Still Shameless

As I spouted off about yesterday, I am in the midst of a social media promotion of my books. Today I promised a link to the kindle edition of David Gideon. And, hey presto, here it is:

David Gideon

Just like yesterday with another tome of mine, A Subtle Armageddon, no purchase necessary! I'm simply trying to drive views towards the books, although a kind word about my writing in the comments on Amazon would be greatly appreciated!

Thank you!

Shameless Self Promotion

Friends, I'm beginning an Internet campaign for two of my books, David Gideon and A Subtle Armageddon. I would appreciate it if anyone and everyone could look me up on Amazon in the next few days and leave a nice word. It could help my numbers and perhaps drive sales. You don't have to buy, just leave good reviews!

Anything you might do would be welcome! I'll never forget your support!

A Subtle Armageddon

A link to David Gideon comes tomorrow. Thanks again!

B-24s and Bombers

Today is me Grandpa Joe's birthday. He would be 117 years old if he had made it this far, a feat which likely would have impressed even him.

For whatever reason his birthday had popped into my mind today, I suppose because I found myself thinking about World War II, and then about his role on the home front. He worked at Willow Run, Michigan, where the Ford Motor Company made military aircraft, specifically B-24 Liberator Bombers. That thought got me to thinking about something else.

When our kids were toddlers and going through potty training, we would ask them from time to time if they needed to make 'bombers', that is, go number two. It was nothing more than a cutesy parental way to explain the process. Yet like other ideas, it had unintended consequences.

Several years after the boys had learned to manage such bodily functions, they happened to be with me as I was with a cousin. We were talking about Joe, specifically his war work. "He made bombers at the Willow Run airplane plant," I remember saying.

My sons stared at me, that awkward, confused, wondering stare which asked, "What in the world are you talking about?" What could the government possibly do with those? Did I mean that their Great Grandpa Joe's effusions were, uh, effective as munitions? His peculiar output was part of the war effort?

Ignoring all the obvious jokes now, they were just young kids who misunderstood a point. Joe, however, I think might have gotten a kick out of the story. Happy Birthday Grandpa.

What's in a Name?

Moo cows. Why do we have them? I mean, cows are cool of course. Who doesn't think so? But why are they moo cows?

We don't have bark dogs. There are no baa sheep, no oink pigs, no growl tigers. But then, there are moo cows.

What's up with that?

The Marty Standard of History Explained

Yesterday I spoke, with an eye towards wry humor, about my idea of what defines history. If you missed it, here it is: The Marty Standard History, I believe, doesn't really begin until fifty years have passed, if not one hundred. Why? We are to close to the people and events to judge them objectively. Our prejudices generally get in the way.

Today I want to explain what I mean with an example. Indeed this example may be what drew me to my conclusion.

Way back when, not quite in history as it was only about 40 years ago (ha ha), I had to do a college report on the life of John Adams, Revolutionary War leader and our second President. It was the first term paper I really went whole hog on, determined to make a good presentation. As such, I decided to see what history said concerning his life.

The oldest book I found in the library at the University of Detroit was published in 1801, the very year the Adams Presidency ended. The tome was so old I handled it very carefully, being intimidated by its age. I still can't believe it was still out on the shelves in 1982; I would have expected it to be archived by then, available only by special request. Anyway, it claimed that John Adams was just about the most useless disgrace of a President and human being we ever had. Wow. Reports of the same era were similarly antagonistic. Or, at best, dismissive.

But as I studied I noticed an odd thing. By 1900 or so books and articles were appearing which kind of grudgingly allowed that maybe old John Adams wasn't all that bad. He maybe, perhaps, sort of had done some okay things. Move forward to the 1960s and historians were much more considerate in analyzing his life and times. By 1975 he was the star character of a musical about American Independence. Extending into modern times we find David McCullough's positively glowing account of Mr. Adams, published in 2001, interestingly coming 200 years after the damning book which came on the heels of his time in office. Adams' Presidency is currently rated 15th or so among our Chief Executives. Out of 46, that's not bad. 

