
People here love their guns, land and dogs. Of course, if you're a guy, you're really not a guy unless you've got a pickup truck. Only real men drive diesel duallys. If you don't drive a diesel dually, you're a pussy. And if you drive a car, you're a "city slicker."
If you must drink soft drinks, a man drinks Coke. Pepsi is a girl's drink.
If you can't change your own oil and do most of your own mechanical work, you're a wuss. It's OK if you've got to hire out transmission work, though. That's understandable.
During the winter, it's not encouraged, but if you do happen to fire your rifle at targets on a tree stump from an open window in your house, it's OK. Just make sure your daughters aren't home - or your wife.
It's OK to hang a deer upside-down from a tree on your propery and gut it in front of your daughter, as long as she's over the age of 5. She's got to learn sometime, that meat comes from animals that were once alive. Alot of women know how to field dress a deer by watchin their dads, very few will do it, though.
If you're worried about moving up the ladder at the company you work for, you're a "suck-ass."
Dogs are to be kept outside - hunting dogs will get spoiled if you keep them indoors.
You've got to have a few animals for the dinner table: chickens, maybe a cow or a pig. That way, you're not too dependent on your company or the government.
Horses are for girls; 4x4s are for guys who're serious about getting laid.
Southern Fried or Classic Rock is OK, but the real music of choice is Country.

People around here don't like government entitlements, because they're used to life on the farm. They'll fence pigs and cows to keep predators out. They'll spend alot of money on vet bills for their livestock (ususally, just enough for their own consumption.) They'll feed their livestock. Then, they put a bullet between it's eyes when the truck from the processor pulls up.

They see government benevolence as the same thing: why would the government want to take care of me from cradle to grave, if they didn't have some ulterior motive, like country-folk do, with their livestock?

That's precisely why they don't trust the government. It's life on the farm. Life on the farm may seem great to the cow who's getting fat, until that truck from the processor pulls up.

my 2 cents

2006-02-22T22:37:00.000-05:00

So I'm reading alot about people who have a strong amount of mistrust against the current administration on issues of foreign policy - especially the war in Iraq.

This is just my 2 cents worth - again, opinions are like assholes: everyone has one, and they all stink. There - I said it before you can. Ha!

I'm not trying to convince anyone to change their mind - I'm just trying to offer an alternate viewpoint.

Why I think we're in Iraq instead of Saudi Arabia

This is one of the most common complaints I hear about concerning the war in Iraq. Why aren't we in Saudi Arabia? 15 of the 19 September 11th hijackers were from Saudi Arabia, so why not go after them? What did Iraq have to do with anything?

We can't go after Saudi Arabia. They have the 2 holy cities of Mecca and Medina. If we set foot on Saudi soil in an aggressive posture, I'm sure something would happen to America that would make 9-11 look like a boy scout excursion. These two cities are where the Prophet Mohammed received his revelations that he wrote down - which became the Muslim Holy Book. Mohammed traveled between these two cities for 40 days and nights while receiving his revelation, which is where we get the holiday, Rammadan - and that's why this holiday is 40 days.

So, if we can't hit Saudi Arabia, what can we do? I mean, if we don't do something about it, we'll look like a prison-yard bitch in the eyes of the international community. In my opinion, that would just invite more terrorism, because the Islamic culture is a male-dominated culture, and males tend to pay attention to things like strength and force - and tend to laugh at things that appear to be wishy-washy and indecisive.

So what do we do? How about if we take a country in the Arab world that is really a secular dictatorship, and supplant that dictatorship with a Muslim democracy? Saddam was hated by all of his neighbors (except Syria) and was generally hated in the Middle East as a whole. Sure, the Arab Street would put up token resistance to an American invasion of a "Muslim" country, but everyone in the Middle East knew that under Saddam, Iraq really wasn't a Muslim country, it was a secular dictatorship; therefore, they just didn't feel as sorry for him as they would've, if it was a true Muslim country like Egypt or Yemen.

Now, let's draw the Marshall Plan/Japanese Occupation parallel. How often have we had to fight Germany or Japan since WWII? In my opinion, that's because we marginalized their royal families to create some stability, then we turned those countries into democracies, while rebuilding them into an image similar to America's, while at the same time allowing for cultural differences to shape the final outcome of their countries. Bada-boom, bada-bing! 60 years of peace, and nary a shot fired.

Oh sure, there were insurgencies that challenged America's reconstruction plans - in both Europe and Japan. But the press was different then. They were a little more sympathetic to the current administration of their day, and gave presidents much more leeway back then; but that still doesn't mean everything was "peachy-keen" as far as a transition from monarchies, to democracies. In the end, we still got 'ir done - and 60 years of peace with nary a shot fired is the proof.

If it works (and I realize that "if" is a big word for only being 2 letters) but if it works - what if democracy spreads? What if democracy spreads all the way to Saudi Arabia? Then, you've got a situation where Muslims are affecting change in an Islamic society - not Americans.

Maybe it won't work, but I hope it does - something has to.

Barak's SUV

2006-02-14T18:28:00.000-05:00

I was looking at Intellectual Insurgent's blog, and I saw something about a speech made by Barak Obama, where he was talking about how white America couldn't grasp why Katrina survivors were having such a hard time. Speaking of white America in this speech, Barak said white America can't understand why the residents of New Orleans couldn't load up their SUV with Perrier, drive to a hotel 500 miles away, and just ride out the storm.

Two things struck me when I read this - and in this order:

How dare someone look down on me because I don't bleed for every cause and understand every thing that is possibly wrong with society today?
Then, I realized what my blog is all about and thought to myself, "You hypocrite!"

How do I reconcile the two? By realizing I have a right to my initial feelings, then by understanding that, as Red Green (of Opossum Lodge fame) would say, "I'm looking out for you, because we're all in this together." (Anyone know who I'm talking about? No Canadians answering, please!)

I can understand why Barak would make such a statement. It's not a "white America" thing: it's a "rich America" thing - and not in the way you might think I would attack the problem.

This is the fault of rich America, but not because the rich aren't cutting checks for mansions, to replace the shotgun-shacks of the disenfranchised homeless. This is the fault of rich America, for keeping everyone from middle-class on down, ignorant on how money really does work.

See that stupid little plastic thing in your wallet or purse? You know, the thing you reach for, everytime you want to buy something? That little thing is making you an economic slave-to-the-grind.

There are 2 sales meetings that rank up there in the all-time list of successful sales presentations, that I would've given my right nut to witness:

The guy who sold the script for the 1960's sitcom, "Hogan's Heroes."

Could you imagine how the sales pitch went on that one? "Hey, I've got an idea for a sitcom, that'll leave the whole family in stitches! How about a group of American POWs in a German prisoner of war camp during WWII? Wouldn't that be a hoot?" Don't laugh: the guy (or gal) sold the script, and Hogan's Heroes even went into syndication, which is the only reason I know it ever existed.

The person who originally thought of credit cards.

Could you imagine how the sales pitch went on that one? "Hey, I've got an idea that'll get people to keep paying for items they've already bought!"

Close your eyes, and imagine a skeptical Simon from American Idol: "Oh, come now! This has probably got to be the most bloody ridiculous idea I've heard from you yet! Do you honestly think people are that stupid?"

"Yes, I do."

Then imagine Simon, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. This was probably the birth of credit cards.

When you're paying 25% interest on the unpaid balance, you keep paying for things that you've already bought. Seriously.

So what does this have to do with Barak's "SUV" speech? Everything.

When you get a loan for a house, you've got the option of incorporating into the loan, one year's worth of disaster insurance, and one year's worth of property taxes.

The bank will total up the amount for the year's worth of taxes and insurance, add five percent (to allow for increases) divide that by 12 (the number of months in a year) which figures your monthly payment on your taxes and insurance (escrow) for a year. You pay the monthly payment for the house, plus your escrow payment. Your escrow payment goes into an escrow account, that always keeps you 12 months ahead. (Remember, you've already incorporated into your mortgage loan, one year's worth of taxes and insurance - which you'll pay at the "closing table" when you sign for your loan.)

Even if you get 3 months behind on your loan, you're still 9 months ahead on your taxes and insurance. This way, when disaster strikes, even if you're a little behind the eight-ball yourself, you'll always have insurance to cover your losses. This is called an "escrow account."

Again: what does this have to do with Barak's "SUV" speech? Everything. If the people of New Orleans had their insurance escrowed, chances are good that they wouldn't have to rely on FEMA to bail them out - their insurance company would.

Who teaches you this? Nobody! Why? Money is a finite resource. There's only so much to go around. Do you honestly think the rich want everyday school kids to learn this stuff? Of course not! Who would keep buying stuff with credit cards, who would keep renting apartments, and for those lucky enough to know how to build their credit enough to get a mortgage, who will fall behind when disaster strikes, so the bank can repo your house after you helped pay a significant portion of the amount borrowed, down?

Were you ever taught in school that the benchmark measurement for determining whether or not an investment is providing a good return, is comparing it to what you would have made, if you would have stuck that money in a CD?

Do you learn in school what a sector of the economy is, and how to balance your investments in stocks, so they're in off-setting sectors?

Do they teach you what commodities are, or the fundamentals of investing in commodity-based stocks? For example: Weyerhouser (sp?) is one of America's leading provider of lumber. When a hurricane is off the coast, what do you think happens to the price of Weyerhouser stock? It skyrockets!

We're too busy buying stuff with credit cards and going broke as a result, to ever notice.

If the middle class is to survive, this has got to stop.

Shortest post ever!

2006-02-14T15:47:00.000-05:00

Click on this link, read it, and tell me if we're all screwed or not. Don't worry - it's nothing heavy like Mideast Peace or anything - in fact, it's rather light reading. Having taken very high-level English classes at my local university, what you're about to read, really doesn't surprise me.

http://rightwingnation.com/index.php/2005/12/06/523/

Have a nice day :)

the media circus

2006-02-06T19:12:00.000-05:00

So this isn't about politics or erotica. This is about a slice of life from my hometown.

This is about the media frenzy surrounding Ben Roethlisberger. In case you're not from around here, the Pittsburgh Steelers just won the Superbowl, and the guy who led them there, is our hometown hero, Ben Roethlisberger.

I think the guy is great. I really do. But this is an observation, not about Ben, but about how people want to cash in on his fame, given they're from the same city he is.

So me and my family are at BW3s on SuperBowl Sunday. We reserved seats about 2 weeks in advance (actually, my wife did) and we were told we had to get in about 2 hours before kickoff to secure our seats.

We get there, and I immediately start swilling down Guiness draft. I love that stuff - and their wings; I love those, too.

Next thing you know, the satellite trucks start rolling in, blocking out the sun. The reporters, the cameramen, the producers.

Our table seemed to be the center of gravity for the media types to camp out and scope out the scene. They weren't at our table, but they were all in surrounding tables - which gave me a direct perspective.

There was a news producer, directly behind us. He was tall, thin, well dressed and young. He had his nose buried in his laptop computer, constantly studying - something.

I could tell by the drinks he was ordering, how picky he was about how they were made, and how worried he looked that his precise orders wouldn't be taken seriously, that if he would have been at a cat show - or some type of fashion-related event, he would have been far more into it. But that's what made it funny.

All these jocks from the bar, are converging at the producer's table, regailing him with "Big Ben" stories - you know, their childhood hi-jinx, funny antecdotes, that type of thing. Guess what? Mr. Producer could care less. He didn't even look up from his laptop. These guys are pouring their hearts out about their special connection to Ben Roethlisberger, and the producer never so much as made eye contact with these guys, as his way of telling just how bored he was with the whole event.

The only time this producer acted like he cared, was when this hottie reporter of his, needed someone to hold her purse, while she did on-camera reports. He looked so natural holding her purse, you forgot that he was a guy holding a woman's purse in a sports bar during the SuperBowl, where the sports bar just so happens to be located in a town where the quarterback played his highschool ball. Unreal.

Then, there was the reporter I'll refer to as "Shan-nay-nay." (You know, the character from the sit-com Martin?)

Shan-nay-nay walks in with her camera man, approaches one of the waitresses, and demands (not asks, but demands) to see the owner. The waitress asks her, "Did you want to see Fritz or Mike?"

"Are they both the owner?"

"No. Fritz is the manager."

"Did I say I wanted to speak to Fritz?"

"I'll get Mike right away."

Mike comes up. She points her finger at his chest, with her finger so close, it's almost touching.

"Let me make this real clear, real quick: I want a table for me and my camera man, I don't want to share with anyone else, and I want a good view of the TVs, or me and him are leaving. Got that?"

"Yes ma'am, right this way! We've got one last table that fits your description."

My curiosity got the better of me, and I had to look where he took her and her cameraman. He put her in a table for 2 so small, it wouldn't hold a school book, directly under the big-screen TV. She had to look directly up to see the screen. He then summons a waitress over to get a drink order for her table, then walks away. Damn that was funny. (Of course the cameraman is rolling his eyes in apology the whole time Shan-nay-nay is bossing people around. That's what made it priceless.)

The hottie reporter: all of these jocks are crowding her, shamelessly putting the moves on her, and she's just eating it up. While they're each vying for her attention, she's seductively brushing her bangs out of her eyes, giggling with approval at each attempt to be the funniest guy, or most spritual connection with Ben, or whatever.

The cameramen were walking back and forth with their bright lights on their cameras, panning the crowd at the eatery. They didn't even have their cameras on their shoulders - they were just walking around with their cameras against their hips, or sometimes on their shoulders, but not with the lens against the eye.

My 9 year old daughter: "This is cool, daddy!" It was.

When we got home, we watched the reporters. It was funny, because their on-air persona, sure is different from what you get when you see them on the air. The blonde hottie? Strictly business. Shan-nay-nay? Demure and wide-eyed. Funny.

You wouldn't believe it!

2006-01-27T18:19:00.000-05:00

This is just unreal! There were a bunch of people at work who wanted to know about the Maytag dishwasher factory in Tennesee. We were all under the impression that all of Maytag's factories were unionized, so we thought that under the merger, Whirlpool would undoubtedly choose it's own dishwasher factory (the one I work at) over Maytag's. (Whirlpool and Maytag are merging, pending SEC approval.)

Well, I decided I'd go to the Jackson, Tennessee newspaper to see if I could get some answers from old newspaper articles, or whatever. It turns out that unlike our newspaper, they charge for articles out of their archives. I found out their paper charges $2.60 per article, so I thought, "screw it."

I did check out the rest of the paper though. As it turns out just by coincidence, Jackson, Tennessee (home of Maytag's dishwasher plant) is trying to push "unigov" [they call it "Metro Government," though] onto their voters - at the same time my hometown (home of Whirlpool's dishwasher plant) is trying to push unigov onto their voters - at the same time Whirlpool and Maytag are merging. Hmmmm. Isn't that odd?

It's not a secret anymore! The Jackson Sun has an online forum where a person can post their thoughts. Guess what? I posted something against their "Metro Government" ideas. In the post, I even said why I was against it. I made my post complete with a poll. I thought the poll would be at the end of the post, not above it, but oh, well. As of the time I've written this, there have been 2 people who've participated in the poll. They both liked the article. Also, as of the time of me writing this post, something like 62 people have read my post. Just in case you're curious, here it is http://cgi.jacksonsun.com/cgi-bin/yabb2/YaBB.pl?num=1138334725/0

When you click on the link, scroll down past the poll to see my post. It's there.

Fight the power! If you're in any way politically active, I would highly encourage you to click on the above link, to make the "powers-that-be" in Jackson, Tennessee a little nervous about what's being uncovered. The more we can increment that "hit counter," the more nervous I'm sure they'll become. Let's do this for the "little guy!" Please - and have your friends click on the link. Let's show 'em what can happen when the little guy gets involved, so they don't think they can just run our lives without worry. Let's try to get as many people as possible to click on the above link!!!!!!

blow me, then leave

2006-01-25T18:31:00.000-05:00

This really pisses me off. When I ran for county commissioner, I called every township trustee in the book, telling them about the dangers of "unigov." That's where they just have one guy running the whole county. BTW: he's appointed, not elected. It just gets better, doesn't it?

Anyway, the township trustees told me that they thought I was using scare tactics to scare up votes, given that I was an unknown and all.

Well, guess what? The mayor of our city (which is the county seat) released the results of some damned community committee he and his cronies slapped together. Out of all the "blah, blah, blah," was this recommendation that our city become what's known as a "home-rule" city.

Now, our paper didn't go into great detail about what that meant. Now, I know why. A "home-rule" city, is where the citizens vote to suspend state charter, and do things their own way.

Backing up about 6 months, I had a county judge tell me that our state rep was working on an amendment that would allow our city to experiment with unigov. State charter specifies that you have an elected mayor - unless you vote to become a "home-rule city."

Oh, then, there's an article in the same paper - on the same front page - that says our county commissioners are being pressured to develop a regional economic development agency, to help develop the US 30 Corridor, which will be the next hot-bed of economic development activity. Well, that all has to do with the fact that our local economic development agency wants to limit good paying jobs anywhere within driving distance of our city, or all of their low-paying-jobs-attracting efforts will be for naught.

To that, I say "DUH!" Of course the rich folks want a regional economic development agency. I told what you just read, to one of our county commissioners. The commissioner said, "Well, it's just in the planning stages right now, but the more you tell me about this stuff, the more I can see you know what you're talking about. Trouble is, it's tought to stop."

To that, I say: "DUH!" (I didn't say that to the commissioner, though.)

Anyway, this stuff is for real, and if the powers-that-be get their way, they'll have all the industrial parks loaded with low-paying jobs in the entire region.

I don't know how, but somehow or another, there's go to be a way to expose what they're doing. But, there's still a part of me that wants to say to everyone who said I didn't know what I was talking about: "Blow me, then leave." Am I bad, or what?

Soccer

2006-01-23T21:45:00.000-05:00

Me and Tater-Boy are here. I'm typing, he's sleeping beside the computer in his crib. Tater-Boy is my 10 month old son. When he was still a fetus, I would imagine a little boy someday, watching me type at the computer, soaking it all in. Funny how things don't quite work out the way you think they will. Turns out that the tapping noise of the keys makes him go to sleep. He's not watching me type, he's sent off to la-la land with white noise. Funny how what you imagine, and the reality you live, are oftentimes 2 different things. Hey, I wasn't imagining me winning a million dollar lottery, I was just imagining him watching me type - and the reality is, my typing is sometimes the only thing that can put him to sleep.

It's like my daughter's soccer team. Well, it's our soccer team I guess - for the time being. My oldest daughter is more of a social butterfly. She can be an athlete when she wants to be - unfortunately, it's not as often as I'd like. She's an awesome goalie when she puts her mind to it. Anyway, I coached her fall soccer team, and she loved it. We sucked. We really sucked - but my daughter loved it, because she's not an achievment-oriented person. For her, it was this excuse for a social gathering with kids from different schools that she wouldn't ever meet any other way. Too bad, because the parents are very achievement-oriented.

They were patient at first. I realized from the stuff they'd say while picking up their daughter, or at the games, that they wished we won more. For the most part, the girls didn't seem to mind. Everything was fine. Until...

