A Rare Foray

I almost never discuss politics here, since this is a place for stories and silliness, observations and friends. A few things recently have inspired my to put fingers to keys and exercise my atrophied debate skills.

I’m finding myself increasingly surrounded by people of a leftward political persuasion. Growing up in a very moderately conservative (very moderately? TF?) town that regularly elected Republicans and produced one president, my childhood circle of influence was homogeneously Dutch Christian Republicans. Independent thinking and free choice were encouraged, however – some friends of mine have grown up Catholic in Brooklyn, and they were required from birth to be Democrats. It was as intrinsic as their church membership, and to vote otherwise would result in disownination. My family never really discussed politics in depth, so I was on my own to figure out what I would support or oppose.

Yesterday I was over at Mojo’s, where he was observating a trend in church signs. And the night before I shared dinner with new friends – one of whom happens to be a blogger and liberal activist-type. It was a delightful time, the food and company were tremendous, and I hope to do it again soon. And, one of my favorite people in the world cheerfully cancels my votes – we largely agree on philosophy, but not necessarily on how to achieve the results we want. It inspired me to break with my norms declare myself, for what it’s worth. My philosophy is and shall ever be this: I vote, and probably differently than you. We can still be friends.

(Political) Things I Believe

Politicians are politicians first, at least at the federal level. It takes a great deal of ambition, carefully crafted image and speech, and a vast network of friends and alignments to run for these offices – not to mention vast piles of cash. Coming off as your advocate is how they cultivate votes. They can’t possibly take universally popular positions, so positions become as flexible and sticky as spider silk. Principled arguments are replaced with calculated and puffed-up speeches, studied laugh lines, and continuous attack/ defend/ restate/ apologize/ call for a ‘higher level of dialogue’ cycles. I don’t trust many of them to have anyone’s best interest in mind above their own. The one I support and the one I oppose share these traits, and no politician will be a savior to the masses. I once wrote to my former senator to give him my opinion on a few issues important to me. His response: “The American People want this, that, and the other thing.” Wait a minute, Senator, I’m one of them, and that’s exactly NOT what I just told you.

It’s not the government’s job to provide everything for everyone. It’s impossible for a government to truly care for, nurture, feed, and support its people – and it shouldn’t be in that business. People can and must support themselves and each other, but on a much smaller and more intimate scale. Personal responsibility is the bottom line – if you will work for food, go work. Stay in touch with family and friends, and generate mutually caring relationships. Join a church or community organization, where help is given and received. Punting everything to a glacier-sized and paced bureaucracy is the antidote to personal responsibility. Charity begins at home, not the IRS.

It is the government’s job to protect its borders, people, and culture. If all they did was this, it would be so much more manageable and free people to pursue their life, liberty, and happiness without being bogged down in so much expensive and meaningless waste.

It’s really all about money. Think of all the arguments there are in the political arena. At least 80% of them (by my highly scientific analysis) come down to who’s gonna pay for it. It seems to me that philosophical convictions and principled positions are expressed solely through the purse strings. Gay marriage? The fight is over getting benefits. Abortion? Since it’s legal, the fight is over whether the government should pay for it. Health care? ALL about money. War? Dollars, once you get past the human cost. Education, food stamps, welfare, social security, farm policy and energy, stem cells and space exploration are all money arguments. Advocates and pork barrelers will always say that throwing more cash at the problem will solve it.

It can be pretty disheartening when I look at these few points.

So what action can I take? Hold signs and march in circles, chanting ‘what do we want? when do we want it?’ Send money (again with the money)? Add more words to the ever-increasing flow of them?

Nah. I’ll stick with what doing what PEOPLE should be doing, and have for too long told the government to do it for them.

Care for my family and neighbor. Feed people. Educate. Learn. Be kind, and encourage kindness. Pursue and encourage excellence. Conserve and protect resources. Defend the defenseless. Be responsible. Vote.

In short, be the change I wish to see in the world.

 

Boston Acoustics

What a cool town this is. The food, public transportation, accent, beers, restaurants, sidewalks, and wealth of history are everywhere.