So, did John Adams change? Did the circumstances of Revolutionary and early United States history change? Or does the ebb and flow of time simply make it easier to look at something dispassionately? 

I believe the latter. As Adams moved from the real life figure to the historical personage, as people lost their direct emotional prejudices against him, they could see the real man more clearly.

So history doesn't really begin until well after events have taken place. At least, that's the Marty Standard of history. But I am open to suggestion and modification.

The Marty Standard

As both a student and teacher of history I have long believed that true history stops about fifty years prior to whatever moment in which you live. My most basic reason for that is because we haven't had the proper distance between events and the current era to have enough a sense of perspective to fully understand, to better honestly appreciate, what had happened. More on that, perhaps, in tomorrow's blog, as I think it's an idea worth consideration. For today, I bring this up as a reflection on my recent reading. And my own mortality.

Right now I'm about half through First Man, a biography of Neil Armstrong, the first man on the Moon. The book I read immediately before that was titled simply Apollo 8, which detailed the first space flight to the Moon and back. This came after reading One Giant Leap, a history of the American space program as a whole. 

It occurred to me this morning that the Mercury, Apollo, and Gemini programs, having happened over 50 years ago, now qualify as history by the Marty Standard. Obviously too those are histories I remember witnessing, such as it were, to the degree that we all live in the world of the actions and events around us. So what I saw as a boy now fits my own definition of what history is. As proof, I'm reading about it in what are essentially history books.

Suddenly I feel old. And by my own measuring stick no less.

In a Pickle Loaf

Sometimes it's the little things in life which make a guy happy. Sometimes, in my case, it's very little things.

While out shopping yesterday I came across pickle loaf. It's really just bologna with slivers of pickle and slivers of, oh, what's that stuff, it looks like slivers of red pickle...pimento! That's it. Bologna with pickle and pimento slivers.

Anyway, I hadn't seen it in a long time. That's likely as not because I simply hadn't been looking for it. But yesterday it found me. Of course I had to buy some. And of course I had to have a pickle loaf sandwich as soon as I got home. 

And you know what? It did not disappoint. For a few lone minutes in this hectic world, I was a kid again eating the pickle loaf sandwich during school lunch which my mother had packed for me that day. It is sometimes the little things which make your day.

Organize What?

A friend of mine on Facebook the other day offered a picture of her brand new refrigerator with the addendum, "And I can't wait to organize it!"

Wait, what? That's a thing? Organizing your refrigerator? Everyone else doesn't do what I do? "Okay, I just bought a half gallon of milk, and here's an empty spot for it!" And I plunk it down. Just like with lunchmeat, or leftovers, or iced tea, or whatever. Empty space equals put item there. I stack stuff if I have too, or stick it in a drawer. There aren't style points for filling your fridge, are there?

Folks organize their fridge? I'm still trying to wrap my head around that.

Cosgriff Jeopardy Prep

Did you know that in 1953, Joe Cosgriff Welding Machine rentals bought more new Hobart welders than anyone else in the country except Ford and Chrysler? Well, now you do. I'm not sure how many units that was, but it must have been a lot.

At its height I know me Grandpa had over 200 welders. In the 1970s, I remember them being numbered up to 210. That number, of course, does not include the total number of machines he ever owned. Things go bad; things get scrapped out or, horrors, stolen.

I'll tell what impressed me most, though: me Pops had every serial number memorized. If I asked him the 'Joe Cosgriff' number, say, JC-167, he'd rattle off the machine's factory assigned serial number. Right now kapow. I was awed by that when I was 12. I'm still awed by it. I mean, we're not talking simple little four or five digits with maybe a letter. We're talking 12CW5497 or 5DW68873. I remember the 5DW ones were 400 amp welders, so there was a code to it which could help memorization. But still, over 200 (likely closer to 300 counting machines out of use over time) committed to memory? Wow.