My wife suggested I coach an indoor team during the winter to give our daughter something to do. Since she like my coaching so much during the fall, what could go wrong, right?

Everything lined up, immediately. In the fall (when I first coached) the best team in my daughter's divsion had a coach who's bi-polar, and he has terets. I know this sounds like a Saturday Night Live skit in the making, but if you think about it, that's what made him so good. He was driven, and he didn't hold back. So many of these coaches are so worried that they'll put little Suzy in therapy for the rest of her life, so they coddle every girl on the team in constant fear. Not this guy. If they sucked, he told them in no uncertain terms, they sucked. If a player sucked, she was told by this coach, "Hey, you suck." That was it. They were great. Totally undefeated. When our team played his, they invoked the mercy rule so many times, I think he eventually had something like 2 players to our 6 - and they were still scoring!

Well, at the end of the season, evidently this guy had a melt-down, and his terrets got the best of him when a whiney parent confronted him about why his daughter wasn't being played very much. Unfortunately, this was at the end-of-the-season team party, and the coach let loose. I guess that pissed alot of parents off, and my wife happened to hear about it, and she started mining this team for players for our indoor team. We got a bunch, including some of the high-scorers. Sounds great, right? Wrong!

This indoor league is something else. It's co-ed, and the age range is something like 2nd grade to 6th grade. The criteria for "co-ed" is you have to have at least one girl on the team - that's it. (Meaning, she doesn't have to actually play - just be on the roster and present at the games.) See where this is going?

My team is mostly 3rd and 4th grade girls, and we're playing boys travel teams made up of mostly 6th graders. Whoops! I'm talking 13-0, and 20-2 games, neither one of them going in my favor. I had no idea it was going to be like this. One parent from another team told me, "I can sympathize with you: 3 years ago, we were in your shoes. All you have to do is keep the team together, and you'll be in our shoes one day."

Easy for him to say. I heard one of the parents complaining. I said, "Hey, be glad your daughter didn't get hurt out there." It was the only thing I could think of. (Have you ever seen 6th grade boys travel soccer? They play like European proffessionals!)

To top it off, I've got an assistant coach who I think is trying to hi-jack this team for spring girls soccer. The outdoor soccer in the spring and fall, is much more evenly matched, and it's not co-ed. Against other 3rd and 4th grade girls, the team I have is invincible. My assistant knows this. He's made some overtures to the parents that he'll be coaching his own team in the spring, and if they want to finally win, all they have to do is specify the coach they want on the registration card.

The British guy I've blogged about is my other assistant. He told me he can't believe how emotionally detatched I am from this. He said he's seen guys wreck their marriages &/or become alcholics, and he says, "You, just act like it's no big deal. How do you do it?"

I told him, "Unless a helicopter lands and some little Jewish guy named Sid pops out with a ten million dollar contract, what's the big deal?"

His response? "Incredible!"

So, I've got to deal with this rogue assistant somehow. I know he's doing alot right now to make it look like he's really the head coach, and it makes me feel uncomfortable. Do I stand my ground, or let him steam-roll me, I don't know! That's the frustrating thing.

After watching alot of mobster movies, I guess this problem is pretty insignificant compared to what happens to alot of the characters in Al Pachino movies, huh?

Friday the 13th part II

2006-01-21T16:54:00.000-05:00

OK, I'll admit, the last post was entirely too long. I'll shorten this up.

So, I'm at my daughter's friend's house. They're a British couple. The mom grew up in England, but her parents are Serbian immigrants. The British couple turned me on to what they called "Serbian orange juice." Whew! (It's really not orange juice; it's plum brandy, straight from Serbia, and it'll knock you on your ass! :) It tastes just like Florida orange juice, though. Man, is that stuff good.

Anyway, I'm getting a little buzz on, and I'm remembering what the president of the Farm Bureau said. You see, the business leaders in our county are trying to get something passed called unigov. That's where they get rid of the mayor, city council, county commissioners, township trustees, and all forms of village government, and they have just one guy run the entire county.

I thought, going into my meeting with the president of the farm bureau, that if there was one person who would be against unigov, it'd be him. After all, unigov would get rid of their rural way of life for good. So much for what I think. I asked the president of the farm bureau what he thought of unigov. This is what he said:

"I was against it at first myself. But after talking to the business leaders in town, they pointed something out to me that made alot of sense. They said, 'You're thinking like a farmer; trouble is, you're not a farmer, you're a developer. Unigov's good for developers. You're just farming until you get the right price for your land, aren't you? Because of that, you're a developer, not a farmer. Unigov is good for developers. Think about it.' "

It's no accident that rich people are rich. This is what I'm up against. It's like pusing a string up hill. But lucky for them, the challenge of pusing a string uphill, is like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

Friday the 13th Part I

2006-01-14T14:49:00.000-05:00

When I woke up Friday morning, I had no idea it was Friday the 13th. Most would have you believe that this date is unlucky. For me? We'll see. The jury's still out on that.

I looked this over. This is a long post, even for me. That's why if you don't want to read all the way through, I can summarize my experiences trying to convince the "little guy" that our "powers-that-be" in our county are purposely keeping good paying jobs out of our area with this link. Click on it only if you have a DSL or cable connection. Here it is. Enjoy. BTW, prepare to have your speakers on.

I went to work at my factory job, and everything was normal, until exactly 8:00 AM. That's when we all saw this bright flash of light, followed by the lights flickering for a second in a sickly yellow, then...you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. We can't hear thunder on the factory floor because of all the equipment..."What?!!!" (That's an inside joke.) but evidently, there was this freak, mid-winter thunderstorm. A bolt of lighting made a direct hit on a transformer at work.

You know, you never know how dark the inside of a factory can get with no lights on, but our factory doesn't have any source of outside light except the small windows on the outside doors. Wow! It's so dark without the lights on, it reminds you of being back inside the womb!

So, they sent everyone home. I figure I'm going to make the most of this opportunity. Since I bid on first shift, I don't get a chance to meet people whose jobs involve county politics, while they're at their jobs, because we work the same hours. I set out to meet a guy who I needed to talk to while he was at work.

Just recently, there was an article in our paper about how the president of the local farm bureau criticized our county commissioners for not adequately explaining the need for the recent sheriff's levy. Because of the Farm Bureau's lack of support, the levy failed.

I wrote an editorial chastising the president of the farm bureau for not showing up to the meetings where the need for the levy was explained to my satisfaction, and then some. The president of the local farm bureau wrote a response-editorial to mine, making himself look worse.

He was upset because when the sheriff's levy failed, the county commissioners cut the budget to the Agricultural Services sector of the county budget. Yes, I'm aware that agriculture is our county's largest source of tax revenue, but you know, like they always say, "Safety first." The bad guys won't take a vacation because the sheriff can't chase them around and lock them up, so where did the president of the farm bureau honestly think the cuts were going to come from?

In his editorial, he said that because it was a criminal justice levy, he thought the cuts would come out of the sheriff's office. He said the levy was misrepresented to the voters, because voters should have been told that if the levy didn't pass, cuts were going made at agencies who get their money out of the general fund.

As far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter. You either support the sheriff, or you don't. You make a choice: you're either supporting the guys in the black hats, or you're supporting the guys in the white hats. What difference does it make where the cuts will come from? But hey, that's just me.

I wasn't sure if this guy was willing to even talk to me or not. I know that in this age of Caller ID, getting someone on the phone who isn't that excited to talk to you, can be difficult. So, I stopped by the grain elevator, and asked to use their phone. Since these are the people who cut checks to farmers - and because the president of the Farm Bureau is himself a farmer - I figured that surely he'd pick up when the phone rings from his source of income; I was correct.

Me: "Fred?" (Not his real name.)

Fred: (excitedly) "Yeah!"

Me: "This is Boris Yeltsin." (Not my real name.)

Fred: (dissapointed) "Oh. Uhhhh, what'd'ya want?"

Me: "I'd like to talk to you at your office if you've got a moment."

Fred: (long, awkward pause) "Uh, OK. I'm runnin' some grain up to Fo Town (local slang for a little burg outside of our town) Can you wait about a half hour? My house is near the mobile home sales place on 12; go down the intersecting road, past the tracks - about 2 miles - then make a right at the sign that says, 'Kalbach Seeds.' Got it?"

Me: "Yeah, I suppose I could wait that long. See you then."

I immediately started to like this guy because he has an old, fat, happy dog. He can't be that bad. The dog tried his best to look ferocious. Didn't work on me, because I'm not afraid of dogs anyway - unless they're crazy.

I waited and waited and waited. Finally, his semi truck with a grain trailer pulls up.

We talked outside. He didn't want us going past the scales he parked his truck on. I didn't have a coat or jacket on, because it was about 50 degrees outside, and I never thought I'd be outside that long. The wind was blowing from the north like crazy, and I was starting to freeze my ass off. Good thing for me, he was too. That's when he invited me in his house.

I decided going in, that I'd agree with just about anything he said, so I could convince him to allow me to speak at a Farm Bureau meeting. He's the president, he gets to set the agenda.

He bashed the Wal-Mart bashers as lazy asses. He told me that it's not Wal-Mart's job to be a social welfare agency and make sure everyone has a nice house and decent car. He said it's Wal-Mart's job to provide the lowest possible prices. He said if you work at Wal-Mart, and you expect a job that will pay you enough money to have a nice house and a nice car, "...go on down the highway, and find yourself a job that pays better."

I bit my lip and nodded my head up and down.

When the subject got around to the reasons for our dueling editorials, things got a little heated. I wasn't backing down on this one, because I felt he was wrong in his assertion that the need for the levy wasn't explained well enough. I asked him exactly how well it had to be explained before he thought it was good enough, and what did that entail?

We went back and forth, so much so, that the rest of his wife's little lap dogs started yapping uncontrollably. They were nervous.

He finally told me something that to his credit, was a valid point when you look at things from his point of view. He said, "I understand that on the surface, the need for the budget is there, and on the surface, there's no doubt that the need for the budget is there. What I'm talking about is what's under the surface."

Me: "What do you mean?"

Fred: "Well, it used to be that health insurance costs for all county departments were lumped together, and had their own line item in the budget. Now, health insurance costs are considered to be part of each department's budget, and health insurance costs are listed under "general expenses," so it's hard to figure from year-to-year, if the expenses of a particular department are going up due to service-related expenses, or if a department's expenses are rising due to increased health insurance costs due to an expensive diagnosis or some type of car accident needing major medical attention. You just don't know. Thanks to a mandate from the State Auditor's office, you can't separate health costs from everything else in line items in the budget."

Me: "How does that prevent the commissioners from not explaining the need for the levy?"

Fred: "Well, determining budget needs is a process similar to looking in the rear-view mirror. You base next year's buget needs on last year's expenses - even if last year's expenses are no longer needed. If you're not careful, you may think that a department may need an extra half a million dollars because of a very expensive and lengthy illness one of it's employees is experiencing, only to find out, the employee in question died shortly after the beginning of the next fiscal year. See where I'm going on this? How do we know there aren't multiple situations just like that, and the commissioners are begging for money when they really don't need to?"

Me: "I see what you're saying. What if there aren't any situations out there like you just described?"

Fred: "That's just it. We really don't know, do we? There's no accounting mechanism to determine what expenses are necessary and which ones aren't. Until we can make those determinations, how can the Farm Bureau support a levy?"

Me: "You just might be on to something. What would it take to get the Farm Bureau on board with the next levy attempt?"

Fred: "Tell the commissioners to set up a mechanism that allows us to determine real needs, not just needs based on last year's expenses. Then maybe, the Farm Bureau will change it's stance."

There was more to the meeting than that. I'm also on a crusade to convince people that our local economic development agency is purposely keeping good paying jobs out of our area, due to fears of wage competition. He wasn't a believer on that. I can see why. Because our local economic development agency has brought in a ton of low-paying factories, they point to the low unemployment rate, get out their pom-poms, and do a cheer, making everyone think they're the best thing since sliced bread. Well, at who's expense? That was what I was trying to get him to see.

Me: "Have you ever noticed a pattern here? Big abatement to a local factory...levy request. Abatement, levy...abatement/levy, abatement/levy. Why do you think that is?"

Fred: "The politicians are stupid, that's why. How's that my fault?"

Me: "It's not, neccessarily. It's our fault for not voting these clowns out of office, and giving someone who's not a household word in local Republican circles, a chance."

Fred: "I can see where you're going on this one. You're the guy you want the public to take a chance on, right?"

Me: "How could it be any worse than what we've got?"

Fred: "What if you prevent low-paying factories from coming in, and in the meantime, no good-paying factories decide to locate here? Then what? How are you going to bring back the low-paying ones you chased away, just because you didn't think they were good enough when they wanted to come in?"

Me: "That's kind of a paranoid outlook, don't you think? Who taught you to think that way? The boys at the country club who have everything to lose if a guy like me gets elected?"

Fred: "Are you suggesting I can't think for myself?"

Me: "No, that's not the case at all. I just know how influential a group of people with nearly unlimited funds can be. They have the illusion of always being right because they're rich. They may not be right, but they are powerful, and in the end, is there any difference between the two? Who cares if the little guy gets squeezed in the process, right?"

Fred: "I'm rich. Are you suggesting that I don't have a conscience?"

Me: "Sure, you've got more money than me. Relax! I haven't asked you for a donation, have I? But just because you've got more money than me, doesn't mean you're rich. It just means you've got more expenses. The boys at the country club; they're rich. And they don't care which lackey does their bidding, just as long as it gets done."

Fred: "Are you suggesting I'm their lackey?"

Me: "That's up to you to decide."

The conversation turned to something else after an awkward pause, but it got much friendlier, and that's when I asked him if I could give a speech at the Farm Bureau sometime.

Fred: "Sure. We meet the 2nd Monday of each month. You're more than welcome to show up and speak your mind if you want to."

I don't know if that promise will be kept or not, or to what exent it will be. I was hoping for a spot on the agenda, with a certain amount of time alloted; not just something where the chair recognizes me, and I stand up and give a few words about whatever topic they just so happen to be discussing, but oh well.

We'll find out if this Friday the 13th was lucky or not.

New astrological signs

2006-01-09T19:29:00.000-05:00

This is in honor of the guy who used to live across the street from me.

I was thinking of him the other day when some guy from the front office at work gave me a picture taken at the skating rink. Our company sponsored an employee skate recently, and they had this guy on hand with a digital camera to take pictures that'll be posted on the closed circuit TV we have for employee communications.

The picture he gave me was framed with the company logo neatly printed in the upper left-hand corner. The picture had me, my wife, my daughters, my son, and Drunk-Boy's daughter. Drunk-Boy's daughter is friends with my daughters.

Who is Drunk-Boy? He's part of my new astrological sign theory. Drunk-Boy the Idiot. That's a sign you can be born under. He was. With this new astrological system, it doesn't matter when you were born, it just matters what circumstances you were born under. That determines your sign under my theory.

For example, in order to be born under "Drunk-Boy the Idiot," you've got to be born to a "Shrew the Wench" or Dick-head the Bastard," or either one of your parents could be born under "Drunk-Boy the Idiot," see? It's simple really.

Why was he deemed Drunk-Boy the Idiot to begin with, you might ask? Well, ever since we moved into this house, he kept trying to convince us (my wife and I) that he had a fledgling construction business going on the side with one of his friends. I knew better, cause the guy was drunk, like 24/7. He's an independant insurance agent in dire need of direction. Who knows what line this guy sells, but he's never at work. He's always at home, pounding beers.

He is smarmy - at best - and I could see where people might actually think he's charming. The drunker he gets, the funnier he is - and not in a tragic way where you're actually laughing at him, either. He is charming, and funny, but I've been around guys like this pretty much my whole life, and my wife's life has been relatively sheltered, so she didn't see what was coming.

Why do I say that? Because he crawled inside my wife's head one day, and got her to admit that I'm the one who was against having us hire him to redo our roof. (It was about 30 years according to the previous owner, since the roof had been redone.) He then proceeds to convince my wife, that my reservations about him and his buddy were misplaced, and as a result, she'd be a fool not to hire them to do our roof, since they were charging about half, what the next-lowest contractor bid.

So she gives Drunk-Boy the Idiot ALL the money upfront! I get home right after the transaction, and she's in this really good mood. "Why are you in such a good mood?" I ask. She tells me what just happened, not thinking I'd go through the roof - no pun intended. (OK, it really was intended.) I ask her, "What are you doing? Fucking this guy, or what?" Probably not the brightest thing I could've asked from the standpoint of attempting to maintain good marital relations, but an honest question, straight from the heart, nonetheless.

She gets angry, hurt, starts to cry while attempting to maintain her composure, realizing that the question I just asked was probably a good one, just not well phrased. She explains that she has some romantic weekend get-away planned for us with the money she just saved us. She takes me upstairs to the computer to pull up the favorites folder on the internet for proof that she's been planning something for us all along.

I tell her: you just made a big mistake hiring that idiot to do our roof. This was on a Thursday. It was cold and misting that late October day. Friday's forecast called for the same. But Saturday... Saturday's forecast called for sunny skies, temperatures in the low 70's and virtually no wind. Friday night rolls along, and I'm just coming in from my car. I notice Drunk-Boy the Idiot and his merry band of Losers and Mama's Boys in his driveway, trying to figure out which vehicles they're taking to the Moose Lodge. I yell across the street: "Gettin' plowed tonight?"

Drunk-Boy the Idiot: "Oh! Uh uh huh. Yeah, I know how this looks and all, but me and Glen'll be over in the morning, first thing. Haven't had a drink all day, and I'm keeping it that way, because I know I've got a big job in the morning, Big Guy!"

Me (thinking): "Fuckin' loser!"

The next morning, sure enough, the Weather Channel was right: clear, blue skies, unseasonably warm temperatures, and virtually no wind. Where was Drunk-Boy the Idiot and his buddy Glen? Drunk Boy's daughter provided the answer to that:

Drunk-Boy the Idiot's daughter: "Oh, my dad wanted you to know that he's got a real bad case of the flu, and he said that Glen is in Indiana. They won't be working on the roof today."

Well, to make a long story short (which I know, is impossible by now) Drunk-Boy the Idiot and his Drunk-Boy the Idiot friend Glen, tore our roof off, only after I practically begged them to work, and being subjected to the cool-guy, "You're a pain in the ass" routine. (Like I was supposed to feel guilty that I'm somehow cramping their Playboy lifestyle by practically telling them how to live their lives, while one good day after another, of good weather in late autumn slips by.)

They get the roof torn off, and a few days go by. Sure the days are quiet, but the nights... the nights are filled with the sounds of women giggling into all hours of the night in Drunk-Boy the Idiot's driveway, glass occassionally shattering, and cars moving in and out of the driveway, every two seconds. Oh, I'm sure, if you needed a deal on some weed or some crack, someone over there sure knew where to get it. Meanwhile, back at my place:

Me: "When's Douche Bag Jr. and Douche Bag Sr. coming over to finish the job?"

My wife: "OK, OK, I major-ly fucked up, alright? You don't have to rub it in!"