Doesn’t mean I can afford much of it, but for what I’m up to it’s been a great time.

I wandered into Neiman Marcus the other day looking for a shirt. I only have a couple of favorite tee shirts, and I’d like them ALL to be favorites. Life is too short to be uncomfortable or self-conscious, and if my shirt is any kind of snug, reveals any belly fur, or is frayed around the collar, I don’t wear it (unless I’m painting, and I have plenty of formerly-favorite shirts for that chore). The store is bright, tall, and airy, with a lot of real estate devoted to wide aisles and artistic displays. Very much not the ’stuff all the merchandise into every square foot’ plan featured at my regular stores. I found 4 very nice shirts, one after another, and discovered how they’re paying for all the wasted rent. Each was $195. Almost TWO farking HUNDRED bucks for a man-size sack of soft cloth. Who pays that? I can cover a car payment, insurance, and a day’s worth of gas with that kind of cash. Of course, my lawyer gets that for working 55 minutes. But still, I would hesitate to pay an hour’s wages for 2 shirts – even at my current salary. I shook my head and kept on walking.

Oh, about the title today. I have a set of computer speakers by Boston Acoustics, and they are friggin’ awesome. They’ve served me well for a dozen years, and with a subwoofer and 2 tiny satellite speakers, they make everything sound pretty good up to a house-filling volume. But the title’s not about speakers. Oh no. It’s about the noises I’ve heard in the neighborhood.

My first day here, I was walking through the plaza and heard a police siren yelp regularly. A quick, loud, rising tone that echoed through the concrete and glass canyons. After covering a few blocks, I couldn’t find the cop car and wondered why they had to keep doing that. As I was crossing the street, I saw a tall, bald guy in his 20’s walking by himself. He let out a WhooOOP! that sounded exactly like the yelps I’d heard all day. Every 10 paces or so he did it again. He wasn’t calling out to anyone, just opening his yap and letting the sound waves fly.

People honk a lot here. Quite a lot. It’s like they’re trying to copy New York or something. I thought that was only filler noise for cop shows, but it turns out that a horn is just as necessary as a gas pedal here. Coming from a non-honking city, it’s taken some getting used to.

This morning, after breaking fast at Au Bon Pain (awesome place, we don’t have them in any of my hometowns), I was visiting the public echo chamber to recycle some coffee. A distinguished looking gentleman had walked in just before me and chose the handicapped stall. As I was making my transaction, it sounded like he had a frog in his throat. Turns out, he had a whole flock of them, and they were all leaping free at once in a marathon barf parade. The poor guy was coughing and groaning, and it sounded like he was emptying multiple mop buckets into the porcelain funnel. I’m glad that this morning I had no sympathetic convulsions, because it was vivid.

He reminded me of the reformed bank robber I used to work with. Jeff was an interesting character with lots of tales to tell, and he came to my company as a welder after paying his debt to society in prison. There was a bathroom in the shop, but on certain days he’d come into the office, lock himself in the Executive Washroom, and make the loudest, most theatrical puking noises I have ever heard. He’d really put his all into it, with proper breath support and sound effects. I’m sure he smuggled in a full Giant Slurpee cup to make the proper splooshy noises. He’d come out slowly, doing his best to look pale, and tell the boss he had to go home because he was sick. The boss would, of course, send him home. Then roll his eyes.

It’s time for me to go take in some more culture, perhaps see a garden, walk a snippet of Freedom Trail (do they serve French fries on the trail, I wonder?), and find a light supper. Today’s lunchtime lobster quesedilla was enough to last more than half a day.

Have a great day!

 

To Satisfy a Demanding Woman

This post is in response to dear friend JC, and I’m nothing if not responsive. I’m going all postal now with my post posties.

I’ve tagged along to the bustling metropolis of Boston, where there is a mega conference going on. I’m hanging around a nice hotel, ostensibly to catch up on office work and find things to do at night after the conference is done. We’re here for a week, and have been gathering suggestions from locals. Tracy Lynn says we have to get lobster rolls, see the Red Sox, and visit some places. The Sox are in town the whole week we’re here – but it’s supposed to rain at game time each night. Prolly hit a museum and a food place tonight.