Now they're all gone. The last one we rented, fittingly enough, was the month Joe died, August 1991. The last ones we had we sold to a guy who shipped them to Nigeria. Yes, that sounds like a joke. But it's what the fella told the old man, and he paid cash. He could do whatever he wanted with them after that.
There. Now you're all set for when 'Cosgriff Welders' is the Jeopardy category.

Glasses Habit

One of my favorite professors in college - who I won't name as a courtesy although it probably isn't that important - nevertheless had a habit which was distracting. I'm sure it was entirely inadvertent too. I perhaps should have alerted them to it, but timidity, and not wishing to embarrass them, kept me from it.

The professor routinely during lectures would push their glasses up off their nose and in front of their eyes. That's nothing of itself. The issue was that they would invariably do it with their middle finger extended into the bridge of the glasses, as though giving class the bird.

No one seemed to notice, and after awhile I suppose I didn't either. Still, when I did, it became a focal point, and I would have trouble turning my concentration back to the lecture.

It wasn't a big deal, and in retrospect I really ought to have said something. But, I guess, no harm, no foul.

Being Prepared on the Road

I told a story yesterday of me Pops and his cousin Jim having taken a cross country trip when they turned 18, to celebrate getting out of high school. If you missed it, here it is: Room to Roam

Their journey went without major incident, but that didn't mean there wasn't a concern or two along the way. As me Pops tells it: "To save time and money, we'd only get a motel room every other day or so. Often one of us would sleep in the back of the station wagon while the other drove, just to keep a move on." There were few freeways in 1954, and things were far apart in the American west you see.

Dad was at the wheel one day while Jim caught some Zs. Jim had curled up into a ball and threw a blanket over himself and dozed off.

A little while later, Pops came across a hitchhiker. They were way out somewhere, no one or nothing else anywhere near them, and Dad took pity on the guy. He pulled over and let him in the car.

The guy seemed all right at first, but then he began talking out of his head, as Dad put it. Me Pops thought, "Uh-oh, what have I gotten us into?" He wanted Jim to be awake and aware but didn't know how to signal him without upsetting the hitchhiker into a frenzy. 

The problem solved itself. Dad could see his cousin in the rear view mirror, and noticed Jim's hand slide out from under the blanket and grab a full pop bottle by the neck. He stealthily slid it back under the blanket with him. Pop bottles were glass back then, and could be very effective weapons. But for me Pops, the important thing was that Jim was aware of the situation.

Thankfully nothing came of it. It wasn't too much farther down the road before the passenger indicated they were at his stop. He thanked my Dad and left without trouble. Still, they didn't pick up any more hitchhikers.

Room to Roam

In the summer after they graduated from high school, me Pops and his cousin Jim took a celebratory trip out west. They borrowed a station wagon from me Grandpa Joe and off they went.

The trip took about three weeks and they simply explored. I believe they had a basic plan of where to go and what to see but didn't mind it too closely.

Pops said that one day they found themselves out in west Texas, far away from everything. At a lonely intersection there was a gas station with a small general store at one corner. From the store, you might have been able to spot one or two buildings far in the distance, ranch houses perhaps, out near the horizon. Seeing as the gas station appeared to be the only place for provisions for miles, the cousins figured it a good idea to gas up and grab a few snacks and supplies. 

The guys running the store, Dad said they appeared to be an elderly father and a middle aged son, were quite friendly and likable. They readily engaged me Pops and Jim in conversation. At one point the older gentleman remarked, "It used to be a man had room to move around out here. Now it's getting so crowded you can't hardly breathe."

Dad thought about how they were at a desolate intersection deep in western Texas, and that all he could  see other than the gas station were the two buildings miles off in the distance. The elderly man actually pointed towards them and continued sadly, "They're building right on top of us these days."