Me: "Yes I do. So, when's Douch Bag and Douch Bag coming over? Can you go over to Party Central and spread an unsubstantiated rumor about some STDs or something, to clear the place out, so they can get a good night's sleep for once?"

My wife: "Fuck you."

Why is it that when I'm right, I'm the bad guy, and when I'm wrong, I'm still the bad guy?

I'm checking out the Weather Channel, and I see three winter storms, all about the width of the state of Iowa, coming our way, one right after the other. This really sucks, because we live in an old Victorian whose walls are plaster. We have no shingles on the roof, three storms on the way, and I'm imagining our staircase looking like the Niagra Falls of plaster.

I make a call to this Mexican guy I know, and we cut a deal - man, it was seriously lucky of me that he would step in on another "contractor's" job like that on such short notice, and agree to finish things up for us.

So, Mike comes over, but in an amazing stroke of "luck," Douch Bag Jr., and Douch Bag Sr. are hard at work on the jobsite. This is going to be awkward. I decide to take the approach of management where I work. Keep it cool, level-headed, and couch everything negative in the form of a compliment:

Me: "I've decided to bring someone in to help close this roof up. Not that you guys need the help, but there are 3 winter storms approaching, and Mike here has been gracious enough to give this project a helping hand."

Douch Bag and Douche Bag: "We don't need the help! We've got this all under control."

Me: "You need the help, and you can help him finish this, or he can finish this on his own, which I'm sure he would prefer."

Why, I don't know, but they decided to help Mike finish the roof. But, all the white hairs I got, worrying about how this would turn out, made me realize that the current system of astrological signs is out-dated. We need more contemporary ones, based more in reality: like Drunk-Boy the Idiot.

I know this sounds like a "poison-pen" post, and it probably is, but I'm not totally out of line. Drunk-Boy just lost his wife and his house. Now, we've got an empty house across the street. Great.

Baptism by fire

2006-01-09T15:40:00.000-05:00

There's this guy I used to work with who was very humble, almost to the point of being mousey. His wife bosses him around; she spends all of his overtime money on buiding materials for their home improvement projects and jewelery for her. She used to work there too, so we know how she is. She retired early, moving his retirement date back by almost 10 years.

Their house is beautiful, though. They're probably the only blue-collar couple on the "Better Homes Tour," in our community. (The Better Homes Tour is the best of the best homes in our community. They have a house that would make Bob Vila jealous.)

They should have a home that nice. This guy will work on his vacation days, as a way to manuipulate the system so he can get more overtime than he should. (The company will ask if you want to work overtime, in order of overtime hours-asked: people with low hours-asked first. You're charged for the hours that you're asked to work, not the hours you actually work; therefore, if you're technically on vacation, you can't be charged for hours asked. That's how desperate this guy is for overtime!) This way, he's getting vacation pay, his normal hourly pay for working, plus he's guaranteed to be low hours for the next day's overtime - and since he's getting double-pay on his vacation day, he considers that a vacation!

That's how smart this guy is, but you'd never know it working next to him, because he doesn't talk alot unless you get to know him first. Now, I know why.

I worked next to him enough for him to start opening up to me. One day, we were talking, and he was telling me for the first time about his Viet Nam experiences. Whew! No wonder this guy doesn't talk much!

He said his "introduction" to Viet Nam was a one-of-a-kind experience. They were flying into Da Nang at night, fresh out of boot camp. When they got close to their runway, they noticed quite a few white flashes, far away on the ground. The ground under them was exploding in bright shades of white and orange. The intercom on the plane came on: "The base we were taking you to is under rocket attack; since the runway has been shot out, we'll be diverting to a nearby base." They're flying a little longer, and the same thing: white flashes off in the distance, massive turbulance, and white and orange flashes on the ground below. The intercom comes on with the same exact message.

They're flying a little while longer, and they notice the same thing. The entire area was under a rocket attack. The intercom comes on, this time with a different story: "The base we're taking you to is under rocket attack. We're running dangerously low on fuel. Please make sure your seatbelts are fastened, and tighten them up. We'll be cutting all power to the aircraft so the heat-seeking missiles will hopefully avoid us. All electric will be cut so the enemy can't see any of our lights to avoid any ground fire. We'll go into a freefall over the runway, then turn everything on right before contact with the ground. Welcome to Viet Nam."

He said the captain cut all power, and the feeling of freefall was violent, everybody puked, all at the same time. They did just what the captain said. When the plane came to a stop, they were told to do a "duck-and-roll," when exiting the plane, as there were enemy troops all around the area, hosing it down with machine gun fire.

That was Tom's introduction to Viet Nam. You'd never expect such experiences from such a pussy-whipped, hen-pecked man. I guess that goes to show you, you never know!

4 Things Tag

2006-01-06T17:15:00.000-05:00

four-things tag
Got a "four" tag thing from. I'm just catching up!Four jobs you have had in your life:

Bar back
Telemarketer
Forklift driver
Door-to-door salesman

Four movies you could watch over and over:

Apocalypse Now
China Town
The 2 Jakes
any Star Wars (but not any Star Trek)

Four places you've lived:

Columbus
Okinawa
Ohio

Four TV shows you love to watch:

American Idol
King of Queens
Frazier
Just Shoot Me

Four places you've been on vacation:

North Carolina
Hawaii
Tennessee
Florida

Four websites you visit daily:

Maya's
Video X's
Leesa's
Mine

Four of your favorite foods:

Japanese
Italian
Chinese
American

Four places you'd rather be right now:

At a Swiss bank making a fat withdraw
See #1
See #2
See #3

WTF???!!

2005-12-30T13:26:00.000-05:00

There’s this guy I work with who grew up in Kentucky. His politics are probably a little left of mine, but he does have some sayings he constantly bombards whoever he works with, that’ve grown on me. Here’s a sample:

“A government ‘of the people, by the people and for the people,’ is the kind of government corporate America hates. Corporate America has to take the little guy seriously with this type of government, and they hate the little guy; that’s why they hate our government.”
“Corporate America will always try to brainwash people into thinking your government is stupid, inept and incompetent. People fall for it.”
“I grew up in the hollar, and I’ve seen an environment where rich people take advantage of the unsuspecting, because the rich people can – because they own everything in Kentucky.”
“The civil war wasn’t fought only because of slavery. The civil war was fought because the English Gentry who ran the South, wanted to recreate England in the South, where the nobility has it all - so they could treat everyone else (including poor whites) like serfs.”
“Sixteen ton and what-a’ya get? Another day older and deeper in debt.” According to this guy from Kentucky, that was the South before and after the Civil War, and it wasn’t until unions came into their prime, that things started to change.
He says now that unions are being broken down, the South is going back to it’s pre Civil War days, where the English Gentry in conjunction with Corporate America, are taking everything over and forcing everyone into poverty.

I have some sayings philosophies of my own that coincide with the above:

Isn’t it odd that we live in a society that makes not having car insurance a crime, but from the standpoint of increasing shareholder value (regardless of how minute the increase may be) providing health insurance to employees is also a crime?
‘Sixteen ton and what-a’ya get? Another day older and deeper in debt.’ That was in the old days when the factory or mining company you worked for, owned your house and the store you shopped at. As a result, these companies were the Jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none because they exploited the value of your work, and where you shopped, etc.

Now, the company you work for specializes only in exploiting the value of your work. As a result, new companies who specialize in other forms of exploitation have popped up. This enables everyone who’s in the business of exploitation, to focus exclusively on their particular exploitation specialty. Example: could people get by if it wasn’t for our “Mega-Mart” stores? Or were the Mega-Mart stores created as a diversion, to prevent people from noticing just how far in poverty they’ve fallen?

So it could be said that an insidious new form of “stealth exploitation” has emerged, making the Mega-Mart stores seem like a good thing, by pointing to their low prices and how they contribute to a low unemployment rate in the communities they’re in, when all they really are, is a Trojan Horse in our society. They’re creating their own market niche by making the rock-bottom low prices they offer a necessity for more and more Americans. People don’t notice it, because we all get caught up in just trying to get by, when everything goes up except our pay and all we can think is, “Thank God for the low prices of the Mega-Mart stores,” without stopping to realize that the Mega-Mart stores are either directly, or indirectly responsible for us having to take pay cuts, or losing our jobs altogether.

Realize also, that when everything goes up except your pay, you're taking a pay cut. Don't think that you're not taking a pay cut when your pay stays the same. If everything's going up and your pay's staying the same, you're going backward! That's where the Mega-Mart stores come in, acting like they're doing you a favor. They're not; they're either directly responsible, or indirectly responsible for you going backwards.

And speaking of monopolies, your government holds a near-monopoly on your housing needs. They own your mortgage (FREDDY-MAC/FANNIE-MAE, VA) and the people who don’t live in houses, probably live in government-subsidized apartment projects.

So if the company you work for, and the Mega-Marts, and the government, all collude to exploit you on an organized basis, our country will become nothing more than a serfdom. Don’t think there aren’t people who work for each sector, who haven’t thought of this already.

It doesn’t matter what New Year’s resolutions you have, just as long as you resolve to become more aware of the situation we’re in, and try (no matter how small of an effort you make) to act locally by raising awareness for others, even if it’s as simple as e-mailing a link to this blog to 3 of your friends. Shameless plug, but what-the-hay? It’s my blog, and it is providing a necessary service.

Happy New Year everyone! Now get out there and do something to maintain your high quality of life before this country becomes a complete serfdom!!!!!!

Boris

Christmas Eve in Cleveland

2005-12-26T13:13:00.000-05:00

I couldn’t believe it. Two tickets to the Cleveland/Pittsburgh game! My wife bought them for us when they first went on sale. Everyone had big expectations about the Browns in the pre-season, so the tickets went fast. She bought these tickets for Jake and I the day they went on sale. The best she could do, given she bought these tickets just minutes before the game sold out, were seats at the very top of the stadium, at the corner of the end-zone. Not what you’d call the best seats in the house, but what the hell? It’s an NFL game, and I’m a life-long Steelers fan, so I didn’t mind.

I was worried because even though I’ve been told I’m a good writer, directions aren’t my strong-suit. Seriously. I don’t mind driving in big cities because I learned to drive on I-270 in Columbus, which is a total madhouse. But I do get lost easily, especially in areas I’m not familiar with. Had we been going to Columbus, I would’ve been OK; but Cleveland? When do I ever go there?

Not only that, but I really wasn’t looking forward to this trip anyway, because if you think about it: Christmas Eve at Cleveland Stadium, with a kid who’s prone to strong bouts of asthma. What could possibly go wrong? (Not to mention he’s also in a neck brace due to a sledding mishap that was so extreme, I named the move he made in his crash, using the naming conventions employed by the Video game, SSX Tricky! Because of his strong German ancestory (from my wife's side), I named it "Illegal Jakkenboy Air.")

I had it in my mind that if the temperature was below 20 degrees, or if it was raining, or if it was very windy, we weren’t going. I told Jake this the day my wife bought the tickets; the neck brace wasn’t making the trip look more likely.

On Christmas Eve, I topped off the tank, checked the pressure in the tires, checked the oil, vacuumed the interior of the car, and went through one of those automatic car washes with the undercarriage spray and the robotic, infrared-guided power sprayarms that spray your tires, brakes and rims. I hate a cluttered car on a long trip. Cleveland’s a 3 hour drive from where I live.

We were running late in traffic. I had a print-off of the driving directions, but those soon got tossed when we got inside Cleveland city limits because all I had to do was follow the traffic jam. I passed a few parking garages, got worried about whether we’d pass anymore and ducked into what I thought may have been the last one prior to the stadium. $4 parking: not bad for life in the big city. There was just one drawback: it was 7 blocks from the stadium.

When we got out of the car, there were enough sirens going off to make it sound like 9-11. Seriously. The wails of the sirens were bouncing off the concrete in the garage and amplifying the noise. Not only that, but the smell of pot was so thick, I'm worried what'll happen if I'm asked to take a random drug screen at work. The good part is, believe it or not, it was partly cloudy and fifty degrees with no wind!! Hell, I’ll walk 7 blocks in weather like that any day! Especially when I found out that parking in the stadium parking lot is $20!

Jake and I were both wearing our #7 Ben Roethlisberger Steelers jerseys which got us heckled by passing traffic, in a major way, for all seven blocks of our walk. (Keep in mind I’m with an 11 year-old kid in a neck brace!)

We get to the stadium ten minutes before kick-off, which I thought was right on time. Wrong! There were the lines. The lines at the front of the stadium were the most obscene in terms of their length. We kept walking around to the back and the lines got shorter and shorter. We picked the shortest line at the back, got in, and had to walk up wheel chair ramps (they don’t have stairs there) that circled five stories up, to get to our seats. We could hear the roar of the crowd with each play, as we hoofed it up those ramps, which seemed like it took forever! We were 15 minutes past kickoff by the time we got to our seats, but we were just in time. By the time we sat down and started waving our Terrible Towels, Pittsburgh made their first score! It was awesome. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

We were so far up, it took a while to not want to succumb to vertigo and puke, looking at the field below. It was like we were looking at the game from the edge of a cliff.

About 3 rows down, there were some teenage, drunk and rowdy Browns fans who were getting a little out of hand. There was this kid who was about 17. He was a little too “into” the game. He had far too much of an emotional stake in it (fueled by booze, no doubt). He was yelling and screaming every time Pittsburgh scored, and some Pittsburgh fan who put his arms in the air like the referees do to indicate a touchdown, accidentally spilled this kid’s beer in the process.

Well, the shit hit the fan then! Naturally, a fight broke out and spread quickly. I thought it was going to reach us. I was worried about Jake. I thought about doing a “mosh-pit dive” into the fracas, but then I thought to myself, “How much would I be protecting him, if I was sitting in a jail cell somewhere?” I didn’t do anything, and the fight didn’t spread to us, but it was very emotionally charged for not only those involved, but everyone who witnessed it as well.

From halftime on, it was simply a riot waiting to happen. Luckily, the cops were smart enough to take a predominately a hands-off approach, to let people vent. I think if they would have micro-managed the event with a bunch of arrests, all hell would have broke loose.

During halftime, while waiting in line for pretzels, people wearing Pittsburgh jerseys were yelling, “To the superbowl!” and people wearing Browns jerseys were chanting back, “Fuck you!” It was like a surreal, real-life musical. Drew Carey would've been proud. Like I said, it could have broke out into a riot at any time.

To top it off, Pittsburgh wound up winning, something like 41-0. While Jake and I were walking down the spiraling ramps out of the stadium, people were looking down on us from above, and looking up at us from below, and yelling “Fuck Pittsburgh!” It was a little freaky because we managed, quite by accident, to become isolated from other Pittsburgh fans, making us stick out like a sore thumb. What does Jake do? Keep in mind, he’s in a neck brace: he whips out his Terrible Towel, and starts waving it! I was proud of him for not backing down and flattered that he thought I was big enough to keep him from harm, but I wanted to strangle his little ass for inflaming the situation to the point where things could’ve got ugly.

We kept walking, and we eventually got the street corner that had the street our car was on. There was even the comfort of the Polish immigrant who sold Polish sausage on a street cart. This guy has the best Polish sausages (soaked in hot beer to keep them warm, of course!) and the best part? Only $2 per dog! Damn, that’s good food.

On our way to the car, we stopped by this deli on the ground floor of one of Cleveland’s skyscrapers. It was run by what seemed to be immigrants with brown skin and thick accents, who were from some Mediterranean country, although I have no idea which one. The special? Corned beef on rye with Swiss cheese. These were huge sandwiches, cut from corner-to-corner, just the way I like it. (Only $2.75 – and that’s with cheese!) I bought one each for Jake and I, and we ate there, while waiting for the traffic to die down a little. We got a window seat, and Browns fans walking down the street could see Jake’s Terrible Towel he laid down in front of him. We were getting all kinds of people putting their faces up to the glass and pressing their lips and tongues against the glass while the rest of the people on the sidewalk yelled and screamed.

The guy behind the counter says in a thick accent: “Yo! Big daddy!” There wasn’t anyone big in there but me, so I turned around. He says, “You should shake your dick at them to show them what a man you are!” Then, he steps into a spot where everyone could see his whole body, and grabs himself, and starts shaking what his mother gave him, at the crowd who was smearing his windows. There you have it: local flavor!

That was our day in Cleveland on Christmas Eve. It’ll be a day Jake’ll never forget.

Communism for the rich

2005-12-23T17:14:00.000-05:00

Been having a great time writing about Lindsey and Rebekkah, but chances are good that I won’t finish that tale, unless someone actually requests it. My main purpose for this blog is to inform people about my progress concerning my struggle with local economic development officials.

Just in case you haven’t read any of my previous posts to find out what my beef with the local economic development officials is, please check out a previous post of mine titled “Dirty Little Secrets.”

Last week, there was an article in our paper about how one of our county commissioners was striking back against the local Chamber of Commerce (CofC).

Our local CofC is very powerful. In fact, if you’re a politician or a wanna-be politician, chances are good that unless someone from the “Glories of the Past Committee” (GPC; not it’s real name, but I don’t want these guys to do a search on its real committee name and find this blog,) but chances are good that if someone from the GPC committee of the local CofC doesn’t tap you on the shoulder while you’re on the back-nine of the country club’s golf course, you’re not going to get elected. They really have that much influence.

So, it’s pretty significant that a prominent Republican politician would criticize our local CofC. You see, the local CofC has always criticized the county government by saying they should operate their government like a business. What I think they mean by that is, “Slash your capability to provide critical government services to the point that you can only patrol &/or respond quickly to the rich areas of the county, and don’t worry about the rest of it.”

So, how did the county politician criticize the CofC? He said, “The CofC is always telling us we should operate like a business, but they have a Convention and Visitor’s Department (CVD) that takes 100% of our county’s hotel/motel tax, equaling about $590,000 a year. We don’t have any major conventions of any kind – ever, so what do they have to show for the money they’re bringing in? Can’t they operate like a business and return any money over-and-above expenses to the investor, which in this case, would be the county?” Damn good question if you ask me!!

The significance of this is, there’s never been a public rift between the CofC and it’s puppets before I started writing my editorials. I think people have been afraid to criticize what has always been perceived to be a very powerful organization. Now that one person (me) has started criticizing, it seems like more and more people are jumping on the bandwagon!

Of course, this area has the headquarters of an international tire company – along with one of its factories. Rumor has it, this company is moving the headquarters and the factory out of town. Not only that, we’re also the headquarters of an international oil company. This company’s presence here in this town has been in question since it was originally bought-out in a hostile take-over back in the 80’s, and every time the wind blows, another one of it’s subsidiaries leaves town, making the headquarters building just a little more empty.

This idea of dues-paying members of our local economic development agency limiting who comes into town and who doesn’t, based on whether or not it’s a low-paying company, probably was at one time cute, but it’s cute no more. They’ve got to stop trying to prevent good-paying companies from locating here, in an attempt to limit wage competition between factories here. What that boils down to is, Social Engineering. Social Engineering is a very non-Republican ideal. In fact, Social Engineering is an off-shoot of Socialism.

So, it would appear that the local Republican Party is actually the local Socialist Party (right-wing Socialists though, they may be).