My impression of the city so far: It’s big, interesting, historic, beautiful, and people don’t smile much on the street. We drew the surliest cab driver evar for the labyrinthian ride from airport to hotel. Said not one word, except to announce the fare and say ‘No credit cards’ in some accented version of English. He spent the whole ride looking mad at the world and talking on his cell phone in Outer Slobbovian or Jambalayan.

The Dunkin Donuts across the street was a madhouse for breakfast this morning, and organization was not the crew’s strong suit. Three ESL workers were sweating away, while a line thrice as long as the store waited. The cashier was OK when you could understand him, the mute coffee guy was fine, but the poor shlep who was preparing sammiches and hash burns could not get anything right. As the line shifted from Order Here to Pick Up Order, bags of unclaimed food and unsatisfied customers accumulated (that’s right, BAGS of us). He’d call out ‘Am chiz bagl!’ and hold up a sack. We’d all look at each other and shrug. He set it aside, and tried ‘Baco’Sant!’ After a few tries he gave up and turned his attention to the oven, churning out more mismatched and untranslated food.

Eventually we got almost what we ordered, and it was pretty good. But next time I’ll stick with coffee and a donut. Although, while sitting on the patio and sharing bagel bits with local birds, we discovered there’s nothing quite as funny as a bird with cream cheese on its beak. Looked like it was in clown school.

Before embarking on this trip, a whirlwind of activity was had. A final coat of polyurethane on the living room floor (that’s a story of frustration all its own), the execution of a new contract, and refinishing a fiberglass tub/shower. Not to mention the burial of a fish and the unadoption of an anti-social dog. Oh, and flea baths for all (including the cats – they are NOT fans). And seeding the front yard, and fixing & riding a motorcycle. And packing. It was relaxing to finally leave.

I leave you with this video, it made me chortle (and cringe) more than once. 4 minutes, and it has a soundtrack but you don’t need the volume up to enjoy.

 

If I Had a Hamster

I’d hamster in the morning.

Yah, well, that’s a song I sing to myself and those around me frequently. Are there any songs with which you regularly earitate your friends? It seems I have a vast library of irritating songs, such as Bananaphone, The Song That Never Ends, and It’s A Small World. That and the Grunka-Lunka song.

I had a great idea for a post yesterday, but today it escapes me like a puppy bent on rolling in other animals’ excrement. It comes back wagging its tail, but it’s just not the same.

Today I painted a wall, built a custom shelf, and painted another few little walls. I hate painting, but it’s a livin’. And. it feels pretty good to make the same money I did in the corporate world (even after taxes) AND I get to do something different every day. I love that. Although I don’t have health insurance, which so far doesn’t suck. I’m not going to vote for the next president based on the free-waits-in-the-emergency-room that he promises me. Knocking on this fancy wood desk, so far so healthy.

*****

On to some randomness, since the initial inspiration that started me writing has gone away, much like last Thursday’s meal.

We have a forest fire still raging in these parts. OK, not at all these parts – more like a 2-4 hour drive away from these parts – but the smoke and ‘aroma’ from yonder fire was so thick the other morning, I stumbled outside and wandered the neighborhood looking for which neighbor was on fire (after determining that my own dwelling was not, in fact, ablaze). I called 911 (after much searching for the eleven button on my cell phone) and told the operator about the smoke. She got very snippy with me: “There’s a forest fire. The weeyind shifted. It’s all over the news, sir.” It was the way she hissed ’sir’ that got me. I’m not much of a ’sir’ to anyone, and she was extra-sirring me. I didn’t care for it, not one bit.

The smoke was heavy and oppressive and smelled like burning metal mixed with wood and evil. It lingered for 2 days, and then went back home – it gave me a somber appreciation for what the residents of that area are going through, and it’s been burning for a cuppa weeks now. Scary.