Pops let it go. They were after all just passing through, and why interrupt the reverie? If the locals felt put upon, well, what could you say anyway?

Put on Your Happy Face

Even when I'm on even short vacations, I try to get my morning walkies done. A dad bod doesn't maintain itself, you know.

From the back door of our house on Cedar Street in Hessel to the end of Hessel Point Road and back takes me just about 45 minutes. 45 minutes is typically how long I try to walk of a morning. Serendipity. When in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula, that's the path I hike.

I had noticed the day I arrived last week that a crew was making its way slowly down the roads of Hessel, spraying thick, liquid tar to seal the cracks in the highways. They use a wand not unlike one on a pressure washer, only it leaves a coat of rubbery, hot tar to dry onto and seal said cracks. 

This past Monday as I trod along a little before 7 AM I happened to notice that the crew, or at least one member of it, decided to have a bit of fun. He sprayed a happy face on the asphalt of Hessel Point Road. 

Of course, I had to stop and take a picture:

Pretty cool, if you ask me. It helped get my day started right.

Ship to Shore

I saw a Coast Guard ship in Hessel this past Monday. As I sat, it came right at me in all its magnificence. A majestic beauty of a seafaring creature, I will say, and I was awestruck as it approached our house on Cedar Street. The thing is, our house isn't even on the water.

This was no weird dream. That dame of the Guard was on a trailer, clearly being towed on dry land to a repair facility. But it was quite a sight, sailing along in the middle of the street. I should have gotten a picture.

Doggone Tourists

I just spent a few days in Hessel, in Michigan's glorious Upper Peninsula. It was wonderful, except for all the traffic. Why, there must have been ten, eleven cars an hour going up and down Cedar Street.

It's so much busier in the summer. Doggone tourists.

Cloyce Construction

I have an old friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who told me something of an embarrassing tale from his school days. Oh, it wasn't all that embarrassing. But you need to remember the times, and his age when it happened.

Cloyce was in fourth grade and the teacher decided that he and his peers were old enough to write a short paper on what they wanted to do with their lives, what careers they might like to explore. So she arranged some time at the school library for the kids to check out books on whatever future her charges may have cared to look into.

Cloyce thought that he might like to build houses. That does seem to be precisely the sort of job a ten year old boy would think cool. When he was off to himself in the library, he found a book on a shelf called How to be a Homemaker. In his mind, he wanted to build houses, so home maker in the title made sense.

Remember this was fifty or sixty years ago, when career paths were very much based on Leave it to Beaver Americana. The homemaker Cloyce's book spoke of was housewife and mother. It was not what young Cloyce expected.

"I opened the book and commenced to reading, and I saw it was nothing like I thought," Cloyce explained. "So I looked around to see that no one else saw what I had, took the book to a drop box, and told the librarian what sort of books I actually wanted."

"I wasn't caught. Can you imagine if my buddies had seen me with that?" he asked me. 

It would have been bad for a fourth grader in 1970, no doubt.

Woodbridge Wagon Train

Yesterday I mentioned, in so many words, towing welding machines around the old neighborhood. It was one machine at a time, typically. Yet I remember one day having to move many smaller welders in a more unusual manner.

Gas drives were larger welders powered by gasoline engines. Hence, gas drives, as the welder part was driven by the engine. The smaller ones were electric drives, powered by either 220 or 440 three phase current. 

A gas drive (all of our welders were on wheels) could be hitched to a car or pickup or some such and moved around. Electric drives normally had to be raised by a hoist into the back of a pickup or larger truck for transport. That was fine at the shop where we had modern workhouse amenities. Well, relatively modern. We are, God love him, talking about Joe Cosgriff after all. 

That aside, we needed to move a couple dozen electric drives from a satellite garage (one we rented for storage but away from the main Shop) back to the old barn. Yet there was no way to load the units, which weighed around 1100 pounds, onto the bed of a truck. 