I thought Republican ideals were ones that encouraged governments to provide an environment that fosters competition, not environments that limit competition, right? Is that true, or not true? If that’s true, then our local Republican Party is what Rush Limbaugh calls RINOs, or “Republicans In Name Only.”

These people are pretty smart, because they’ve come to the correct realization that if you screw the poor, no matter how you do it, or how centralized of a source the screwing comes from, you can call yourself a Republican, and Republican straight-ticket voters will just blindly vote for you, no matter how communist (communism benefiting only the rich) but no matter how communist the people of the party may be.

This brings this discussion to a whole new point: Soviet Communism was supposed to benefit the worker. These folks here where I live, have invented a new type of communism: communism for the rich! Ain’t that a gas!

Rebekkah's mistress

2005-12-16T20:22:00.000-05:00

OK: Just to keep people coming back, and to prove I'm not just some stick in the mud who only writes about uber-technical [boring] things, I decided to add some erotica to my posts, simply for variety. I hope whoever reads this will enjoy it, and come back to read the political stuff, which is the "bread and butter" of this blog, and the main reason I write it.

This is my first foray into erotica, so if it sucks, please let me know; I'll stop writing it. I just want a little variety so people don't get bored with my subject matter. Here it goes.

This is a period piece, about a castle in England and the gentry who live there. The father, a duke in the royal family, runs a winery on his land and sells his wine to peasants who need a cheap buzz and a quick escape from their dull reality. After all, English wine isn't world renown.

The business makes enough to pay property taxes and keep up the appearance he's rich, even though his wealth is strictly on paper. The duke's wife died while delivering their only child, Lindsey. Lindsey is now 16. Her father is getting old and is teaching his only child the ropes of the family business.

The Duke takes it upon himself to pick one of his peasants to be his daughter's handmaiden. Lindsey will need to focus on more important things than laundry and cooking if she's to take the reigns of the castle one day. The father is particularly drawn to nice looking women and has the perfect maiden in mind to live in his castle. This lucky peasant's name is Rebekkah. She's 31 years old, single and attractive. Of course a member of the royal family could never marry a peasant, but the old man thought it probably would never hurt to have an attractive woman around the house.

Rebekkah had a hard time adjusting to royal family life. She was nervous, awkward and just a little lazy; lazy enough to get her into trouble from time to time.One night, The Duke threw a party. Rebekkah allowed one of the guests to roam a hallway in the east wing of the castle; a wing that was off-limits to the guests - and for good reason: this wing contains a room that held the wine recipe, which includes his wine-making process. The recipe is closely guarded, not because the wine is especially tasty, but because the process that makes the wine was particularly profitable. The Duke jealously guarded the secret.

The next day, The Duke was furious, but he realized he was pressed for time. He had an appointment 2 counties away, and it would take several days to get there. The party already put him a day behind schedule. He had to think of an appropriate punishment for Rebekkah, to make it clear to her, that this could never happen again. He knew he didn't have time to carry it out himself. If Lindsey were to one day run the castle, she would have to tend to matters of discipline, customary to the times she lived in. Time was of the essence. Lindsey would have to carry out the punishment.

He summoned Lindsey and Rebekkah while hopping up on his horse."Rebekkah, I noticed you allowed some guests to wander the east wing during the party last night. You know this can't be tolerated. You should have alerted me immediately, but instead, you took the easy way out and pretended to not notice." He reaches into a satchel on the saddle of his horse and hands a cane from a Tree of Heaven branch to Lindsey. "See to it she gets 3 strokes. I'll check your work upon my return. If it's not to my satisfaction, you'll both get 3 strokes. See you upon my return."

Riding off to his appointment, The Duke felt horrible about this, but knew the secret behind his winery's profitability had to be protected if he planned on handing anything down to his daughter, other than debt.

Lindsey was fully aware of how awkward this moment is. She likes Rebekkah, and Rebekkah has acted as a role model for her, doing her hair and makeup, looking after her, and now... this. Lindsey feels slightly uncomfortable with the age difference, but in a way, she's also very turned on - and confused about why.

Rebekkah was relieved. She could have easily been fired which would have forced her back into the life of farming that she knew and despised all too well. That life was hard. In the castle, she lives a lifestyle that she thought she'd never have; she lives like a queen, and she's willing to do anything to hold on to that lifestyle. Anything was better than the life of a peasant on a farm. This punishment was merciful in comparison to farm life, and it was a major relief it wasn't worse. She just wouldn’t let Lindsey know that no matter how bad the caining, it was still better than being a peasant in the village.

Watching her father riding off, Lindsey was confused. "What should we do now?" she asked Rebekkah. Lindsey really didn’t know."Well, if we're to take care of this right now, I suppose we'll have to work out the details of exactly where you plan on applying the strokes, won't we?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Lindsey is thinking that carrying out her father's wish right now would be too awkward, given she already feels awkward enough. She really doesn't know what to do. Feeling the need for a diversion and an excuse to procrastinate, she blurts out, "Why don't I show you the proper way to scrub the floor in the foyer? The way you've been doing it has been leaving streaks, and I don't like how you leave the water puddle before it dries."

Lindsey said this to see how Rebekkah would respond to her asserting authority. This would be a test for carrying out her father's wish. “If Rebekkah balks at this,” Lindsey thinks to herself, “maybe 3 strokes from my dad wouldn’t be too bad after all.”

While scrubbing, Lindsey barked out commands to see how compliant Rebekkah would be. Much to her surprise, Rebekkah responded by being cheerful and slightly reverent. "This is going to be easier that I thought" Lindsey accidentally said out loud. Rebekkah turned and smiled.

Feeling slightly guilty about the reversal of roles and how horny the possibilities are making her, Lindsey said, "Why don't we both work on this? It'll go much faster that way." Having said that, Lindsey kicked off her shoes and took off the top layer of her clothing, being careful not to get them dirty.

The work felt good and accomplishing things while doing them her way, gave Lindsey a sense of empowerment - a sense of empowerment that she knew she'd have to possess if she were to carry out her father's wish with as much dignity as the situation allowed; dignity for both of them.

After the work on the foyer floor, they continued with other endeavors, building Lindsey's sense of empowerment and control. They tended the vineyards, did some landscaping and hauled water from the well. They even fed the livestock - something that reminded Rebekkah of her former life - enough for her to realize that she should do everything - including being pleasant in this situation - to keep her position in the castle.

After a hard day's work, both women were exhausted and ready for bed. There was just one thing hanging over their heads though. This subject was unavoidable as they passed a stockade in the back yard that The Duke kept as a silent reminder for his hired help."Well, we've just got one thing to do today, don't we?" Rebekkah said, eager to get the "deed" out of the way, once and for all.

"Being cained while standing up seems so undignified – especially for a pretty woman like you,” Lindsey said while lovingly running the back of her fingers down Rebekkah’s high cheek bone, hoping to make Rebekkah feel better about the situation. “Why don’t we think of a way to do it so you’re laying down?”

"How do you suppose we do that?"

"I've been thinking about this all day. Let's replace the footboard of my bed with this section of the stockade. You could lie on your stomach on the bed; I could open the stockade at the foot of the bed, allowing you to slip your feet in there as a way to restrain your legs. This way, you won't be tempted to move around while being cained, eyes away from your mistress." It was hard to tell who was more impressed with Lindsey's newfound authority: Rebekkah or Lindsey.

Lindsey goes on: "If I'm to take this discipline thing seriously, I may as well have a system that makes both of us as comfortable with this as possible."Liking what she heard and with a wry smile Rebekkah says, "Let's get to work!" Words weren't necessary. Both felt relief that the issue of the age difference and role reversal was resolved with Lindsey's desire to make this dignified; dignified to the point that it was almost...erotic. Rebekkah could feel her nipples beginning to swell; so could Lindsey.

Both women set to work on converting the footboard of the bed into a stockade. Lindsey was the “big-picture” thinker, coming up with the plans; Rebekkah was the technical whiz turning the big picture into a reality. Rebekkah did this with zeal, never stopping to think she was working on a device that made the process of caining, just a little bit easier for her mistress.

Once the conversion was completed, Lindsey was excited. Not because this was a device for caining her help, but because she was able to use her pleasant personality in a way that allowed her to receive some help on something she never could have accomplished herself – without her dad’s interference. This was a first – a time of passage; one of many to come.

Rebekkah was excited too. This was the first time anyone ever took her suggestions and technical expertise seriously. This felt better to her than she’s felt in a long time.

Lindsey, with a look of pride on her face: “Care to test this out?” she said with a sweeping gesture of her hand, emphasizing the bed.

Rebekkah was staring at the bed with the ball of her hand on her chin, tip of her index finger touching the corner of her mouth. “How do you suppose?” she asks inquisitively, playfully.

“I’ve never done this before,” Lindsey said giggling out of embarrassment – embarrassment that she didn’t know quite how to proceed.

Rebekkah could sense that Lindsey needed a little help. She sees a dressing screen across the room with a big fluffy robe hanging over it. “Should I just slip into the robe for the time being?” Rebekkah softly asks, trying her best to give Lindsey the illusion that Lindsey is in charge of the situation.

“Yes, yes,” Lindsey says, trying to pretend this was her plan all along. “I’ll be getting ready for bed while I wait. It’s getting late.”

A few minutes later, Rebekkah steps out from the screen wearing nothing but the big fluffy robe. To her surprise, Lindsey is sitting on the bed, completely nude. Seeing Rebekkah’s surprise, Lindsey explains: “I always sleep in my birthday suit!” Lindsey’s complete ease with her own body made Rebekkah feel surprisingly comfortable about what would normally be an awkward situation. Lindsey’s nakedness was a voluntary form of humility designed as an act of camaraderie to make the situation more comfortable for both involved.

With a deep breath of resignation, Rebekkah takes one last stare of the bed, and lets the robe fall the the floor, revealing a body used to physical labor; her body is taught, and her breasts perky - nipples hard in anticipation. She lays down on her stomach, being careful to place herself so there’d be enough length in her body, for her feet to fit properly into the stockade.

Without looking at Rebekkah, Lindsey dutifully walks to the foot of the bed to raise the hinge of the stockade, allowing Rebekkah to place her feet where they belonged. Lindsey closed the hinge, locking in Rebekkah’s feet.

Rebekkah was lying on her stomach, using her elbows to prop up the upper part of her body so she could turn her head to face her mistress. Instead, she just looks straight ahead, patiently awaiting her punishment.

Lindsey walks from her room into her dad’s room, getting one of his big leather belts. She quietly walks back into her room, the only noise being the clinking of the belt buckle. Rebekkah’s heart starts racing. She talked herself into thinking that this would be an erotic moment. Instead of feeling sexy, she was a little scared. She didn’t want Lindsey to know she was scared. She turns her head to make eye contact with Lindsey, giving her a forced smile, with the hopes that Lindsey would set her fears at ease, and smile back.

Lindsey gives Rebekkah a scare. She gives Rebekkah a sad look, almost as she’s pre-apologizing for what she’s about to do. This was out of character from her “innocent, little-girl-coming-of-age” persona that she’s carried on up until now. She used the sad, apologetic look to assert her authority, which she was always self-conscious about lacking. Then, a warm smile broke out over her face. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m going to take some gentle practice swings with this belt to get the feel of how this should go. Relax.”

Rebekkah smiled – for real. She was worried that Lindsey’s inexperience would result in getting welts on the small of her back, or on the back of her legs. The buttocks were bad enough, but she knew from experience, anywhere but the buttocks was a lot worse. Lindsey put the belt down.

Lindsey gets on the bed, standing on her knees. Walking on her knees closer to the head of the bed, she sits down on Rebekkah. The small of Rebekkah’s back fits Lindsey’s naked butt like a saddle. She starts to give Rebekkah a neck and should massage. Rebekkah groans with pleasure, as she lowers her upper body down on the bed, her face resting on the pillow, completely relaxed.

After a while, Rebekkah’s afraid she’ll get too comfortable and fall asleep. She doesn’t want to fall asleep until the caining is done. She uses her elbows to prop up her upper body again.

Lindsey whispers in her ear: “Ready for your spanking?” Rebekkah’s face breaks out into a smile, nodding her head up in down in agreement.

Lindsey picks up the belt from the dresser. She stands on the bed, on her knees, behind Rebekkah. With the belt doubled over in her right hand, Lindsey uses a quick flick of her wrist to swing the belt, without moving her arm. It makes a small slapping sound on the flesh of Rebekkah’s ass. Rebekkah gives off a playful, high-pitched moan, mocking pain. Without moving her hand, Lindsey bends her wrist the exact opposite way, making the belt slap across Rebekkah’s other butt cheek, with a back-hand motion. Again, Rebekkah gives off a mock, high-pitched groan.

This goes on and on. Lindsey takes plenty of time between strokes to allow Rebekkah to soak it all in. Lindsey’s soaking it all in too. Although Rebekkah’s moans were supposed to mock pain, they sounded more sexual. This turns Lindsey on like crazy.

The strokes with the belt stop. Rebekkah feels the bed start to move up and down slightly, and she hears strange sounds. She didn’t want to sound bossy, given she was in no position to, keeping her gaze straight ahead, she asks Lindsey: “What are you doing?”

Lindsey doesn’t respond, but the noise and the motion remain. Rebekkah turns around to look. They make direct eye contact. “I’m taking care of myselt,” Lindsey says, almost defiantly. Rebekkah gets a big smile on her face, turning her face back to the forward-looking position, giving Lindsey some privacy. Looking down on Rebekkah, Lindsey could see a wet spot begin to develop on the sheet between Rebekkah’s legs.

“I’ll give you some of this, but only if you’re a good girl,” Lindsey says, almost in a bratty tone.

Lindsey steps off the bed and walked toward her dresser. She puts down the belt and picks up the cain. With cain in hand, she gives it a quick flick of the wrist, making a buzzing noise with the air, reveling in her new-found authority.

Standing at the foot of the bed, Lindsey gently touches the bottom of Rebekkah’s bare foot which was hanging over the edge, in the stockade. Lindsey gets on the bed, standing on her knees, behind Rebekkah.

Rebekkah has rehearsed this moment in her head a thousand times since hearing of her fate. She was to "cry pretty," looking demure and lovely. That’s the way she rehearsed it.

Lindsey gently rubs the cain across Rebekkah’s bare skin, across both cheeks. She playfully moves the cane back and forth.

“Ready?”

Rebekkah nods her head up and down, this time more seriously.

the editorial part IV

2005-12-14T18:09:00.000-05:00

I changed the name of the former county commissioner so neither him or any of his buddies can do a search on his real name, only to have this pop up. I changed the acronyms for our local programs on this post, for the same reason.

Just a little necessary background: ROCK is an acronym for a pay-as-you-stay weekend jail for non-violent offenders. The HC is an acronym for an organization of rich, powerful people who volunteer their financial expertise to make recommendations to the county commissioners. These recommendations were always followed when "Mr. Roman" was one of the county commissioners, but since he was voted out of office last election cycle, the current batch of commissioners are a little more leary of the HC, even though the HC exerts quite a bit of influence over a large percentage of the electorate here.

In black, is the latest editorial which was published Monday of this week. It's really a zinger to the rich folk around here, who view public servants as bumbling fools who aren't smart enough to realize that taking into consideration the needs of the rich at the expense of everyone else is the only way to go - or so they think. They really do think that if the elected officials don't become their lapdogs, the public officials aren't exhibiting character, they're just stupid, and that's the end of the story.

One other thing: my wife bumped into a newspaper reporter from our local paper, and he told her that the editorial editor is taking alot of heat from her boss for publishing my editorials, and her career at the paper has one foot in the grave, and the other on a banana peel. He also said about half the staff members of the paper think I'm a genius, and the other half think I'm nothing more than a rabble-rouser who likes attention. Oh well, at least I'm batting .500!

The HC wants the ROCK to reopen - this time, as sort of a local, country-club jail so rich folk don't have to lose their jobs while doing their sentences. They think making the rates affordable so that poor people having access to a program like this is simply ridiculous. See why I'm so involved?

Regarding Saturday’s front-page article, “Tax critics silent now, county says.” I was interested in Mr. Roman’s opinions, given that he’s a former county commissioner and now a member of the HC.

He said that closing the ROCK was a mistake because it’s a “revenue stream.” Unlike members of the HC, I sat in the meetings of the criminal justice committee. The question of whether or not the ROCK is a “revenue stream” has been asked and answered to my satisfaction as a tax-paying citizen. Here’s the explanation in accordance to my understanding; simply put: you can’t squeeze blood from a turnip.

The average income of clients of the ROCK is very low. If you make clients pay upfront, the number of people who could afford to participate would be so few, the ROCK would have to significantly raise their rates to compensate, which would in turn, exclude even more potential clients, which would drive rates even higher, making it easy for opponents of alternative sentencing to accuse the court system of favoritism, with “elitist” sentences which only a select few could participate.

On the other hand, if you allow clients to pay in monthly installments, the county is forced to extend credit to people who are generally non-creditworthy to begin with. Most of their income is “under the table,” which is tough to track. For example, these people can’t afford to pay their bills, but Privacy Manager screens their incoming calls and they don’t answer calls they don’t recognize on their caller ID.

The HC wants the county to seek more efficiencies, which in my opinion is administrative-speak, euphemistically calling for a hostile take over, so the city and county can combine their “duplicate services,” [eliminating checks and balances] thus realizing these “elusive” efficiencies.

Who do you want as the ultimate law enforcement authority in the county: an appointed police chief, or an elected sheriff? When you realize efficiencies, you can’t have both.

“I guess I never knew that Findlay wasn’t part of Hancock County.” – Mr. Roman, HC member.

the dream

2005-12-12T15:47:00.000-05:00

I usually don't remember dreams, but since I'm posting anonymously anyway, WTF: I had 2 dreams back-to-back last night, the second one was kind of a nightmare, and I woke up screaming, and that's the only reason I remember either dream. I think they were kind of related, but I'm not sure. Here it goes; dream number one:

My wife and I are walking through the downtown area of our hometown. It's later in life for both of us, because we were both grey and I remember thinking while I was holding her hand that it seemed like just yesterday that we were getting woke up in the middle of the night by a screaming baby who was teething, and now they're all out of the house. I got the distinct impression that we were poor, as we were walking through downtown, and my wife's idea of walking, is from the front door, to the car door, so chances are good that in the dream, we didn't have a car.

In the dream, I was looking for a highschool friend of mine. I recognized the face of a guy who I went to highschool with [for real]. It didn't look like this guy aged much from highschool, even though I remember when we were in highschool, the guy looked like a junior high school student. In real life I only know his first name, and I never talked to him in highschool.

This guy's name is Tom. [For real.] In the dream, I asked Tom if he has seen the guy I was looking for. (I knew that Tom and the guy I was looking for, knew of eachother in highscool, and even though it was a long shot, I thought it was worth a try.) [In real life, I have no idea what Tom does, and I was surprised that he even appeared in my dream, as I only saw him walking through the hallways in highschool, but we had friends who were mutual acquaintences, but I seriously never talked to him in highschool.]