*****

It was time to bale the lawn this weekend. I was alone in the homestead, and finished a project Saturday afternoon. It was hot out, but not as oppressive as the previous week, so I still had a scoche (scoash? skoshe? help me here folks) of energy left. I went to the Lowe’s up de road and got me a new cordless lawn mower. You see, we had this little toy mower that plugs into the wall. The new one is neat, because you put some fluids in it, pull a little cord, and you can go anywhere with it. You don’t have to plan your every pass to avoid running over the extension cord, or getting it wrapped around the dozen trees in the tiny yard, or tripping over it, or running to the end of the wire and caroming over the handle like a retard in a hurdle race. Yessir, I like the new technology.

*****

Last weekend there was dinner at the Kenjus, and it was both delicious and delightful. If ever you get the chance, you should feed with these folks.

*****

There used to be a thing in blogs, maybe it was a meme or something, where people would write a list of 100 things about themselves. Doesn’t seem to be so ‘in’ currently, but then again, maybe it’s because the crowd I run with doesn’t have those lists. Or I’m not paying attention. Any of my 4 readers done that? Most of them are fun to read, or at least interesting. What questions would you want answered if I were to do one?

*****

‘S all I’m writing for tonight. Have a wunnerful day. I leave you with Cinders the Pig, a british critter what refuses to walk in the mud without its little wellington boots. True story.

 

Yeah, it happened again.

The big soaking sweat from yesterday, it’s back. I ran outta gas around 3:30 PM today, having spent nearly an hour since 11AM sitting, resting, drinking water. Oh, and being wet.

It was bad enough that I decided today’s the day I don’t need hair. Got it all shorn off at the local Clipper Wench (if you don’t have one in your area, you should get one. They’re amazing). Of course, it reveals that unsightly scar on the back of my head from when a flaming marshmallow landed on me in summer camp, but my hair is for me. Not passers-by. So if they ask what happened to make me so dreadfully disfigured, I’ll tell ‘em it’s none of their damn business (then buy ‘em an iced coffee because I feel bad telling people off).

All the other things I was going to write about have suddenly escaped me (by the way, watch ‘Most Shocking’ or some other cop-chasing-bad-guys show, and see how many times they say ’suddenly’) since there’s the aroma of pizza and fresh veggies in the Tiny House and also a really good bourbon-induced haze going on right now. So I’ll leave you with a picture that makes me smile. Have a nice day.

 

Flop Sweat And Stolen Memes

Well, I’ll be dipped in hot molasses and covered in bees. I learned something new just now.

From Merriam-Webster: Flop sweat: nervous sweat (as of a performer) caused especially by the fear of failing

I thought it meant sweating so much it flops offa ya, slides in sheets through your waistband and trickles torrentially betwixt your cheeks.

Which happened for two days in a row to this humble reporter, because I started a labor-intensive outdoor project the same day a high pressure system parked directly overhead. It’ll be here all week, featuring a lack of wind to go with an excess of degrees. 94-100 of them, give or take. It was 81 degrees (eff) at 8AM today – same for tomorrow.

Ever sweat so much you get pruny? Ew.

Oh, and if you’re going to be perspirous, avoid spraying Deep Woods Cutter on your nipples. It makes things even more unpleasant.

*************

Enough about that, here goes the stolen portion of the program, which comes by way of theft from NCP, who sto’d it from ETW. I better STFU and GTFO PDQ.

Accent: Michigan. I’m trying to say ‘y’all’ convincingly, but haven’t fooled a soul yet.

Bra size: My moobs need no restraint (yet). I’d like to be able to wiggle ‘em like this someday…
Image created by Soonerpsycho of Fark Photoshop contest fame

Chore I hate: Making budgets, then sticking to them. I don’t mind cleaning, laundry, or mowing.

Dad’s name: Rodney

Essential make-up: None. I’m a boy, silly.

Favorite perfume: This girl I knew in high school wore Gloria Vanderbilt somethingorother. Intoxicating, probably wouldn’t have the same effect today as it did then.