Yet me Grandpa Joe, inventive gent that he was, and I don't mean that so bad as you may think, found a way to work around that. We lined up 6 or 7 electric drives at a time, strung them together with chain and tow ropes and heavy regular ropes and, yeehaw, pulled them the several blocks to the old barn. I'd hazard to guess the lines were better than a half block long.

There would naturally be a bit of clanking and crashing among the welders, so we'd go slow, content to let them bang into one another but not tip or run into anything else. Too, we pulled them through alleys so as not to affect regular vehicular traffic. But we got 'em moved, no real harm, and no foul at all. They were Joe's welders, and if he didn't care about cosmetic damage to them, why should we?

Joe's Small World

For years my part of Detroit was vexed with one way streets. This caused certain minor and admittedly first world problems. We might, say, have to circle a four or six block area to come into the Shop or one of our satellite garages (at a given time we would have rented anywhere from 6 to 10 places smaller than the old barn to store welders and equipment) from a certain angle. Me Grandpa Joe called that going around the world.

"You gotta go around the world for that one," he'd instruct one of us once a welder was hitched up to a vehicle. True, it was a small world. But it was a nuisance, especially with a load, to drive five or six extra blocks when the trip might have been only one without dealing with the street directions which were working against you.

It gave Joe a chance to smoke a cigarette waiting for us. And I can honestly say that I've been around the world in record time several times. Even if you have to put an asterisk by it.

No Sentiment There

I surely am sentimental. There are more than enough times when I think of my kids growing up, and become wistful. Then there are the times I walk into Wal-Mart in August and the sentiment ebbs, a least momentarily.

Last week I found myself heading into a Wal-Mart for a few things, to be inundated with back to school sales the instant I was in the door. Rows and rows of notebooks, pencils, lunchboxes, backpacks, crayons, erasers, and countless other ephemera which the school people deem of critical importance to education stared towards me.

They beckoned pointlessly, no siren calling this old boy. Those August days I do not miss one iota. I have absolutely no sentimentality for back to school sales. The thought of dashing off to battle the other parents at Meijer because college ruled notebooks are available for ten cents each, but only until Midnight, holds no pining for the old days from yours truly. 

I shook my head sadly, and with true compassion, at the young mothers and fathers dealing with it that day. I grabbed the few things I needed right quick and nearly danced through the checkout line, happily leaving backpack choices to picky 8 year olds and exasperated parents. Maybe I ought to feel more sorry for them. I could tell by the occasional glance that I was envied. I didn't mind one bit.

Garbage Baseball

I've been cranky lately as it is. Might just as well carry on with it today.

I hate the free runner that Major League Baseball puts on second base to begin extra innings. And I'm not saying that simply because my Detroit Tigers lost because of it yesterday. 

Okay, maybe I am saying it a little bit because of that, but I'm against it on general principle just the same.

The powers that be want to shorten games, and I get that. They also don't want to run out of pitchers in longer games, but that I don't get. To that point, how about not using so many pitchers in the first nine innings to begin with, in search of infinitesimal mathematical advantages that will almost certainly not come into play? But maybe I don't know what I'm talking about. Quiet Ron.

To the first point, you want to shorten things by significantly impacting the most basic rules of the game in placing a runner 180 feet closer to scoring? You can do better than that, MLB. How about demanding a pitch be thrown every 15 seconds? How about not overthinking every stupid pitch you want to throw, again seeking supremely small advantages? Throw the doggone pill. 

How about batters not adjusting every article of clothing on their person when they bat? Stay in the box and be ready to hit, or get an automatic strike call if they dally. And here's a wild thought: call the entire rule book strike zone, to help reduce the wear and tear on pitchers and make the batter take his weapon of war off his shoulder. Forget the sabermetrics and make them put the ball in play, or at least strike out more quickly.

But no. We're going to shorten the game by giving the teams a free runner at second base in the 10th Inning. That's garbage baseball and I don't like it.

Rant. Over. Until the next garbage loss by anybody.