In the dream, we were talking in Tom's NAPA autoparts franchise. Even though it was in a bad part of town and on the ground floor of a rickety, old building that's been there since dirt, the interior of the store was clean, bright, modern and very well stocked.

Tom and I chit-chatted about high school. I could tell he had no idea who the hell I was, but I was enjoying laying on the "guilt trip" that I know I go through, when I'm in a similar situation. (You know, when you just feel awful that you have no idea who you're talking to, but you feel an obligation that maybe you should, since they know who you are, and you hope the "name" thing never comes up?)

I said, "Well, I'm glad you're doing so well! This certainly is a nice store." He said, "This may look nice, but the NAPA franchise just breaks even. The real cash cow is next door. The NAPA franchise brings tons of traffic to this building because of my low prices, that people eventually notice what's next door. People think they're separate businesses, but they're not. Go ahead and take a look."

He was opening a door behind the counter in the NAPA store, that customers don't have access to. This door opened up to the business next door, and was the only access from the NAPA franchise. I walked through. It was a freakin' used thermos store. That's right! It was the Goodwill of used thermoses! There were thermoses of every shape and size. There were even ceramic coffee caraffes with screw-on lids from other countries. The ceramic ones looked Middle-Eastern. I said, "This is your money maker?" and he said, "You wouldn't believe the margins on this crap! People practically give me these thermoses, and I sell them for a minimum of $20! All I do, is run them through a dishwasher."

I had to admit: the thermos store certainly lacked the ambiance of the NAPA franchise. It was dark, the shelves were ancient and probably cheap [tacky] when they were originally made, and the floors were dirty and in desparate need of mopping. Merchandise was dissheveled and in no particular order, and alot of the thermoses were tilted, leaning against eachother. It was a mess, but you could tell that this store was Tom's pride and joy.

That was the end of the dream number one. Dream number two:

In this dream, my wife and I were laying in bed. She was in a trance and couldn't be woken. She had the heel of her left leg on my right nut. Seriously. In the dream, I called her name to wake her up, and she, in her trance, had this annoyed look on her face. I grabbed her ankle to get her heel off my nether region, and her face got an even more annoyed look, and she dug her heel in harder, but her eyes never opened, and she was still in this trance.

I took my hand off her ankle and she let up, so her heel had the same amount of pressure on me before I tried to take her ankle off, but there was no sign she was going to take her heel off, or awake from her trance. I was starting to get weak from the pain, but I didn't know what to do.

I started yelling her name. I yelled over and over, each time getting louder and louder, until I actually woke up from the sound of my voice yelling out her name for real. At this point, I was awake for real, and I looked over at her, and she had her eyes closed just like in the dream, fast asleep.

The bonus for me? Two of them! The pain was only "dream" pain, and it was five minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off. There was no threat of me sleeping in this morning!

That was it.

our obsession with boobs

2005-12-05T16:12:00.000-05:00

There's a woman who has a high ranking position in the personnel department where I work.

I'm "just" a grunt on the floor, and she's about 17 levels above me. I have occassion to wave "hi" to her whenever I go up front to iron out my tuition reimbursement plan or hash out my health insurance problems with someone below her.

One day, for some reason, I was in "Anne's" office. She asked me to pop in while I was up front, and she wanted to know what I thought about a co-worker of mine who was interviewing for a promotion. Anne is very pretty, but she doesn't dress like a ho, unlike alot of other women up front who are pretty (and some who aren't.)

She dresses very conservatively, even though she has some very large assets, which must make it very difficult for her to find clothes that allow her to dress conservatively. She was talking about something, placing her hand over her chest the way most people do when they talk with their hands. One thing I noticed that was character for her conservative dress: she has the most expensive nails I've ever seen. I'm by no means a nail watcher, but this woman's manicures obviously cost her a fortune. My eyes were fixated. I was wondering if she had stylized pearl inlays or what. I had no idea she was noticing where my eyes were, because she never gave any indication that she was annoyed.

She kept placing her one hand over her chest, indicating that she was appauled by something, but I can't remember what it was. I wasn't listening so much to the conversation, I just wanted to know how much those nails cost her. I've never seen nails so expensive. (Seriously. The sweaters she wears over her loose blouses, cover things up very well.) I couldn't take it anymore. I forgot about her large "assets," and as a result, how this would sound, and I said, "Those must've cost you a fortune!" I was referring of course to her nails, but the silence was deafening. The moment was very awkward, as I added two-plus-two, and figured out how she was taking what I just said.

She's got the authority to fire my boss and probably three levels above him. I just thought, "honesty is the best policy," so my gaze didn't falter to indicate that I wasn't nervous, even though it seemed like time was standing still, and I was wondering if she could hear the sound of my heart beating. I just kept looking ahead, even peering more closely as her hand didn't move from her chest. "Those nails; I've never seen anything so expensive!"

"Oh!.....Yes, of course," the heel of her hand thumping on her chest to indicate heart palpitations. You could tell we just experienced a classic "fight or flight moment."

Then she started to explain where she got her nails done and how much they cost, and how often she gets them manicured. At first, you could tell she was relieved. Then, when she started thinking more about it in the course of her explanation, I could tell she wasn't upset - but she thought I was taking advantage of a clever comeback, and she felt that I should have been more humble due to the fact she accepted my "story." Maybe I should have been - but I wasn't. In fact, I felt very much like James Bond - I don't know why.

Toward the end of her explanation, she shot me kind of a devilish grin as if to say, "You're lucky I'm in a good mood today, and you're even luckier I'm flattered."

X-mas or "holidays"?

2005-11-29T20:14:00.000-05:00

Got a question for anyone who might be reading this. Please feel free to either respond on the blog or treat it as a rhetorical question:

If it's OK for others to be offended by Christmas, (which is why we bend over backward to accomodate them) is it OK for me to be offended by other religions, and if so, should those other religions have to bend over backward to keep a low profile, the same way Christianity is now expected to?

In other words, should Jews be expected to refrain from any public mention &/or display of Hannakah or should Muslims be expected to refrain from public mention &/or display of Rammadan?

One argument might be, "As a Christian, you're supposed to accomodate everyone." I say to that, look at the first commandment.

Another question: in a democracy, do we believe in majority rule or minority rule? It's obvious that in America, the majority of the population is either practicing Christian, or not offended in any way by Christianity.

One last question: in a city like Dearborn, Michigan where the majority of the population is Muslim, is it OK for public mention &/or display of Muslim icons?

I myself, don't have a problem with Muslims and their public mention &/or display of Muslim icons in an area where Muslims are the majority.

Just wondering.

BTW: Merry Christmas!

from the top...

2005-11-29T14:54:00.000-05:00

If you've been following this blog, you've read about my coaching experience. I coached my 8 year-old daughter's soccer team this fall. Well, in a nearby town, they have an indoor soccer arena, and they've recently started to allow teams from our town to play there.

Some girls I had on the team in the fall wanted to play indoor soccer, and I guess they've begged their parents, and I've had about 3 different couples ask if I'd be willing to coach. With alot of the other girls from the fall team, we called their parents while we were putting together the team, and their parents told us they've already decided their girls were playing in the winter basketball league. Then, we'd get a call telling us that the girls begged to play indoor soccer. So, we've got the players, now we're just searching for a sponsor. ($350)

My wife and I were going around last night getting signatures for the medical release forms, and we wound up going to the twins' house. These girls were on my team in the fall, and their dad is a big shot with the headquarters of the oil company here. (I'm not saying the name, because I don't want a spider listing this blog entry when people are doing searches on the oil company.)

They live in one of the biggest houses in the swankiest new sub-division here. We've got a son who's 8 months old, and this was the first time he's ever been in a mansion. The couple was really impressed with the seriousness of the expression on our son's face as he looked around in awe the whole time we were there.

This is a British couple. I don't know if any of you watch Frazier, but you know the character Daphney Moon? Well, for loyal Frazier followers, you'll know she has a brother named Simon who's a smarmy charmer. This guy whose house we were at, sounds exactly like Simon, accent and all. This guy (the oil company exec) is so out of character with the other executives in this town. He listens to Bob Dylan. He reads books about Bob Dylan. He's nice. He's sincere. He's not fake, plastic or elitist. He's about 3 spots down the ladder from the CEO of the company. Amazing. He'll actually talk to me like we're buddies, even though he already knows I'm a factory worker. In fact, I had no idea how far up the ladder he was at the oil company during the soccer season. He was one of my assistant coaches!

His twin daughters are amazing. One is very tall, strong and athletic. The other one isn't. I found out last night, that the other one is the primadonna of the family, and she has the biggest bedroom (other than the master bedroom) according to my daughter. I guess they fawn all over her. She's a girl used to getting her way.

Her sister on the other hand (the athletic one) is much more humble. You could tell she couldn't believe her coach was actually at her house. The two sisters and my daughters played while my wife and I talked to the parents. The athletic girl was in the basement when we arrived, and didn't know we were there until my daughter went down there with the other twin.

When the athletic one came up when we were just about ready to leave, she was amazed, and very shy, and she said, "Hi coach Yeltsin!" (Not really my last name.) My daughter says, "Coach Yeltsin?!!!" as if she was amazed that anyone would show me such old-fashioned respect. That girl looked up at me as if I was some kind of movie star or something, and she was so shy, when she smiled, she covered her mouth with her hand.

Anyway, it would be a stretch to say that her dad likes me as much as she does, but it's obvious that her dad does like me. We sat around and talked about local politics because he knows I'm involved. He likes to turn people on to British beer, and he knows I'm a beer drinker, so he offered me a British beer. Now, just about everyone's had Guiness, but that's not British; it's Irish beer. He had a British offering on hand called Old Speckled Hen. It was in a can, but it's served in a ceramic mug, and when you pour the beer, you dump it in. You don't tilt the mug and gently pour like American and German beers. Unlike American and German beers, this beer isn't carbonated. You dump it in the mug to put a head on it, on purpose. The head has the consistency and flavor of cotton candy. With this beer, you want a head.

We drank Old Speckled Hen and talked politics. His wife is kind of interested in what I do, because she passed the bar in Wales and is a voracious reader of the editorial section of our paper. She doesn't share her husband's lack of elitism, and she's perplexed by the fact that I'm "just" a factory worker, and I can write so well.

[At different times] they both asked me: "Now that you've exposed what you think is a great injustice, how do you plan to combat it? Will you just resign yourself to accept that these practices are probably commonplace, or do you have some type of plan to deal with it?"

Well, it's funny when you're caught off gaurd. I've become so acclimated to just explaining this injustice to people, that I've never gotten to explaining my actual plan of dealing with it. I was so relaxed and enjoying the beer (it's really good beer) that I wasn't prepared for a monologue. I just took a dramatic gulp of the beer as if I was about to say something of substance, and I said, "I've got my ideas." and that was it! I don't know why I just froze. Probably because I don't trust her. I like him, and I'd like to like her, but there's just something that's holding me back. I'm almost afraid I came off as someone who's all thunder and no rain. I hope not. Anyways, that's how my evening went last night; that, and watching the Steelers get their ass handed to them by the Colts. Oh well.

the editorial part III

2005-11-28T16:48:00.000-05:00

They printed my editorial in today's paper. It was slightly edited from the original. In red, are the parts that got left out in publication. In blue, is what was printed.

Regarding the recent article in the Courier about the city of North Baltimore kicking around the idea of creating an economic development organization.

Wait: before you stop reading this because you think economic development is a boring subject, please stop to consider that if you’re a blue-collar worker or a small business owner, how well your area’s economic development agency does their job, will affect your quality of life just as much as your credit rating.

You see, there’s a little secret that people who run economic development agencies don’t want the general public to know: as long as they get 51% of their annual budget from membership dues (private sources) they’re not subject to sunshine laws. That means they can receive their annual grants from the Ohio Department of Development, not to mention generous annual support from county and city funding – all sources of our tax dollars – and they don’t have to tell anybody about anything they do - or don’t do. That means they’re under no obligation to tell anyone which companies have approached them about locating here, or why those companies were turned away.

Economic development agencies who get 51% of their funding from member dues, are very picky about who they allow in their territory; and the reasoning behind who they turn away – and why - represents the best interests of their dues-paying members: not our interests. They have the ability to turn prospective companies away, because they decide who pays local real estate taxes, and who doesn’t. It doesn’t seem right, but that’s how it is, whether we like it or not.

If the city of North Baltimore forms an economic development agency, the Ohio Department of Development will be obligated to tell them which companies are thinking about locating in their area. If North Baltimore’s economic development agency gets 51% of their annual budget from taxpayer sources, they’ll be subject to sunshine laws, which means they’ll be obligated to tell us who is thinking about locating there. Let’s hope that’s the case, so the veil of secrecy can be finally lifted.

Not too bad, if you ask me. At least it got printed. People at work were telling me: "I hope your life insurance policy is paid up if you'll be writing more stuff like this in future!" I hope it's just joking around. Not to say that those people were threatening me directly - they're my co-workers. They're just afraid that I may be opening my mouth too much about this. There's alot of money at stake here.

Oh well.

the editorial part II

2005-11-25T15:27:00.000-05:00

Just got an e-mail from the editorial editor of my town's paper. On Wednesday, I had my wife leave a message on her voice mail. My wife simply asked her if she recieved my editorial. I received an e-mail today, and the editorial editor told me that from here on out, I should always call to confirm that she recieved my e-mails, because mine "got lost," but she found it on the server's trash folder. Her boss has access to her account, so I'd be willing to bet that he deleted my e-mail/editorial while she was on vacation, or there just might have been some technical glitch. Either way, it wouldn't surprise me; there's alot of money at stake here.

I know her boss posts as "Anonymous" on our newspaper's web-board, and he attacks my posts vehemently. He's more right wing than Rush Limbaugh, and even though I have many conservative elements to my philosophy, I'm still too liberal for his tastes.

You may be asking yourself, "How do you know he posts as Anonymous?" It's because he's very active in his high school alumni association, and he uses that web-board to keep in touch with his classmates, as I think he's the guy in charge of his class' high school reunions. Anyway, there's a woman on that web-board who graduated with him, whose political leanings are very similar to mine. She's always responding to "Anonymous' " posts by saying, "Now Tom (not his real name) you know that we all know who you are, since you're the only one who would know anything about an egg-head subject like this, much less have this much of a passionate opinion about it, what with your job as the main editor of the paper and all...."

"Anonymous" never denies it. Not only that, but there's a feature on this web-board that allows you to see who's on it now, and who's been on it today: from what time, to what time. He goes in as himself, then exits, and next thing you know, "Anonymous" is posting repsonses to my opinions on local issues with a vehement passion. I know it's still circumstantial evidence, but very damming circumstantial evidence at that.

It's my sincere hope that there's an "Editorial part III" post on this blog. I can't wait to see the fall out. I'll keep everyone posted. And yes, every once in a while, I'll post something titilating or just more interesting, to prove that I'm not just a one-trick-pony, and to keep some of my readers interested.

My wife: Martha Stewart

2005-11-24T19:21:00.000-05:00

Thanks Video X, for the vote of confidence on my wife's behalf. She did it! The turkey was scheduled to come out at 1:PM today, and when it did, we made a cut where the drumstick meets the body and there was alot of red, but the white meat was done just right, so I carved that up, put it on a platter (men have it so hard on the holidays!) put the lid back on the dutch oven and popped it back in for about another half hour. The dark meat got done while we ate. So much for my "Wal-Mart Christmas"!

She did so good though! No major nervous breakdowns and the food was out of this world. We only had one guest: my grandmother. That's the type of Thanksgiving I like. I drank beer and watched football while the tryptophan buzz kicked in from the turkey. Every once and a while, I'd look over to see where my grandmother's eyes were watching, and when they were on the tv, I'd cop a feel on one of my wife's breasts. It was so naughty. Makes you feel like a teenager again. (This concludes the Cozmo Confessions portion of this blog!)

It's great being the dad. Because the kids listen to me, I'm providing a great service just by being there, because for some strange reason, they listen to me. They run my beer or tea, whichever one I'm in the mood for, and my wife can do her thing without all the hassles of dealing with mouthy kids.

This is my wife's first major holiday strictly at our house. Her mother passed recently, and before that happened, all the major holidays were at my in-laws. Too much stress for me. I like it better at my house, because I'm not trying to participate in some contest to see who can violate fire code by having the most people in my house. That shit drives me nuts.

Well, I'm happy to report that our holiday went very well, and I hope anyone who reads this has the same experience - especially you Vid!

Happy Thanksgiving, even if you're Canadian!

2005-11-23T17:21:00.000-05:00

I love that Site Meter thing. I'm finding out that eggheads and nerds spend the most time on my blog. I've got someone from Yale who spends alot of time on my blog, someone from Vanderbuilt has spent alot of time on my blog, and people from Canada. Not that Canadians are nerds, but we do occassionally get CBC-Windsor, and their tv is a little more intellectually fulfilling than most American tv - although John Stewart is still alot better than This Hour Has 22 Minutes; maybe you have to be Canadian to appreciate that show!

Anyhow, there's alot of people I've met as a result of me randomly finding this blog. I was on Maya's blog, and I clicked on "Next Blog," and it directed me to this woman's blog from my home state, who just so happens to have my last name! (We're not related, but it is a coincidence.) I love her blog. Here's the link in case you're interested. Her blog name is Video X: http://vxoh.blogspot.com/ It's not what you think. There's some titilating stuff on there, but it's not pornographic.

There's a link on her blog called Leesa's blog, or something like that. Definately recommended reading. She pours out her soul on her blog, and it's the closest thing to crawling inside someone's head I think I'll ever get.

Tommorow, my wife wants to make a "traditional" Thanksgiving dinner. I told her I'd just like to have a Wal-Mart Thanksgiving. She said, "What's a Wal-Mart Thanksgiving?" I said, "That's where you order Chinese!" She didn't get it. I'm not all that excited about her making this big dinner, because she gets stressed out so easily, and her expectations might exceed her ability to cope with the stress.

She's taking me Buffalo Wild Wings where I'll swill down some Guiness and tell her everything will be OK. (I'll just evacuate me, the kids and the dog tommorow morning, and everything will be OK!)

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

The editorial

2005-11-16T19:02:00.000-05:00

Below is the e-mail I sent to the editorial editor of our local paper, which contains an editorial that I think will really stir the pot with all the rich folks in town. Some of them will love it, others will hate it, but if our paper publishes this editorial, it'll be the talk of the town!

In blue text is the e-mail to the editorial editor which contains the editorial in black:

The guy I work beside is an 'ol hillbilly from Kentucky. I've been telling him about how the CDF works; how they're intertwined with Putnam County's CIC - and the lawsuit going on between the CIC and the Putnam County Commissioners, and finally, I told him about my source who's telling me that Cooper Tire will release a bunch of stories about how they're losing money hand-over-fist as a justification for their upcoming announcement (according to my source) that they're going to shut down the Findlay Division. According to my source, the announcement will come sometime at the end of the first quarter or the beginning of the second quarter, 2006. I've never used this source before because I've never had occasion to, but I find it uncanny that so many articles about Cooper have been appearing in the paper lately.