Gold or Silver: Gold, and lots of it please. Not to wear, but it’s fun to have (I imagine).

Hometown: Grand Rapids, MI

Interesting fact: Water can exist in all 3 phases at once.

Job title: Self employed carpenter

Kids: 2 teenagers I love very much.

Pets: Puppy, 2 cats, fish, and one lightning bug named Ohm.

Living arrangements: Tiny house.

Mom’s Birthplace: Binghamton, NY

Number of apples eaten in last week: None, there were none apples eaten last week. The week before, well that was an apple orgy of sorts. You shoulda seen it.

Overnight hospital stays: Tonsils as a wee lad, car/ bike crash in 4th grade, bike/ bike crash in junior high. Many more overnights with loved ones.

Phobia: None, but spiders come close. Hate those fascinating but stay-the-hell-off-me bastards.

Question you ask yourself a lot: Is it 5pm yet? (stolen from NCP herself). Also, lots of things that begin with ‘If…”

Religious affiliation: Yep, but not currently affiliated.

Siblings: Oldest of 3, unless you count the 2 older half-siblings. Then I’m the middlest.

Time I wake up: When the sun shines through the blinds. Most of my appointments are at 9AM, so that leaves time to wake up in the sixish range.

Natural Hair color: Dwindling brown.

Vegetable I refuse to eat: Okra, I guess. I’ve never had it, but it sounds gross.

Worst habit: Laziness.

X-rays: Those damn glasses don’t work at all.

Yummy food I make: I like to make a lot of food, and it’s not worth doing if you don’t make it yummy. Grilling and Indian food are my specialties, but I’ve made a mean knish, chili, and stir fry too. Oh, and authentic Milwaukee style beer brats. OMGYUM.

Zodiac sign: Taurus

Go ahead… play along. It’s fun, they say!

 

In Which I Try My Hand At Writing Titles Relevant To Posts

Ever see a flying penis?

It looks like this:

Apparently Russian government-backed youth groups were all over the place disrupting opposition candidate meetings (this one was Gary Kasparov). There’s video of it, but for the love of all that is holy, I’m not linking it. You can find it easily enough, if you really want to see a flying penis swatted from the air by a secret service agent.

One of the guys in the picture looks inexplicably hungry.

And now for something completely different, because there’s no way you can have 2 stories like that, is there?

Seems I’ve passed my little intestinal friend along, and it’s a dreadful thing. As far as I know, that’s where it stopped, unless some unknown cube farmer cultivated it and brought it home for personal use. Health is a wonderful thing – if your body functioned per design today, express your gratitude. I did.

Memorial Day came and went, and mine was spent splendidly. Sun and water, dear people and fun. No work was done, for that’s what the veterans would have wanted… right?

Well, you let a day go by and suddenly it’s six, and all the news that was generated and would have made great blogworthy topics is in the mysterious ether of possibly reliable synapses and memory banks. Since it’s an early morning in Michigan and I have some cultural sightseeing to do, I’ll hit the pyooblish button and get back to the other topics as I can. Off to visit Mom, drive cross-state and hang out at the Henry Ford Museum where they have all kinds of cool stuff. It’s one of only 5 reasons I can name to be in Detroit.
Photos will be posted, oh yes.

Oh and remind me to tell you about the amateur bartending that was done last night. Who knew 8 flavors and a martini shaker could be so much fun??

 

Fluid Dynamics, or Barfing Like a Freshman

This has been a busy week. I just completed an extensive bathroom remodel (before & after pics here), and my poor dear customers each took a turn being sick. The man o’ the house got it first, and even visited the hospital with horrible stomach pains. Then his wife fell ill the next day, and said she almost had me take her to the ER.

Last night it was my turn. I awoke at something like 2:43 AM, suddenly aware that I’d better make haste to the only bathroom. It was only 20 steps away from my corner of the dormancy platform (as Jeff Kay calls it), but with a pause to twist the doorknob it turned out to be 3 steps too many.