Well, except the Yankees.

Mar-A-Lago May Have Changed My Mind

I wanted to write a more regular blog this morning. I truly did. Lighthearted and fun are lighthearted and fun, and generally more enjoyable that serious and staid. Yet when something serious needs to be said it needs to be said, and I don't want to shy away from that. Trouble is, I don't know exactly what to say here.

A former President's home has been invaded by warrant. This is entirely unprecedented in American history. That admittedly doesn't mean it's wrong. Yet it equally admittedly doesn't mean it's right.

I know I don't like it, at least so far. I meant what I said yesterday: they better find something. And it better be publicly explained unless it absolutely would offend security. That, though, is a veil which I fear will be used, please excuse the trifling puniness, liberally, and would not be a satisfactory explanation of what's going on.

I don't like that either. No matter how legitimate it might sometimes be, government secrecy quite naturally reeks of little more than covering one's...tail.

On the surface this has all the marks of a witch hunt. Maybe it is not, maybe they found things which ought to be in the National Archives and all is on the level. But considering all the other witch hunts, 2016 collusion among them, can you blame conservative elements for lacking trust in government agencies?

Somewhat ironically, and I can only speak for myself, my support for President Trump had been fading the last two years. I have not wanted him to run in 2024. I had been cringing at what possible effect his endorsements might have in this year's elections, that they might cost Republicans a real chance at the House and Senate in November this year. I believe his intransigence cost us the Senate in 2020, quite frankly. The President should have accepted the 2020 results readily and changed his aim to the future rather than being obstinate in the present. I can't help but feel his pomposity cost us both Georgia Senate seats. We would not have the monstrously labelled Inflation Reduction Act if we kept either of those chairs, and I think it's Trump's fault we didn't. Trump is in far too many ways a lout, and I was ready to be rid of him. Be honest, now: he's the right's Hillary, and we were reaching the point where his negatives outweighed his positives.

Then this happens. If they don't find something big, if they don't find something that is genuinely in the national interest, or cannot at least explain their actions adequately, then damn it all, he may just get my vote again. And it would be because of actions such as the Mar-A-Lago raid.

Mar-A-Lago Raid

I will say this and only this: they better find something. Because if they don't, then this is very bad business. Very bad indeed.

Quarter by Inch and a Quarter

I sometimes wonder what my kids will think when the time comes to clean out the old barn. It likely won't matter to me at that point. Still, the thought about their thoughts about what they will discover at the Shop at that time does intrigue me.

Will they be as impressed as I am at the five foot tall crescent wrench me Grandpa Joe acquired from somewhere? The two ton electric hoist: will it cross their minds how many welding machines were raised down, in Joe's parlance, over the years? Parts for drain snakes will surely greet them, parts they won't have a clue as to what they're for or how they work or if they should be scrapped, or sold to a needy plumber.

Then there's the box of several, yes, several thousand quarter by inch and a quarter roll pins. I can't imagine any other thought except, what in the world would the old man need those for?

They have their use. Honest. But I'd be happy if the kids simply stuck a few in their pockets as keepsakes. 

No Yankee

One of the key things in talking to Mom these days are to ask questions which stimulate her mind, which make her think. Consequently, I try to get her to reflect on her life.

Yesterday on our usual Sunday drive we went out about 90 miles southwest of Detroit, into a heavily farmed area of Michigan. Seeing the tall corn, I asked, "Did you guys have corn on the farm?"

"Oh yes," she answered. "I shucked corn until I was sick of it. But we all had to work back then." Mom went on to talk about those childhood memories.

"Those look like bean plants," I remarked about another field.

"Them's snap beans," she said, explaining how once they were picked, you would snap the dry beans into smaller pieces to cook and can for the winter. "Mom had to can a lot of beans so we'd have food in the winter."

It's fun to hear her talk, and I genuinely like it. But after awhile I couldn't help but tease Mom a bit. "You ever thought, growing up as a young girl in North Carolina, you'd end up a Yankee?"