The guy I work beside told me, that I should spice up the gravy. He said, "The gravy is the truth that's not being told: the spice is the truth." In my opinion, the truth that's not being told, is the way the CDF has been so smug about who they'll let in, and who they won't. The time is running short for me to consider little games like that to be cute. In black, is my editorial about North Baltimore's proposed economic development organization. This is one hot tamale!

Regarding the recent article in the Courier about the city of North Baltimore kicking around the idea of creating an economic development organization. Wait: before you stop reading this because you think economic development is a boring subject, please stop to consider that if you’re a blue-collar worker or a small business owner, how well your area’s economic development agency does their job, will affect your quality of life just as much as your credit rating.

You see, there’s a little secret that people who run economic development agencies don’t want the general public to know: as long as they get 51% of their annual budget from membership dues (private sources) they’re not subject to sunshine laws. That means they can receive their annual grants from the Ohio Department of Development, not to mention generous annual support from county and city funding – all sources of our tax dollars – and they don’t have to tell anybody about anything they do - or don’t do. That means they’re under no obligation to tell anyone which companies have approached them about locating here, or why those companies were turned away.

Economic development agencies who get 51% of their funding from member dues, are very picky about who they allow in their territory; and the reasoning behind who they turn away – and why - represents the best interests of their dues-paying members: not our interests. They have the ability to turn prospective companies away, because they decide who pays local real estate taxes, and who doesn’t. It doesn’t seem right, but that’s how it is, whether we like it or not.

If the city of North Baltimore forms an economic development agency, the Ohio Department of Development will be obligated to tell them which companies are thinking about locating in their area. If North Baltimore’s economic development agency gets 51% of their annual budget from taxpayer sources, they’ll be subject to sunshine laws, which means they’ll be obligated to tell us who is thinking about locating there. Let’s hope that’s the case, so the veil of secrecy can be finally lifted.

I am the eggman, you are the eggman...

2005-11-15T19:22:00.000-05:00

If you've been following my blog recently, the post titled "dirty little secrets" was background for explaining why I think politics are so intriguing.

For example, the economic development agency, the few times they expose themselves to the public eye, they're careful to portray themselves as the "robin hoods" of the local political scene. They know that only a handful of people actually know what's going on behind the scenes, so everybody's ignorance allows them to portray themselves anyway they see fit. And how they see fit to portray themselves, is the "robin hood," "we're-doing-you-poor-folks-a-favor" type of organization.

All they have to do, is point to the unemployment rate, and say to the public, "See how our efforts are contributing to one of the lowest unemployment rates in the state?" It's true: our county does have one of the lowest unemployment rates in the state. Nevermind the fact that a majority of the blue-collar workers are making below-poverty wages, at least they're working, and at least their jobs contribute to one of the lowest unemployment rates in the state.

It doesn't have to be that way, because our county is situated within a 500 mile radius of 80% of the US population when you factor in the population of SW Ontario that falls within the radius. Because we're so ideally situated, we should be getting all the big, good-paying factories that you read about alot of other communities getting, but we don't, because those kinds of companies are chased away, due to the fact they aren't offered the gravy, long term tax abatements, the way a giant retailer like Wal-Mart gets, even though their wages suck and they're militantly anti (and non)-union.

This is why politics is so intriguing: an organization like an economic development agency can set up a situation like the fox watching the henhouse, and make it seem to the general public like they're doing the hens a big favor. Isn't it amazing how that works? I wonder how many other political organizations work on the same insidious principles? Makes you wonder, doesn't it?

dirty little secrets

2005-11-10T20:58:00.000-05:00

Politics are dirty, but not the way people think politics are dirty: politics are dirtier, in ways most people can’t imagine. There’s a great wealth of very interesting things happening right under our nose, but we think we need a telescope to check out what’s going on, “…in a galaxy, far, far away…” rather than just backing up a few steps, and looking straight ahead, unaided by optical accoutrements.

Where I live, who is in our local Republican Party? Nobody knows. Well, that’s an exaggeration of course, but no one in our blue-collar world could tell you who the chairman of the county Republican Party is, or what an economic development agency is. That’s just the way the “powers that be” like it, too. The “powers that be” are all Republican. They’re rich, they’re powerful, they’re smart, and they’re anonymous – well, they were anonymous – until I became involved in things.

They really like it when people are too bored or uninterested in what they do; it just plays right into their hands and into their plans.

How did I create a rift in the local Republican Party? Before I tell you any more, I just want to say, it is a lot of fun having a major impact on people’s lives. Before I tell you what I did, you need just a little bit of background first. I’ll provide as little as I can so hopefully you're not bored to death with petty details, while making sure you know enough to understand what I’ve done.

I worked for an economic development agency in a nearby city, when I was in my 20s. Here in Ohio, economic development agencies are quasi-governmental entities that are supposed to bring industry into their city or county, by simply marketing their respective city or county, just as any product or service would be marketed. They’re “quasi-governmental” entities, because they get a portion of their operating funds from a variety of government agencies (in the form of annual grants) and a portion from annual membership dues ("private sources"). In Ohio, as long as an economic development agency gets 50% or more of its operating expenses from membership dues (private sources), the economic development agency isn’t subject to sunshine laws, which means they don’t have to tell anybody anything about what they do.

Who pays membership fees to belong to an economic development agency? Here in my town, large corporations pay large sums of money in annual dues. Now that we’ve established who pays dues, it begs the next question: why pay the dues? Furthermore, why pay big dues? What is it? Just a bunch of old men going through a midlife crisis, hoping to use agency funds to finance extravagant golf outings, to impress the beer girl on the golf course enough to get in her pants? If only it were that simple.

They pay large dues to distribute campaign contributions to local politicians. (I don’t know about where you live, but have you ever noticed that when they call a snow emergency, and they tell you you’ll be arrested on the spot if you’re caught driving on the roads, yet you can pass 15 cops on the way to work (which isn’t called off) and none of the cops so much as pull you over?) Well, around here, the local politicians don’t want to rock the boat with the local economic development agency, and the local officials know that if a factory is closed down, it can’t make money. That’s why things are, the way they are. It doesn’t stop there.

Politics are dirty, but not the way people think politics are dirty: it’s dirtier, in ways most people can’t imagine. You see, where I live our local economic development agency has been granted “tax abatement negotiating authority” by our mayor. What is tax abatement negotiating authority? That’s when you get to decide which companies pay local real estate taxes, and which companies don’t. (Around here, local real estate taxes are a much bigger expense for a company, than federal taxes!) Wouldn’t you know, the local economic development agency just granted Wal-Mart a 30 year tax abatement for opening a second store on the other side of town! Wal-Mart doesn't have to pay real estate taxes for 30 years, as an incentive to locate another store here. Unbelievable? You betch’ya! True? You betch’ya!

The local developer gets to sell the prospective company his land at higher than fair market value – or at the very least: the prospective company is guaranteed to buy the developer’s land – rather than the land of some nobody, even if the "nobody's" land is cheaper, more plentiful, located at a higher elevation (making it less likely to flood) with better drainage, and in a better location! How's that possible? The developer can have overpasses on federal highways moved to better suit his location. All the "powers that be" have to do, is tell the federal government, "It'll spur economic development." In turn, the federal government can't bend over backward fast enough to provide federal grants to finance the entire cost of moving the overpass on the federal highway, to better suit the local developer's location. This way, the politicians in Washington who represent our district, can tell the electorate: "Look how much we've done to create jobs for our district by re-routing overpasses so Wal-Mart will feel more comfortable locating here! Look at all the jobs we've created, not only in the construction of the new overpass, but all the Wal-Mart jobs too."

The local developer is buddies with the economic development agency, because he can (and does) donate - or sell at a ridiculously low price - land &/or buildings to the local economic development agency, so the agency can sell the land &/or buildings at fair market value, and donate the proceeds to the legal defense fund of whoever they wish; local multi-national conglomerates included. (Plus, the developer gets to write off the fair market value of the property he donated on his federal taxes; not the transaction value, but the fair market value!) Pretty slick, huh?

But wait, it gets deeper…uh, I mean better. You see, they use this tax abatement negotiating authority to keep good paying factories out of our town. How does that work? Well, since the “powers that be,” get to decide who pays real estate taxes and who doesn’t, if a good paying factory wants to locate here, they aren’t offered a tax abatement, because the local “powers that be” (the multi-national conglomerates who fund our local Republican Party, who're also dues paying members of the economic development agency) know that a good paying company will only go where they don’t have to pay real estate taxes for a long time. This prevents an environment of wage competition, and fosters an environment of reverse wage competition.

Why is wage competition so bad? It means the large, multi-national conglomerates who've always been here (annual dues-paying members of the economic development agency), would have to raise their wages to compete with the new company's wage package, or lose their employees. Neither scenario is acceptable to them. What the "powers that be" want, is an environment of reverse wage competition. Reverse wage competition leads to outsourcing; outsourcing from within.

You may be thinking: with the price of gas and diesel the way it is, is it cost effective to outsource products to other countries and transport those products to the “ultimate customer” in North America? No – it’s not cost effective. The high price of gas is actually saving our butts! That doesn’t mean that it’s not cost effective to outsource, however.

How can that be? Multi-national conglomerates who have operations here, who’ve traditionally paid well, outsource their operations within their own factories, to a “scab” company that pays much less and doesn’t offer health insurance. Then, the big multi-national conglomerates and the “scab” companies, split the difference in operating costs. In order to pull this off, you need an environment of reverse wage competition.

What is reverse wage competition? It’s an environment where you have a handful of factories who’ve traditionally paid very well - but no longer feel that paying well is necessary to keep good employees, because they can fix it, so good employees will be "takin' what they're givin' 'cause they're workin' for a livin'," as the old song goes. They think they can accomplish this by putting a "lock" on the local labor market, by making sure only low-paying companies locate here. They do this through their membership in the local economic development agency, by using the agency's tax abatement negotiating authority to determine who pays real estate taxes and who doesn’t. They act as a gate-keeper to industry thinking of moving in. It's the classic scenario of the fox watching the henhouse. Nobody around here knows or cares, because it's such a dry, boring and technical subject, that it can't possibly compete with stories about whose boob popped out of her dress at the grammys, and how long she waved at shocked onlookers before she noticed.

Members of the economic development agency, who will heretofore be referred to as "Member Companies," conduct “wage surveys” on the new factories they were responsible for bringing in. Then, Member Companies "wonder" why they’re the only ones who pay well, when no one else in town does. This leads to the justification of scab companies and outsourcing; outsourcing from within. This is a slick way to get around the high cost transporting goods between the US, Canada, and the third-world countries where these goods are made. We've always thought of outsourcing as a competition between the wages of US and Canadian workers, and the the "wages" of workers in third-world countries, but they've redefined it as a competition between US and Canadian workers - and US and Canadian workers - thereby removing the impediment of having to pay huge transportation costs associated with the high price of diesel and gasoline.

Example: where I work, they did a wage survey on local companies who employ fork-lift drivers. They found out that no one pays fork-lift drivers $16/hour with benefits like we do. Our warehouse is in a separate building, and it employes nothing but fork-lift drivers. My company outsourced the warehouse to a scab company, forcing the 40 warehouse employees to "bump" to the main plant, and their presence in turn, forced 40 layoffs of the least senior employees.

This is all very dry, boring and on the surface: complex. Because of that, no one around here knows what the local economic development agency is called, what they do, or even what their purpose is. That is, until I came along. That’s all changed. I’ve heard people say that I better watch myself, or I may wind up in a state of…not being alive. I don’t think that’ll ever happen to me, but just in case, I tell everyone I can about this, so motive can be established in a trial, if you know what I mean. There is a lot of money at stake, but I’ve never been threatened – yet; although, nothing would surprise me. There are million$ at stake here, and I’m exposing their little financial shell games to the general public, and the local newspaper is even getting on board with what I’m saying.

It’s crazy, but it’s fun. I hope this wasn’t too boring. I’m blowing the lid off this thing by being actively involved in the local political scene, and talking to bunches of people, and writing as much as I possibly can. I've created quite a "cult following" on my ideas, and it's catching on slowly, but surely. Local politics can be just as exciting as national, if you know where to look. You have a much better chance of making an impact locally, than you do nationally. It’s fun!

Rich kids and soccer

2005-11-03T15:10:00.000-05:00

So, what’s happened since I dropped out of the blogosphere almost a year ago? In order to find out, you’ve got to get a little background on me. I live in a small town where an oil company holds its international headquarters. That makes us unique in many ways. We’re like Ohio’s version of Beverly Hills 90210, but I work in a factory, so I come from the wrong side of the tracks when compared to the majority of this town’s residents. Everybody holding an office anywhere in this county is a Republican.

I’m 36 years old and the married father of 5 children. I love to write. I’ve had countless editorials published in our local paper and I’ve run for public office once.

As a result of my editorials and the radio commercials for my political campaign - which starred my wife and I - I’ve managed to create a rift in the ranks of the local Republican Party. I ran as an Independent, but I gave a voice to many Republicans in this area, who don’t agree with the way the new guys in office are running things. This area is gripped by such a groupthink mentality, the people who disagree with the way things are being run, never actually thought about speaking out. I did, because I don’t have anything to lose. Just like Janis Joplin sang, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose…”

As a blue-collar worker, my political ideology could be described as a right-leaning populist at best, possibly a conservative socialist at worst. OK, enough about politics; they’re sometimes boring, and they always invite “flamers” from both sides to post the same twisted message of hate 1,000 times in a row, and people like that piss me off, whether I agree with their political views or not. I’m just including the stuff about politics as biographical substance - not as an invite for anyone to tell me how wrong I am about something – or for me to brag about how right I am about something. If you want that, you’re in the wrong blog.

Anyway, some of this stuff is relevant, because there have been many related incidents that have caught my attention. You see, I coached my 8-year-old daughter’s soccer team. This fall was my first season coaching. During the coach’s meeting at the end of the summer, the league officials thanked us coaches profusely for volunteering to coach. Evidently there’s a coaching shortage. Now, I can see why. Parents are pathetic these days!

Now, you would think that in a town where there’s a race by developers to see who can put up the most subdivisions with homes valued at $300,000+, the soccer moms and dads would be more reserved and polite. Wrong! Damn, they’re even more competitive. There isn’t a single little detail that escapes anyone’s notice when it comes to who your son or daughter should have as a coach and what ref will officiate the “important” game.

I’ve seen girls on my team (most of whom have never played before) who started off the season so uncoordinated it wasn’t funny, to finishing the season with skills that include dribbling, pull-throughs (which instantly makes the ball travel in the opposite direction) and figuring out that when you make a shot on goal, you don’t kick the ball straight at the goalie. The parents of these girls were hoping that their daughters would get bored with soccer, and a season of running and passing drills would cure them of their desire to play any more. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. Some of the parents were happy their daughters surprisingly liked soccer, while other parents were upset that their plan backfired. Isn’t that sad?

I had one instance in particular with this set of fraternal twins on my team. The one girl is tall, strong and athletic. Her twin is kind of short and dumpy. Of course, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one is great at soccer, and which one isn’t. Their mother favors the athletic one, and always shouts insults at the other (only when their dad isn’t around, of course.) She’s their biological mother, too!

One Saturday morning, the father showed up a little after half time. The mother was so used to casually shouting insults (many of which include catty observations about her weight) that she forgot her husband was there. She shouted out the one daughter’s pet name, which she hates her mom using in public. The mother shouted, “Hurry up, Pistachio!” Well, that did it! The daughter dropped to her knees on the field crying. The father, walked out on the field toward the ref. He put his hand in the ref’s face and said, “Time out.” (There are no time outs in this league, but there was now!) The dad marched over to his wife, grabbed her by the arm, digging his fingers almost into her armpit, marched her over to their daughter, they both kneeled in front of the daughter, and the dad says to his wife: “You will apologize, right now,” very calm. The mom did, the daughter wiped her tears away, and walked over to the sidelines, where she just sat there for a little while, to collect her composure. After about 10 minutes, I put her back in the game, and she did so much better. I’ll never forget that moment, as long as I live.

That’s the most dramatic example, but there are others, where either one, or sometimes even both of the parents, seem like they had kids, simply because it was something everyone else was doing. What these people don’t realize is, someday, their kids will be in charge of picking out their nursing homes. Oh well. Pass the Grey Poupon, please!

Christmas past

2004-12-24T22:18:00.000-05:00

This is an homage to my grandfather. The older I get, the more I miss him. (He died when I was 18.)

He was the glue that held the family together during the holidays. I have the "Norman Rockewell" Christmas memories because everybody wanted to make him happy.

He didn't put up with my uncle (his son's) radical shit. My uncle likes to stir things up by getting on peoples' nerves. Don't know why, but he gets a real charge out of it. Very annoying.

My grandfather would shut him down the second he started. My grandmother would just roll her eyes, as though she thought my grandfather was being too authoritarian. But, in shutting him down, everybody got along very nicely.

Ever since my grandfather passed, the holidays have never been the same. My uncle starts in on his crap, people get annoyed, and my grandmother thinks everyone is against my uncle, as if it's our fault that we don't get along with him. My uncle listens to her, so she has the ability to keep him under control, but she thinks that everybody's "just too hard on Mike."

"Nobody understands his sense of humor," she always says.

My grandfather was a short, frail man, but everybody listened to him. He was everybody's drinking buddy and a real "good-time Charlie," but he also had a very intense side: when he spoke, people listened. He just had that certain "cult of personality;" you just listened to him, and didn't think twice of it.

I wouldn't say he was a "war hero," but he had letters of commendation from commanding officers for his service during WWII. (He operated a flame thrower in the Marshall Islands.)

After his stint in the Pacific Theater, he got a gig as a sports writer for the Stars and Stripes, and got to meet all the major league baseball players of the day, while stationed in Honolulu.

He was the type who could hold his own with people like that, no question. Why he never tried to get syndicated or get a job in a major market, is beyond me. That just wasn't his style. He had his own newspaper, and as far as he was concerned, that's all he needed. (He lost the paper shortly before being discharged: to his dying day, he suspected my grandmother of torching it for the insurance, but I'm the only one he ever shared that with.)

He got a job with Findlay's newspaper, became the treasurer of the Typographical Union, and retired after 30 years as a typesetter.

He loved his union buddies, his poker games and his wife. He had a well-balanced life, not being too ambitious, but always making sure his wife and children had everything they needed.

He was the glue that held the family together during the holidays, and they haven't been the same since he passed. I always wonder if anyone will ever think of me like that.

Fun at the union hall

2004-09-18T01:20:00.000-04:00

If you've been following this blog, you know I'm running for county commissioner. I'm new to candidacy, so it's been a real eye-opening experience.

Based on the issues I'm running on, I've always felt the blue-collar vote to be my best match. As a result, I've been courting our town's largest union. They have about 1,500 members. They're a tough nut to crack, because I'm not a Democrat. I've spent alot of time going to the hall, talking to the rank and file - and the president of the union. He wasn't in today, but a few of the high ranking officers were. They always ask me what my candidacy is about, as if they expect my answer to change. It's all part of the dance, I guess.