I did make it to the toilet, but not to the lifting of the waterproof lid. My next hour was mapped out for me, even before the first wave was over. It was like a barf trampoline. I discovered that my stomach has very good squeezing strength, and that I don’t chew nearly enough. Let’s just say I’ll be laying off the multi-colored rotini for a long time. One roll of Bounty Paper Towels, half a bottle of Formula 409, and a liberal coating of Lysol and things were back to normal.

**************

On a lighter note, all 3 of my blogs were commented upon by a computer-wielding wacko. I think I’ve seen this long-ass manifesto before (10,420 words, to be precise) and it’s rife with xenophobic predictions about race, gender, and why the gods favor females. It’s fascinating that someone would hunch over a computer for that many words and launch them at so many random blogs. Anybody know the story behind this?

*************

Speaking of comments, Kenju wanted to know why she got a quilt by her name but Tiff got her blonde-goddess avatar. I experimented, and found out that if I sign in to WordPress my avatar shows up – I get a quilt otherwise. Not sure what the deal is with Blogger users. Sorry I’m not much help!

Updateliness – I just checked to make sure Kenju’s link worked, and it seems she’s gotten the manifesto too… weird.

************

Today I’ve been behaving much like a normal cat, or Dark Lord Schmumpins, the sloth-puppy. Lots of naps and slow-moving. Wonderful thing to do when you’re sick on a gloomy day. Pass the green tea.

 

It’s Official

I am here to confirm the rumors, and announce that yesterday I turned older. Of course, I turned exactly the same amount older this morning as I did last morning, but it’s not every day I get cards and chocolate chip cheesecake and steak on the barbie and Oberon (yummy) and a big vat of flowers.

And I got these bouncing tits.

The new puppy, Dark Lord Schmumpins, is warming up to the idea of interacting with people very….slow….ly. He has some wonderful features, such as being totally housebroken, and he’s got a fuzzy lil tummy and big paws (frito feet) and floppy ears. But he’s the most skittish dog ever. He will whine overnight to go piddle, but when I open the door, he just stands there. Takes a step toward the door, sniffs a little, and runs back into the kitchen. Comes back around, rinse, repeat ad infinitum. I think I’ve had to carry him outside 3x more than he’s actually locomoted himself. Cuteness will let him get away with much, but it has limits.

As I write this, there is a tornado watch in the area (there is much groaning, because it’s not enough to cancel school). I have never witnessed a tornado, but have a storm-chasing friend who has. It’s nothing for him to hop in the car with his laptop, cell phone, a buddy, and go 400 miles at 20 minutes’ notice. At first, he went chasing without finding – and had elaborate plans for a tornado attractant (outfitting his Buick to look like a rolling trailer park). He brings back videos and stories of these unpredictable, devastating events, and while I appreciate his geekly immersion in his hobby, I have no interest in seeing a tornado in person.

I leave you with this advice, since I’ve reached an age where wisdom should flow like similes from a bucket of metaphors: Never underestimate the PITA factor when negotiating your next work assignment.

 

The Negotiator

I was inspired to write about my worst deal ever from NCP’s post about a negotiating class. But whilst rinsing drywall dust from my many crevasses, it occurred to me that I have many, many bad deal tales to tell.

I was raised by a Dutch dad (known for frugality (or cheapness – where do you think the term Dutch Treat comes from?)).He would often buy things that were clearly for him alone, but he was pinched pennies so hard they’d screech when it came to others. Mom didn’t know how to drive a stick shift, so those were the only cars he bought. And he would come home with contraptions such as computer racks the size of refrigerators, and the best tools he could find. Mom, on the other hand, was a free spirit who would regularly deficit spend. She bought 2 (count ‘em, TWO) Kirby vacuum cleaners from door-to-door salesmen. They’re fine machines, but damn… $900 is a lot for a staubsauger, especially in the 70’s. This genetic material has somehow conspired to give me not only the inability to say no, but also a predisposition to say yes.