She paused, soon saying quietly, "No, I can't say as I ever considered that." Mom became silent. Hmm, I thought, that didn't get the reaction I expected. 

She was only working up to her real point. After a few seconds she said emphatically, "I may have lived most of my life in Yankee territory, but I ain't and never will be no Yankee!"

American by birth, Southern by the grace of God, that's me Mom.

1

I was in my senior year of high school when he made his debut. When he hung up his spikes, I was a 35 year old family man. Yesterday, twenty seven years later, I watched his number 1 retired by the Detroit Tigers. Lou Whitaker deserves it.

He deserves more. He should be in the baseball Hall of Fame. Hopefully that will be taken care of in 2023, when his selection is next possible. 

Sweet Lou. I'm happy you're finally getting the accolades you truly merit.

Cloyce on the Upsell

I have a dear old friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who once managed a video game store. One of the things he had to do was upsell; that is, encourage customers to buy more than they were actually looking to purchase. That's fine in my book, so far as it goes, if you don't push too hard and the buyer might have an actual need.

The company published a monthly, in house magazine which offered gameplay tips. Cloyce was supposed to ask each customer if they would like to buy a subscription, selling it on the admittedly obvious value it might have to a gamer. Again, that's all right so far as it goes.

A grandmother came in a bit before Christmas one year, a woman in her seventies, Cloyce guessed, who wanted to buy a video game for her 13 year old grandson. She told Cloyce what system the kid had, but had no idea what games there were or what they were about. Indeed, she only knew the system type because she asked the kid's parents what he had. Cloyce suggested a new game very popular with that age group, which she bought and left.

It happened that the area manager was in the store that day. "Why didn't you try to sell her a subscription to Fantastic Amazing Video Game Monthly, Cloyce?" he asked.

"She's not a gamer. She's a Grandma buying a gift," Cloyce mildly protested.

"You should have tried. It's policy," the guy demanded.

Cloyce disagreed. I'm with him. He's long quit that job, and that was one of the reasons.

Hold Thy Tongue Marty

As a general rule, it really is best to hold your tongue. But, hell, sometimes that can be hard.

I sent an order UPS to a customer. Okay, I sent my brother out with the package to UPS it to a customer, but potato, pa-tat-o. After he had left the old barn, and as they had prepaid, I sent an email explaining that the order was on its way and that I would be snail mailing a paid invoice later that day. That's a standard business practice, right?

The next day I received an email from said customer wondering why, as they received the parcel, there was not an invoice enclosed. They enquired, would I be sending one by the regular mail?

I might not have been quite so upset with the question except that they asked it in a reply to the original email informing them that a paid invoice was forthcoming in the regular mail. 

Bite. Thy. Tongue. Marty. 

I cannot tell you how badly I wanted to reply to the email by asking if they actually read their emails. I cannot tell you how seriously I considered a smarmy, snide response. Something along the lines of, 'What? You didn't get an invoice? I will overnight air one to you immediately!' or some such. But no, I calmly replied that one was already in the mail, but to let me know if they didn't get it soon. 

I'm easing my anger by writing this blog entry. But I'll bet you know the feelings I'm dealing with, eh?

Cheap Isn't Always Good

Contrary to my reputation I am not cheap. I may be frugal. Me Grandma Cosgriff's Scotness may sometimes rise within me (I can hear her saying, quietly but simply, 'I won't pay it', if she thought a price too high) and cause me not to buy something. But I don't actually mind spending more money when it's necessary.

Gas prices are bad and we ought to be upset with them, because they don't need to be what they've been lately (over $5 a gallon, as most of you know). But I have to drive for my job, so I may as well not fret it too much. There's a point at which you just have to pay and move on. You can and should express your anger in other ways and through other forums. As to the day in and day out of life, well, it is what it is and you just gotta deal with it.