Anyway, I've been fighting this chest infection, so my doctor put me on these really powerful antibiotics. My stomach hates them, but they work great for their intended purpose. (In the writer's world, this is called fore shadowing)

So, I'm talking to this officer in the union who really seems to like me. He kind of looks like Ronnie James Dio, if any of you know who he is. He asks me about my platform, and I'm talking away, really serious and all. I had an audience of other members, so I'm in my prime. The officer gets a phone call. He asks me to "hold that thought" while he takes it.

It was kind of an awkward moment, as I want to continue talking to the others, but I don't want to exclude the big-shot. I walk over to the pop machine, thinking buying a pop will kill time in a way that seems natural. The damn thing doesn't have Coke. I always drink Coke. There's a bunch of over-priced fruit drinks, so I settle for Pepsi. I never drink Pepsi.

I purposely fumble for change to kill time as I'm looking at the officer talk on the phone to get a gauge of whether or not his converation is ending. I get the Pepsi, and start drinking. I turned to face the other members, and raise my eyebrows, as if to say, "I wish he'd hurry up." I look at my watch, indicating I have somewhere important to be. Actually, my dog was in the truck outside, so I did want to hurry. I drink more Pepsi. He talks more. I drink more, impatiently swishing the can around, checking to make sure there isn't any more left. I drank the whole can.

Just in time! The officer gets off the phone, and goes back to his seat. "Where were we?" he asks. Finally. I start back in, all serious, and everything. Then, it hits. I remembered why I don't drink Pepsi. It doesn't agree with my stomach, and neither do the antibiotics. I feel my colon swell, and my anus slam shut. I was hit with this powerful urge to go to the bathroom, RIGHT NOW! I break out in this cold sweat, and I must've turned white, because they're all looking at me, like they can't figure out what to say.

"Well, to make a long story short," blah, blah, blah..."nice to see you guys again," blah, blah, blah, "Well, got to go!" I thought about using their bathroom, but it's right by the table where everyone was sitting, and I was afraid things might get noisy, so I left. In a hurry. So much for wowing them.

This is life on the campaign trail. Glamorous, isn't it?

Radio 101

2004-09-15T13:07:00.000-04:00

Spoke to the head of marketing for the company who owns our small town paper. They also own a radio station. He told me that he talked to the "radio people," but hasn't had a response from them. I wonder if they're not dragging their heels. They're doing me a huge favor by sponsoring a debate - if they do it. Their rival doesn't have a news operation, therefore, they're not likely to sponsor a debate.

I wonder if the marketing guy isn't dragging his heels to see how much money I'll spend on advertising with his radio station or newspaper. I won't spend a dime on his company unless they sponsor a debate. Trouble is, their rival has offered me a really, really sweet package that makes it look like I own their air waves between now and the election. Decisions, decisions. I'll see where the hometown newspaper/radio station is, on Friday.

Making $$$ @ the Meat Market

2004-09-04T02:14:00.000-04:00

As I've stated in one of my previous posts, I used to be a waiter at a nightclub I'll call "Whiskey's."

This nightclub is owned and operated by a family that would seem dysfunctional: the guy who founded it, (I affectionately refer to him as "the old man,") got married to a much younger woman who divorced him, and she got half the nightclub in the divorce. She handles the money and the books.

The old man is a great guy. He's the kind of boss everybody wishes they had. He's the ultimate authority in that place, but he's so laid back. Even though he doesn't provide health insurance to his employees, he's been known to make loans to employees who need money for surgeries, or other emergencies. He does it without asking, and he never asks for a re-payment schedule. They get their full check every week, and whatever they can pay back (if they can,) he gladly accepts.

I asked the old man about this. I said, "Why do you do that? You know they could quit tommorow, and you'd never see another dime from them." He smiled, and said, "You know, I'm to the point in my life where money is just markers to me. Before I got rich off this place, I scratched out a living, just like everyone else. I worked a factory job on third shift for 8 years. Most of that check went to my first ex-wife for child support. For 8 years, when I got off work from the factory, I'd go straight to my construction job on days, so I could support myself; I know what it's like."

The stepmom, (the founder's ex-wife who owns half the nightclub) isn't as generous or understanding as the old man. That's not her position. She's there to make sure that nobody screws the business. She's got the financial wisdom of an IRS agent; nothing gets past her.

My first encounter with the stepmom, was sometime in my first few days as a waiter. She told me, "I don't know how you got hired as a waiter here; you'll never make as much money as the girls. You don't have bumps under your shirt, and you'd probably look awful in a short skirt - good luck."

I never forgot that. She was right. Or so it seemed. I started devising ways to boost my income, bumps or no bumps. I started off short-changing obnoxious drunks who would run my ass off, and never tip. Also, if people would order a Jack and Coke, I'd bring them a whiskey and coke, charge them the "call" price, and pocket the difference. (Never got "called" on that, either!)

So much for the "bumps" theory. Most nights, I did better than the girls. (Of course, they never had the guts to purposely short-change drunks, but hey - you gotta do, what you gotta do.)

One night, I hit the jackpot! The town I live in, is the international headquarters to an oil company. The oil company flew in some executives from London for training. Since these were high-ranking executives with connections the company needed, they got $500 in cash every night during this training, so they could "unwind."

It's been said that Americans and the British are separated by a common language. It goes much deeper than that. The American oil company executives wore three piece suits, but the styling was so conservative and safe.

The British executives also wore three piece suits, but in exotic, yet tasteful colors. Their fabrics were much richer, and they adorned their suits with gold and brass accessories that the Americans lacked.

The Americans were wall flowers. They couldn't believe they were in the local meat market. They looked like fish out of water. They'd sit in the corner, near the pool tables, nervously sipping what they thought were Jack and Cokes. They were quiet, embarassed, and kept to themselves.

The Brits on the other hand, were a whole different story. They were loud, fun, and brought life into the place. They were looking for a game of pool. Lucky for them, "Marcy," the pool shark was on the prowl.

Her style of dress was business-like, but at the same time, sexy. She wore collared, button-down shirts, short black skirts with matching hose, and high heels with a matching scarf and belt. She wore just enough makeup to take the edge off her cold, all-business look. It was by no means, slathered on. She was extremely attractive - and extremely good at pool.

When the oil execs first came in, the leader of the British group came up to me and said, "All this damn American money looks the same. Don't you know how frustrating that is? When I get pissed [drunk] I can't tell whether I'm paying with a twenty-note, or a hundred-note." [I felt like saying, "If you only knew who you're dealing with,"] but I held my tongue. He opened his wallet, fanning the considerable wad of cash with his thumb. He pulled out a hundred, closely inspecting it to make sure what he was giving me. "Keep the jugs coming till this runs out."

Marcy noticed. She slinked over and introduced herself with handshakes for everyone; and an invite for a little pool - for money, of course.

"Jugs?" I asked. Looking irritated with himself, he stammered a little, and said, "Pitchers - you call them pitchers. Keep the glasses frosted. If we've got to drink this shit cold, we might as well do it right. Damn stuff tastes like Kool Aid, and it takes forever to get buzz going. There's more where this came from, and we'll tip well for good service. Run along now."

Marcy, bent over the pool table, breaking for the first game, looked over at me and winked. We'd both be in for a good night.

For the first few games, everytime Marcy would bend over the table to make a shot, the Brits would stand behind her, and using both hands, they'd form an "L" with their thumb and forefinger, the ends of their thumbs touching, "framing" her ass in a picture. Keeping their hands still, they'd move their heads from side to side, for different "angles." The Americans would roll their eyes, even more embarassed than before. You could tell, they couldn't wait to get out of there.

Between games, Marcy would count the money she won, her lips moving silently: "Twenty, fourty, sixty, eighty, a hundred..." The Brits didn't mind that she was winning the company's money. At the same time, she didn't mind the occassional, (reassuring,) slap on the rump when she'd make a good shot. (Funny, how that only happened when she remained bent over the tabel, after the shot was made.)

After a while, a little excitement: a table with four couples had a little ruckus. The women at this table were dressed up in skimpy outfits, makeup like Tammy Faye Baker. The men, were dressed business-casual, and very mousy looking.

One woman slapped the other. A cat-fight broke out. The women were rolling around on the floor, scratching, slapping and pulling hair. This drove the Brits nuts! The rest of the table stood up, forming a circle around the women on the floor. They were nervously scratching their heads, looking worried.

The Brits temporarily abandoned their game, and started howling with excitement. They walked over for a better look. As I was passing by, delivering another round of "jugs" to the "lads," one of the mousy men grabbed me by the arm: "Aren't you going to do something about this?" I looked down on the floor, and calmly responded: "Why?"

The Brits howled even louder. They all put their right hands in the air, expecting a high five from me. I slapped their hands hard, and shook with gusto; each and every one of them.

The fight died down, and I went over to the pool tables, setting out the pitchers, and newly frosted mugs. The Brits were all around me, slapping my back, saying things like, "You're the man," and "Best time I ever had in this po-dunk town," etc.

This time, they all reached into their wallets, and pulled out money, and said, "Here - make sure the drinks keep coming - this should cover it. Keep the change." The Americans waved their hands in disgust. One of them said to me, "These guys can go all night - we're outta here."

All night long, the Brits kept giving me more than enough money to make sure the drinks kept coming. They even gave me $50 to bribe the DJ to play Guns and Roses. (He didn't know how much they gave me - I gave him $10, and he still played Guns and Roses.)

At the end of the night, after the Brits left, Marcy and I were sitting on bar stools in the game room, counting our money; our lips moving silently: "One hundred, two hundred, three hundred..." She winked at me.

On my way home that night, I bought a lottery ticket.

Zell Miller and spitballs

2004-09-03T01:11:00.000-04:00

I watched the Republican convention Wednesday night, and I saw something that I'll never forget: Zell Miller's speech.

I was sitting in the living room, the convention providing background ambiance; kids playing, conversation with family members going; it was just an ordinary evening at home.

I was looking at our local paper. It was opened to the obituary section. I was looking at the names, trying to determine if they were the names of people I was acquainted with, or if the names were just one or two letters off from the names of people I'm acquainted with. It takes concentration. Sometimes, you look at the organizations they've belonged to, or at the names of surviving family members, if you're not completely sure. I think we've all been there.

I was half listening to his speech, pretty much picking up on the standard, "blah, blah, blah..." He was going through a list of weapons systems Kerry voted against by name: "blah, blah, blah, F-22 Raptor, blah, blah, blah, Aegis, blah, blah," and so on. Pretty much standard fare.

Then, it hit me: the defining moment when you know you'll remember where you were when you first heard it; it was when he said, "What does he expect to arm those missile batteries with? Spitballs?"

I'm still concentrating on the differences between "Smith," and "Smithe," and I'm thinking to myself, "Oh, hell no! He did not just say that!"

Forget about the rhetoric we've all heard a thousand times, about getting a permission slip from France, or a permission slip from the UN; this guy was pissed, and he wasn't holding back. He was tossing bombs, and he wasn't acting in the least bit apologetic about it.

He was talking about rallying around the president during a time of war. He was talking about not allowing partisan differences getting in the way of patriotism. He was talking about what made America great during WWII.

This struck a chord with me. I remember my grandfather talking about how he couldn't stand FDR. He remembers in the months before Pearl Harbor, listening to FDR talking about how he would, "...not send any mother's son to die on the battle fields of Europe," and how excited he was to hear that.

My grandfather said that FDR went back on his promise, and how betrayed he felt. He felt further betrayed when, at the age of 32, he got his draft notice. He was just engaged to my grandmother. They had big plans. The wedding date was already set. Unfortunately, the big day was during what would be his time in basic training. The plans had to be moved up.

They rescheduled the date. He got another notice from the draft board: due to unfavorable events in the Pacific Theatre, the date to report to basic training had been changed. He was to report immediately. They went to Arkansas. The only way for him to get married before basic training, was to get married on a Friday in Little Rock. The only stores that carried wedding gowns, were in the rich, Jewish section of Little Rock. Those stores were closed on Fridays.

My grandmother had to go to a less well-to-do secion of Little Rock, in search of an appropriate dress. The only one that looked good, and fit her right off the rack, was a racy, black dress. She got married in a black cocktail dress!

So what does any of this have to do with Zell Miller's speech on Wednesday night? Everything! My grandfather told me that despite the fact he hated FDR for going back on his promise not to send, "...any mother's son into battle on European battlefields," he sucked it up and reported for duty, regardless of his personal circumstances.

My grandmother had to ration gasoline; she couldn't buy any rubber products. The small-town newspaper my grandfather owned, was now without a publisher. My grandmother had to learn how to set type on a linotype machine, sell classified and display ads, and find out through trial and error, the fact that you reported a subscriber's bridge party on Saturday night, over a non-subscriber's engagement announcement, if space was limited.

They got through it. They rallied behind the president. America rallied behind the president. America won WWII.

What's different today? We don't rally behind the president. We call him a baby-killer, incompetent, too simple to understand the complexities of French culture, etc.

Zell Miller reminded me of the WWII generation's desire to put aside partisan differences, and what they accomplished as a result. Zell Miller did this with fire in his eyes and passion in his heart. Zell Miller reminded me that we're only an attitude-change away from recapturing America's greatness. Zell Miller reminded me that we no longer have to put our tail between our legs because of the mistake of Viet Nam.

I will always remember what I was doing, and where I was, when I heard Zell Miller's speech.

A Peice of the Meat Market

2004-08-29T01:05:00.000-04:00

The small town where I live, is the headquarters to an international oil company. This company is what put our town on the map. It's the foundation from which all the other money came. It's like this town has it's own gravitational pull when it comes to attracting people who are loaded.

As a result of the proliferation of wealth here, this tends to be a very conservative, very stuffy, very "old money" place.

Everywhere, but at the local "meat market." We'll just call the place "Whiskey's." For a while, I was a waiter at Whiskey's. Whiskey's has the most diverse clientle. There's the bikers (who like to get liquored up at the local biker bar, then go on the prowl at Whiskey's;) the whiggers, the wannabes (gang-bangers and cowboys), lowriders, crack whores, gold diggers, losers and virgins. And that doesn't include the college crowd or factory workers.

There's a reason for the diversity: there's no competition. It was the only meat market in town.

The family who owns Whiskey's is a "new-money" family. Around here, there's old money, and there's new money. It's amazing how all the people in the new money crowd, try to get in tight with the old money crowd; it's never the other way around.

The patriarch of the family who owns Whiskey's is different, though. Unlike his ex-wife and one son, he could care less about the old money crowd. This guy drives an old, beat up pickup truck. He wears flannel shirts, blue jeans, large belt buckles, and work boots. He's a millionaire several times over. He lives in an apartment, in an apartment complex he owns; the complex takes up half a block.

He has two sons. One takes after the old man: he's the manager of Whiskey's. He lives in an apartment across the hall from his dad. His name is Jake.

The other son, takes after the step-mom (once removed). He drives a Porshe and lives in a Tudor mansion in the swanky, "old money" part of town; just down the street from the step mom's Spanish-styled mansion. She drives a convertible, two-seater Mercedes. Very European. (She claims she went to college, but rumor has it, she just has a GED.) Very smart woman, though.

She went from a being a single-mom with a new-born daughter, working as a cocktail waitress at a hotel bar, to marrying a night club owner, to owning half the night club - in one divorce.

Her step-son, Jake, is the manager of Whiskey's because he's tough - just like the old man. He's short and thin, but very strong. He struts around the place like a bantom rooster. He likes cowboy hats. He wears flannel shirts and cowboy boots. He's been known to single-handedly throw bikers out, just for being drunk and rowdy. They go through the door - whether it's open, or not. Then, he'll ask that guy's buddies if they'd like to be next. It's all in a day's work for Jake.

Jake's a great guy. Just don't fuck with him. That's all.

One night, a group of Marines came in. There were six of them. Don't know where they came from, or why they were there. There's no military bases anywhere near here. But, they came in.

They played pool for hours. They kept to themselves, only stopping to go to the bathroom and to get more drinks from the bar. They got drunker, and drunker.

I was checking on my customers near the pool tables. I overheard the conversation that started it all. It was between two of the Marines.

"Eight-ball, corner pocket."

The cue ball drops in the side pocket, the eight ball, in the corner. There was a hundred dollar bill laying on one of the rails. The opponent grabs it, and says, "Nice game."

"Wait a minute. I sank it, just like I called it."

"Yeah, but you scratched on the eight - game over."

"I don't play like that."

"I do. What're gonna do about it?" He stuffs the hundred in his wallet.

Man, that was it! Usually, when fights break out, there's alot of posturing. You know, "Chicken" "Pussy" "Chicken" "Pussy," that type of thing. There was usually a warning. Not this time.

The guy who scratched on the eight, with skill and lightning speed, grabs the pool table, and shoves it across the floor, pinning his opponent to the wall. In the same motion he used to move the pool table, his fist flies through the air, hitting his opponent so hard in the chin, that his head bounced back and forth, from the wall to his chest, several times, in what seemed like a split second.

This would have laid an ordinary man out - cold. But this was no ordinary man. He was also a Marine. Angered, he grabs the pool table, and for a brief moment, the pool table's legs are suspended in mid air - both men trying to shove the pool table toward the other guy; the force from the tug-of-war, lifting it off the ground. The Marine who pocketed the money was stronger, and the pool table flips from the tension, in the direction of his attacker.

With the pool table on the floor, upside down, the guy who pocketed the hundred jumps on it - he has the high ground. From his perch, he throws a punch with a motion like a guy swinging a sickle. The guy who scratched on the eight, goes flying backward through the air, hitting the wall behind him. That's when I decided to get the hell out of the way.

These guys weren't fooling around. For some strange reason, the other four Marines started fighting eachother, at that same time. Don't know why - they just did.

The step-mom frantically runs out of her office, her arms waving in the air. Her tits gyrating around in her designer blouse, from the awkward posture of running in high heels: "Don't call the cops! Don't call the cops!" (Every time the cops are called, it's points against their liquor license.) This was a very undignified look for someone who's trying to get in with the old money crowd. But, she was desparate.

Pretty soon, the whole place erupts into one, gigantic brawl. In the center of it, the Marines were fighting eachother. Quite a few of the male patrons in the nightclub swarmed around the Marines, trying to force them out. The Marines didn't even notice. Nobody could match them. They were too busy doing what they do best: fighting a worthy opponent; in this case, themselves.

The male patrons formed a group of concentric circles around the Marines. There were hundreds of them. In the circle closest to the Marines, bodies fell backward, as if they were lifeless. Men were jumping over them, in a mad throng, and they fell backward as well. Pretty soon, the Marines stopped fighting eachother, and started shoving outward, making the inner circle wider, and wider. Bones broke. Pool sticks whipped through the air. Tables, chairs, cigarette machines, all schreeched across the floor.

Behind the bar, a woman's voice screams: "I don't give a fuck what you saw, you call the cops, and you're fired! No ambulances - no cops!" It was the step-mom. She handles the money, her step-son handles everything else, and the old man just sits at the same bar stool every night - laughing loudly, slapping old men on the back, telling dirty jokes. He's rich. He doesn't care.

The whole place looked like a giagantic mosh-pit. Waves of people shoved one way, toward the Marines, then, with the same rhythm, they swayed back. This went back and forth, like kelp ebbing and flowing in the tide.