My first bad deal as an ‘adult’ was my first office job. I was hired at an architectural firm as a drafstman, while still in Community College to start my architectural training. I thought it was serendipitous, landing that job. In some ways, it was – but I eagerly yapped ‘YES!’ like a fuzzy puppy when the boss offered me $5.00 per hour. That’s what I was making at the gas station that previously employed me. That prestigious salary allowed me to think I was on the fast track to success, apparently – I got married and bought a house while working there.

I was raised not to talk about salary; it was completely taboo. My school friend, Joel, once bragged that his dad made $50,000 as a detective. I came home to gather ammunition, asking my dad what he earned as a computer operator. He replied curtly, “None of your business.” Later, he explained that it was nobody’s business, not just not mine – and it was his company’s policy to fire anyone who discussed salary. Therefore, I went into the marketplace with no idea what work was worth beyond my experience with gas stations, car washes, paper routes, and pizza delivery.

After the architecture firm went out of business a year later (not my fault, honest), I took another drafting job for about the same money I made at the end of my architecture career. The owner was a good guy to work for overall, but he was very stingy with raises and encouraging words. ‘I can’t afford to pay you any more’ was his standard line. Many years later, a disgruntled coworker walked by the fax machine and saw a document meant for the boss. It was SOP to pick up any new messages and deliver them to the recipient. It wasn’t supposed to be read by the delivery boy, but he couldn’t resist. It listed every employee’s salary and IRA contributions, and he found himself to be at the bottom of the heap – and there were 3 employees making double his money. On top of that, the boss was collecting $475,000 annually just in salary (nevermind the building the company leased from him and company cars). He went to his office, crashed his computer, made 50 copies of the IRA report, faxed it to all of our suppliers and subcontractors, and handed them out to all the employees before storming out the door in a blithering rage.

I inherited his office, and while running new computer cables in the drop ceiling, I found several porno magazines and empty liquor bottles hidden behind the panels. It was no wonder he wasn’t earning more. The boss never used the ‘can’t afford to’ defense after that. The episode sure drove home the wisdom of my dad’s policy, but that was helpful information to have at review time.

Almost every car I’ve purchased (up until about 4 years ago) was a gross error in judgment of value. There was a ‘79 Dodge van (with carpet and a fold-out bed in the back) for which I overpaid by at least $1000. The Cavalier hatchback was a fine car, but with a 5-speed manual transmission, it was horrible for a city pizza delivery boy. The worst was the ‘93 Aerostar. The car payments for 5 years were double my house payment at the time, plus it was a maintenance nightmare. I was very happy to see that van gone (it died completely about a month after it was paid off).

The deal that inspired this story comes from the other side of the world. 12 time zones away, where the people are tiny and brown and smile a lot. Bali, Indonesia, to be precise. I was with a group of people doing a series of concerts for local churches for a week. We were thoroughly briefed by our leader on how they do business there, and the exchange rate is baffling without some education. We were taught to laugh at vendors when they announced the price of an item, and haggle back and forth until we agreed on something, usually about half the beginning number. I got several shirts for 15,000 rupia each (about $2.50), and some other odds and ends pretty cheap – and thought I was doing pretty well. On a beach, a guy came up to me and offered this wooden chess set, all hand carved and very ornate. The board doubled as a carrying case for the intricately detailed pieces, and this was something I really wanted to bring home.

He said it was $150 for me. I did the laugh thing, and turned back to talking with my friends. He could tell I obviously wanted it (‘cuz I said I did), so he persisted, offering it for $100. I told him it was too much, and eventually we settled on $70. He smiled the biggest smile I’d seen and proceeded to offer me blow guns and temporary tattoos and silver jewelry, but I told him I was done and eventually he sauntered on to his next mark.

The next day, I was sitting on a bus with another guy from our group. He saw a peddler on a bike (heh) selling the same chess sets. While we were waiting for the bus to finish loading, he negotiated through the window. Money and merchandise exchanged hands, they waved, and we were off.

His cost $10.

I have tons more stories like this, but it’s getting embarrassing. I’m off to enjoy the beautiful weather and count my friggin’ blessings. Got any bad deal stories?