Then, too, some things aren't worth a cheaper price. I will never buy dollar store razors again: all they do is scratch and pull and leave you with a styptic pencil chasing the small cuts appearing on your face as though you're trying to corral cats. If you simply want plastic tumblers for everyday use, go to the dollar store. But spend a bit extra on your shaving needs.

Don't be going too far the other way either. I have friends who believe that if they're not paying top dollar they're not getting quality products and service. They don't consider that some companies have a 'marketing plan' predicated on the upsell. Try not to fall for that.

There's my advice today on personal economics. Use this power wisely. Now excuse me as I go out to buy razor blades.

Who Needs Sleep

We are certainly in the dog days of summer, aren't we? Heat and humidity and stickiness abound, and none of it comfortable. Yet that could not keep me from falling asleep at my desk at hot, humid Shop the other day.

That has actually happened quite a bit over the years at work. When you're hot and sticky at home, you can't sleep. Add the dirt and grime which you naturally pick up while working and it just doesn't seem as though a guy could relax enough to drift off. But sure enough, my head slipped onto my chest that day and I was out. My ringing cell phone woke me about fifteen minutes later.

I remember it happening forty years ago. We'd be working and take a break and bam, me Grandpa Joe is saying let's get back at it. But we only just stopped! 

Anyway, I don't get it. Hot and sticky at home, can't sleep. Hot, sticky, and dirty at work, dozing like a baby. Life makes no sense sometimes.

Injury to Insult

A long time customer called yesterday for a price on an admittedly expensive item. I told him upfront that it was pricey, so I believe I was playing fair with him. I then told him the price. "Wow," he exclaimed. "You are high."

Okay, dude, you kind of insulted me there. My prices are fair and competitive (as you should know by now), and I warned you that what you were asking for had a significant cost. Further, you don't have to pay it. You don't want to buy it from me, don't buy it from me. No harm, no foul. There's no obligation on your part and I freely recognize that. Indeed, I appreciate you giving me the chance for the sale in the first place. But your remark indicates that you think maybe I'm cheating you. I don't take that kindly.

Then he blurts out, "Is there anywhere else I can get it?"

That started the insulting all over again, but I tried to make a joke of it, even if a veiled barb. "It's not exactly a standard business practice for me to keep a ready list of competitors who beat my price, for referral to my customers." 

I think he got the point. "Uh, I'm sorry, Marty. I didn't mean nothing." The truth is, he probably didn't, so I stayed cool. And he did buy the part; I have his check in hand as I type. Still, I can't help but feel just a little put out just the same.

Better to Vote, But...

Tomorrow is a primary election day here in Michigan, and I will dutifully cast my vote. Yet the older I get, the less certain I am of its value.

To begin with, there's a degree to which democracy is simply the tyranny of the majority. Too many people want everybody else's money, time, and effort spent on what they believe important. Those folks are all too ready to force their will on the fifty percent minus one. That's arrogance, and insults basic human dignity. 

Generally speaking, we can and should do for ourselves, and are decent enough on our own to help those who can't. We need to put clamps on government power rather than give it further release. Voting I sometimes fear merely feeds the beast while giving it legitimacy. Legitimacy to do anything it chooses. At the risk of understatement, that's fraught with peril.

Then there's all these people more than willing to 'sacrifice' for us. I am increasingly skeptical of the integrity of anyone who actually wants to be a politician. What makes you so great that you can solve all what ails us? 

At the heart of it, I can't escape the idea that the great majority of people who want to be politicians are at heart narcissists. To be sure, the depth of that will vary from person to person. Some will be better than others, but circumstance works against them all. I'm not sure it's possible for anyone to be completely selfless enough (or forceful enough) to serve the populace in full objectivity.

So I'll vote, and hope and pray for the best. It's all I've got, and it is a bit of neglecting duty to not cast a ballot. Still, it's a shame that all too often my vote is cast while holding my nose, and fearing my neighbor.