Jake, the personnel director/owner's son, impatiently starts shoving people out of the way, making his way toward the Marines. He screams at the top of his lungs with all the authority he can muster: "My daddy says you guys gotta leave! Right now!"

There was this sickening sound: the combination of a slap and a thud, as one of the Marines hit Jake in the face. Jake was lying on the floor, his eyes rolled in back of his head, his body convulsing, as if in a seizure.

Behind the bar, a woman's voice screams: "Get the smelling salts, damn it, right now! Get the smelling salts. He'll be allright. Just get 'em now!" It was the step-mom.

A group of barmaids rushes over to Jake, who's still convulsing on the floor. One of them cracks open the pack, and shoves it under his nose. The others are huddled around him, holding his head off the floor, grabbing his wrists, trying to get him to stand, as his head whips around, reacting to the smell of the salts. They all showed the type of disregaurd for themselves, as a group of veteran, battle-field nurses. All hell was breaking loose around them.

The step mom runs over to the barmaids, getting on her knees in her designer skirt, her breasts against the back of Jake's head. She starts slapping Jake in the face, using quick, soft, strokes, to get him to respond. He looks up at her. He'll be allright.

The step-mom moves her hands under Jake's arms, grabbing the top of his shoulders with her hands. With her back hunched from his weight, she drags him behind the bar, with the bar maids trying to keep up, trying to keep his feet off the floor.

The old man comes up to me: "Seems like the bouncers are having a tough time of it." I felt like saying, "No shit! Ain't a single one of them concious." (All four of them were knocked out.)

"Could you help out the bouncers, please?"

I walk over to one of the Marines. He was outside the circle, knocking the shit out of anything that came his way. He stops, and points at me. I'll never forget this: He reminded me of a cobra, ready to strike. The thing that makes this so memorable is, his eyesballs were shaking, back and forth, in perfect unison; very quickly, like they had electric current running through them. The rest of his body was perfectly still, but his eyesballs were shaking. With his finger pointed at me, he said, "Touch me, and I'll fucking kill you!"

I look back at the owner. "I don't make enough money for this."

"Just grab a broom and dustpan, and start cleaning up some of the broken glass."

I didn't listen to him. I walked over to the support pillar the old man was leaning against. I leaned against the other side, taking the whole thing in. He didn't notice that I didn't listen to him. How could he? The whole thing was so unreal.

The whole mob starts moving toward the foyer. The Marines were making a break for the door. Bodies start crashing into, and through the foyer doors. They piled into the foyer, then bodies start crashing through the other set of the foyer doors. The fight was spilling outside, into the parking lot. Across the street, was a restuarant that was closed. The fight spilled out into that parking lot, as well.

You could hear the squealing of tires in the nightclub parking lot. There was yelling, and screaming.

Inside, the step-mom is leading a group of well-dressed women from the restrooms. The DJ shoved all the female patrons into the restrooms during the fracas. The step-mom is grabbing one of the women's arms, up near the armpit. The step-mom has a look of fierce determination in her eyes, while making eye contact with this group of women. To the one she's grabbing by the arm: "Look, I know it looks bad, but just walk around, and identify the ones who need help the most."

To the other women: "You get them in your cars, and drive them to the hospital, immediately, understand?"

"But..."

"I'll tell my ex (husband,) that he's got to start letting your husband Mulligan some shots to even up the scores a little, OK? This would mean alot to me if you could just do this, exactly the way I told you, OK? The cops can't find out how bad this really is. Just get these people to the hospital, before the cops show up, OK?" Her face had a look of pleading, and impatience.

The women did as they were told. The nightclub employees, and some of the male patrons, helped the women carry the bad ones, into their cars. The step-mom was calmly walking around, pointing at people and things, getting stuff moved back to where it belonged. The bar maids were behind the bar with Jake. They were pouring him shots of whiskey to help take the edge off his pain.

The DJ was back in his booth. The step-mom snaps her fingers from across the room, getting his attention. She points her finger in the air, and whirls it around to indicate he should start up.

Dance music starts booming through the speakers. Frantically, the step-mom moves her finger across her throat several times, signaling "Cut it, cut it!"

The music stops. Knuckles facing outward, she rolls her hand back and forth, from her chest, toward the DJ, signaling, "Go on."

The music booms again, but this time, it's a jazzy, fifties ballad: "Mack the Knife."

She raises her hand above her head, her hand parallel with the floor. Keeping her hand paralell with the floor, she moves it downward, signaling, "Turn it down."

The DJ lowers the volume considerably. The step-mom winks, and flashes a thumbs-up. She goes back to calmly bossing people around, getting things moved back to their original locations, quickly.

Things were back to normal, except the absence of wall-shaking hip-hop, and a floor full of dancers.

The cops never came.

Afraid of your job moving to Mexico? You're not alone!

2004-08-26T01:38:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting here writing this in total air-conditioned comfort. It's August outside; it really feels like August. There's so much moisture in the air, that you can see a haze around the streetlights. It's twenty till two in the morning, and it's so hot outside, the sweat just oozes out of every pore. Lucky for me, I'm inside, writing this.

So what does this have to do with being afraid of your job moving to Mexico? Alot. The thing that inspired me to write this blog, was watching an episode of "Becker."

Becker's set in NYC, so the characters have to bundle up before leaving Reggie's breakfast diner. Watching the characters go out into the cold, NY winter, reminded me of the cold winters we have, where I'm from. I thought the idea of watching people bundle up to go outside, in the middle of August, was kind of ironic.

That got me thinking about the climate control I enjoy with the air conditioner on. That got me thinking about how expensive it is to run, which got me thinking about how I'll miss the creature comforts of climate control, once my job moves to Mexico, which is why I'm writing this blog.

You know, it's crazy. I remember when I was growing up, my dad didn't have to worry about global trade, outsourcing, or where he'd retire from. That was then. This is now.

We have a tire factory here. The president of the union at the tire plant, recently wrote an editorial in our local paper, that got everyone talking at the factory where I work.

In his editorial, the union president reflected on his military service in Viet Nam. He said he was drafted to fight the spread of communism. He lost friends of his, in that fight.

Now, he works for a company that's about to move to China - which is a communist country. He asks in his editorial, "What did those guys die for?"

Interesting quetion. The factory where I work will probably move to Mexico, sometime in the next five to ten years. (My money's on the five year side.)

You know us blue-collar types: we don't ask for much. It cracks me up how people tell us that we make too much money for the "menial" tasks we perform.

It cracks me up, because while I'm being told this, I read news articles about guys like the CEO of Tyco. His lawyers defended the millions of dollars in company money he spent on his Manhattan townhouse by saying, "Since the rare paintings (bought with company money, worth millions,) weren't in his direct line of sight while walking from the study to the bathroom, he did not actually recieve the enjoyment of those paintings, therefore, technically, the money could not be considered as a "personal" expense." PLEAAAAAAAASE!

All we ask, is to be paid a decent, living, wage, and we're told that what we do, is "costing" the company too much money?

Before global trade, companies made a profit by paying people a decent wage. They didn't make a killing by today's standards, but, they made money.

This NAFTA thing is going to turn North America, (everything north of the Rio Grande,) into a third world country.

I think it's ironic, that only when white-collar jobs get outsourced to India, Lou Dobbs starts listing all the companies who are guilty. This has been happening to blue-collar workers for years!

So while we're both standing in the unemployment line, you with your fancy degree, and me with my vast fork-lift experience, we can debate whether or not corporate greed is "progress." Meanwhile, we'll both miss our climate controlled lives.

Revolution in the air? Probably not this time.

2004-08-22T03:37:00.000-04:00

"Hey Dave, take a look at this."

Tim plops a magazine down on the table beside the stamping press. They're both greatful the table is still there. XYZ, the company they work for, has institued a new program. It has an acronym, just like all the other screw-ball programs that have come before it, over the years. Each one just keeps getting stupider and stupider. This particular program's purpose, is to call anything that doesn't create a value-added movement to a part, "contraband."

If a table doesn't create a value-added movement, it's gone; or at least that's what the program says. Dave and Tim can remember when there used to be a refrigerator in their work area. Not any more. The refrigerator isn't a value-added component. Now, they have to buy their lunch in the cafeteria, instead of bringing their own food in from home.

The food from the cafeteria sucks. Not only that, it's much more expensive to eat in the cafeteria, than it is to pack your lunch. Just another example of how the cost of things keeps going up, whether you like it or not.

We all have our theories. I have mine. I think XYZ knows the factory is moving to Mexico. They have the workers' best interests in mind while implementing the "contraband" plan. The way I see it, they want to de-humanize the place so much, that we won't miss our jobs, one iota, when it eventually moves. They're looking out for us. This used to be a good place to work.

Dave picks up the magazine, hurriedly flipping through it. He stops on a page in the middle. Something caught his eye.

I'm looking over Dave's shoulder, out of curiosity. These guys never talk about smut, so what could the magazine be about? Curiosity gets the better of me, as I adjust my position to get a better look over Dave's shoulder.

On the page Dave is looking at, there are grainy, black and white photos of men in snowsuits, laying down in the snow, firing rifles. I look down at the captions. They're in Russian!

Dave turns the page. It's a classified section with pictures, much like the car magazines we buy in gas stations and convenience stores. Only this time, the pictures aren't of cars: they're guns.

Tim walks anxiously over. Dave's shaking his head.

Dave: "What the fuck are these silly letters?"

"Russian is more of a Slavic-based alphabet - you're used to our Roman-based alphabet. They're similar, with just a few differences. It's not that hard, really."

Dave and Tim's eyes start scanning the same columns, their eyes going up and down in unison. Tim gets excited and points his finger on the page. "There! That's the one I was telling you about. I've done the currency conversions. This is a great deal, even if you do have to pay international shipping and handling. I'll tell 'ya: we could buy twenty of these and make about a thousand bucks. Everyone will want one. How many people do you know who subscribe to this catalogue?"

Tim's right hand is now over his right shoulder, with his thumb pointing down at his right back pocket, which is holding a rolled up catalogue. "This is the Chinese shit I was telling you about. They make 'em cheap over there. Wait'll I show you. There's a fortune to be made."

Dave's eyes get big in anticipation. "Seems like, if XYZ can make money off of foreign trade, why can't we?"

Tim nods in approval: "Now you're gettting the picture."

El Salvador: the money center

2004-08-21T14:27:00.000-04:00

As I've said before: I live in a small town. I know alot of other people do too, but this town is a little different. The thing that makes this town different, is money. We've got a ton of it here. (I don't, but everyone else seems to.)

Why does this town have so much money? Well, first of all, we have the world headquarters of a major oil company here. Second of all, we have the world headquarters of a major tire manufacturer here.

Those of you who live here, know which town I'm talking about. Shhhh! Don't spoil it for everyone else. Mystery is the essence of seduction.

I'm going to share with you an example of one person, who had an idea that made him phenomonelly wealthy.

This man is a car dealer. He's from a much larger city. He opened up a new car dealership in our small town, near an exclusive subdivision that was in the process of being developed. (Brilliant idea #1).

After his dealership was built, he had the fortune of a major retailer locating next door to him. This retailer draws about 5,000 visitors a day. (Source: our chamber of commerce.) This guy has 5,000 people a day checking out the cars on his lot, by virtue of the fact a major source of traffic located next to him.

OK, not everybody will have this kind of great luck. It's not his luck that's amazing; it's what he does with his luck, that is.

Everybody knows that successful car dealers make good money, but not enough money to wind up on an invitation list of a former president, who's throwing the party at his house, in Kennebunkport, Maine.

How did this car dealer get connections like that? Well, it takes money obviously. This car dealer has so much money, that he bought a mansion on an exclusive island in Florida. To prevent himself from getting lost in his vacation mansion, he had an exact replica built in our small town. It looks totally out of place here, but it's here. (Art deco looks good in Florida, but not in the Midwest.)

So, how did he achieve the super-wealthy status of someone who gets invited to a former president's b-day party?

He follows the news. We constantly hear about all of these huge billion-dollar aid packages to small countries no one really cares about. These are "nation-building" efforts financed through organizations like US AID, the UN, and the Bank of the Americas.

He decided to get in on the action. If the government was going to spend billions rebuilding the country of El Salvador, he wanted in on the action. Why not? We all pay taxes. Is there anything wrong with getting "a little" of it back? Of course not!

This car dealer is a member of the Rotary. He finds out that the current prime minister of El Salvador, and the former prime minister of El Salvador (they're both so popular, they trade jobs just about every election cycle,) are both members of the Rotary.

This dealer, high-tails it down to San Salvador (the capital of El Salvador,) and starts attending the Rotary meetings there. (The Rotary doesn't care where you attend meetings, just so long as you do.)

Anyway, this dealer finds out that all of these government organizations previously mentioned, will start pumping billions of dollars into nation building efforts in El Salvador.

He figures the best way to capitalize on this, is to open a heavy equipment dealership in downtown San Salvador.

Billions start flooding in to repair the county's infrastructure. This is to repair the damage caused by the 100 year-long civil war. Infrastructure requires cement. Since citizens of El Salvador already own the largest cement operation in El Salvador, the next best thing, is to sell the equipment that runs the cement operations. (Brilliant idea #2.)

It's no accident this guy could decide whether or not to turn down Robin Leach's request to film his twin mansions.

In all fairness to this guy, he's the nicest self-made millionaire I've ever worked for. When you live in this town, there are alot of self-made millionaires to work for. Ninety-nine, point nine percent of them are self-absorbed assholes who don't give a damn about anyone but themselves. This guy is different.

Except for the suit he wears everyday, you wouldn't be able to tell he's got enough money to make Kobe Bryant jealous. He talks to the porters on his lot all the time. He knows their names, the names of their kids, and in some cases, the names of their dogs!

He's a die-hard Catholic. At a time when the Catholic Church is in serious financial trouble, he donated enough money to the local diocese, for them to build an awe-inspiring church, from the ground up.

He not only gives back to our community, but he gives back to the nation of El Salvador. He and his wife run a children's charity in San Salvador that caters to the needs of kids who were victimized by the civil war. He's donated brand-new ambulances to the city of San Salvador countless times. The ambulances he donates are all converted from cargo vans to ambulances, by businesses in our small town, to promote economic growth in our community.

Moral of the story: paying attention to current events can pay off!

Guilty pleasures on the factory floor

2004-08-20T16:47:00.000-04:00

I'm a factory worker, and some of the things that go on where I work are interesting. Hope you feel the same. This is just one of the stories.

This blog is an observation on how seemingly "straight" women get turned on by checking out other women, in their work area. This is an insider's look; someone who gained the confidence of those who indulge.

One of the lines I worked on, was horseshoe-shaped. This created an "A Line," and "B Line." The "B Line," was comprised of an elite group of women. They're all pretty, married, and their husbands make more money than they do - and they make pretty good money where I work.

Because the area where they work is a very clean department, they dress really sharp, everyday.

Because of how they dressed, the women on the A Line hated the women on the B Line. The A Line called them the "B Line Bitches." (B Line "B's" for short.) The B Line women had a tight clique. Nobody could penetrate it.

On holidays and birthdays, they'd have their own private gift exchanges, with presents expertly wrapped in expensive paper - and elaborate bows. They'd huddle together during breaks, exchange gifts and the occasional squeals of glee when a recipe book, or hand-held blender was opened. Everybody hated them.

I was able to work beside the "Queen Bee" one day. Her name was Betty. One of the "B's" who worked beside Betty, called in sick. As a floater on that line, I had to fill in when needed. I was one of the few floaters who could keep up to Betty's satisfaction.

Since I could keep up on all the jobs, she took a rare liking to someone outside the clique. Well, it wasn't just my ability to keep up on the line. I think everyone on the face of the planet has the same favorite subject: themselves. I would ask Betty all these questions that got her talking about her 2 favorite subjects: Reba McEntyre and romance. She explained the 2 are connected, when you examine Reba's lyrics. She would go on and on about how she wishes her husband could "get it," when listening to Reba's lyrics.

This broke the ice. I gained the Queen Bee's confidence. She was very beautiful - still is, after all these years. She had every attractive attribute a woman could want: high cheekbones - flat tummy - an ass that looked like a peach when standing, yet muscular - oozing with subtle feminine power - while walking. Her breasts were large - but just like her personality, rigid and controlled and covered up; not revealing the abundance of everything that's there. The very few times her breasts would move at all, the effect would almost give you horizontal vertigo!

OK, she's got it all. She's quiet, competent, and very, very guarded - and she's the Queen Bee. After a few lectures about Reba's lyrics, I decided to ask Betty: "I noticed that you and the other B Line B’s (this was a badge they wore with honor,) keep looking down the aisle at the same spot every night, and talking to each other. What's that all about?"

Betty blushed. She looked at me from the corner of her eyes while turning her head, debating if she would tell me the truth, or gloss over the subject. She gave a deep sigh of resignation, and said, "You see that girl over on the other line? The one with the red top?"

"Yeah."

"She’s one of our beauty contest winners. We decided to exclude ourselves from the competition, of course."

She was laughing while she said this, so she could say she was just kidding, depending on my reaction.

"Really."

She could tell from my reaction, that I didn't think she was a slut, or a lez, or anything. That's when she started to blush, to let me know that she was serious, and a little embarrassed.

"We have a bunch of categories: Best Gait, Biggest Boobs, Nicest Boobs, Sloppiest Boobs, Best Headlights, etc."

She started to giggle like a little girl, which was very much out of character for her. It was easy to see, she couldn't believe she was telling me this. One of the other B Line “B’s” came up to her.

Tina (one of the other B Line "B's"): "Why are you blushing?"

"I just told him about our beauty contest."

"You didn't!"

Betty, looking confused and embarrassed and pissed off with herself: "You tell anyone, and I'll kill you."

Tina: "We'll kill you!"

Pretty soon, excited whispering broke out amongst the rest of the "B Line B's," followed by a bunch of giggling. With Betty and Tina in front of me, I asked for a run-down of the candidates.

"Well..." Betty started to say. Then Tina excitedly broke in, telling me all about the candidates: winners, losers, and the reasons why.

Betty's eyes narrowed, focused on the girl in the red top: the one who started off the conversation to begin with. "She won best ass AND nicest gait."

Then she went off in a dry, analytical synopsis of why - with all the seriousness of an expert court witness giving testimony.

"When walking behind her, notice the small of her back: it's perfectly still. Her ass cheeks move up and down with a pleasing, symmetrical rhythm; but the small of her back remains perfectly still. She has the muscle structure of a gymnast. I wonder if she works out, or if it's genetic."

After hearing the reasons behind their choices, something became shockingly clear: they had better taste in women than I did! I haven't looked at a woman since, without taking their demanding criteria into consideration.

Amazing! Ever since then, I've always felt that men aren't the only ones who appreciate the beauty of the female form. I think women do a better job of appreciating it, than men. I could also tell by their analysis, they were getting hot just talking about it. These were married women - upper middle class - with everything anybody would want. They are pretty, fresh-faced women, who looked like the "girl next door" - they didn't look like “dykes,” or “lezzes;” they all looked and acted very straight. It just blew my mind!