How About a Color Blind Society?

America is supposed to be this giant melting pot, right?  Like the Statue says, "Send me your tired, your hungry..." etc.

A place where people of all nationalities and all religions and all colors can get together and start new lives.  Lives where what they are and what they believe makes no difference.  It's their performance that counts.  All for one, and one for all.  Right?

In fact, there are no "Black" people.  Or "Red" people.  Or "Yellow" or "White" people.  They are each a lighter shade of those colors.  Like me.  I'm sort of a pinkish.  I get a smooth tan in the summer, but never White.    Not White.  Never White.  I'll only be White when I'm dead.  

So why are there so many organizations and societies of "Black-centric" people?  Why do they intentionally gather together as Blacks instead of joining in with the rest of us?  Why is there a "Black Undertakers of America?"  Do they not bury White folks?  And "Black Rodeo Cowboys Association?"  The bulls don't care, BTW.  And "The National Association of Black Journalists?"  They all shade the truth, right?  It seems they missed the melting pot email!

And let's not forget the "United Negro College Fund."  I thought they no longer wished to be called "Negros."  That's what they wished to be known as when I was coming up.  But not now.  Why don't they change their name?

And on that same note, how about the NAACP, the  "National Association of Colored People."  They let us know they did not wished to be called "Colored" about 50 years ago.  Are they too cheap to change their stationery?  Should we begin calling them "Colored" again?

Why don't they wish to assimilate?  Example:  There's this cable program named "Black Entertainment Television."  And if that weren't enough, they also feature another cable program they own called "Black Her."  For the Black women in America, they say.  Maybe they should start "Black Kid."  

Now, this media empire was started back in 1980 by one Robert Johnson, a Black entrepreneur.  Who subsequently sold it, for $3 Billion Dollars, to the Paramount Skydance Network, run by David Ellison.  A White billionaire.  Making Johnson America's first Black $Billionaire.  I wonder if the Black folks who watch these cable programs each day know they're owned by a White conglomerate?  Would they stop watching if they knew?

And I wonder if they chased down Johnson and forced him to pay his "Fair Share."

So I've got this question.  Why do we have a Black TV cable program?  Aren't we sufficiently melded together as a society by now to not need one?  And if we aren't, why is there no "White Entertainment Television" cable programming?   Is there no White $Billionaire willing to jump on this business opportunity?  There are probably enough White racists to warrant their own cable channel, I'm thinking.

There's even the Black Congressional Caucus.  Which are the Black congressmen who all get together to use their combined voting heft to try and exert power over legislation.   And we talk about that crazed Left-wing bloc run by Alexandria Occasional Cortez!  Maybe they should start the "White Congressional Caucus" to ace out those pesky Black legislators.

There's the "Historically Black Colleges and Universities" in America (HBCU).  An organization of more than 100 Black colleges.  Why don't we have a (HWCU)'s in America?  And why don't we have a "White Undertakers of America?"  That only White people would use when they finally croak?  And "White Rodeo Cowboys of America?"  Roping only white cattle and horses.  And "White Journalists of America?"  All reporting the same crap as their Black brethren.  At least they got together on something, it seems. 

BTW, I looked hard for the "Black Medieval Lesbian Transgender Poets Society" but could not find it.  I'm sure there are a bunch of them, but they've yet to form an organization.  I'll keep looking and keep you posted.

And a better question, since there are more Latinos in America than Blacks, why don't we have a "Brown Entertainment TV?"  Or a "Brown Congressional Caucus?"  Or perhaps a "Red Rodeo Cowboys of America?"  There were more American Indian (Indiginous Personages) cowboys than any other kind at one time, right?  They were riding and roping on the range long before any other race got here.  Or even a "Yellow Accountants of America?"  The Asians are good with numbers, right?  Maybe they should look into this!  If it's good enough for the Black folks, it should be good enough for everyone else, right?

Or maybe we should send them a text and axx them to close down all these Black-focused outfits and try and assimilate for a change, right?  Instead of them against us, or actually against everybody, how about we're all in this together for a change?  Do we have to pay them reparations to get them to join the American Club?  I think that's a really good idea, how about you?

In fact, I think we should institute a change in our society.  I think we should never, from this day forward, mention a person's race in any context forevermore.  Except if there's a crook and the police are chasing them and identifying their race would help the cops catch them.  We can't get rid of them, nor they us.  We're sort of bound together at the hip, right?  Sort of like that 1958 film "The Defiant Ones with Sidney Potier and Tony Curtis.  They were handcuffed together.  And as much as they hated it, they were forced to work togther to break out of jail.  Let's do that on a much larger scale.  Let's try and eliminate race as a defining modifier from now on.  

In fact, Black is Beautiful, and so is Red, and Yellow, and even White.  And if "Black Lives Matter," so do White ones, and Red and Yellow ones.  Let's all get together and have a BBQ on the White House Lawn and bury the hatchet.  But not into each other for a change, okay? 

I'm betting Big Orange would be all for it.  

Sound like a good idea?       

What Caused Our Technological Explosion?

The very fastest airplane in our military inventory in 1947 was the F-86 Sabre Jet

(One of my all time favorites, BTW!)

Its statistics were impressive.  It had a maximum airspeed of 650 miles per hour in level flight.  Not quite the speed of sound, but dayumm close.  Much faster than any of our other planes.  Its first flight was on November 2, 1947.  Just a few months after the Roswell Incident.  You know what that was, right?

I provide this information because only 22 years later our astronauts landed on the moon.  22 years.  That should cause' us to ask one very important question: how did our technical mastery improve so markedly in such a short period of time?  I think I know the answer.  And you might also after you read this.

You might recall that a UFO (UAP now, ferGod'ssake!) crash landed in the desert outside Roswell, New Mexico on July 20, 1947.  There were two of them that crashed, we're told, but the other one was able to gather itself up and continue on.  And according to sources at least one of the occupants of the disabled craft may have been taken alive.  And then helped us to reverse engineer their craft in order to upgrade our techinical capability.

That, and the fact that President Dwight D. Eisenhower, while vacationing in Palm Springs in January, 1953, had a dental emergency, we were told.  He was taken to Las Vegas to a dentist's office for services, we've been told.  Except there's no evidence he actually visited a dentist while in Vegas.  There IS evidence, however, that he's reported to have been taken to Area 51 to meet, and sign an agreement with, certain visitors from, ummm, outer space.  

Aliens, doncha' know.  Not illegal ones, the OTHER kind.  The ones from, ummm, you know, "out there."

Apparently he met with these visitors to arrange a deal.  The arrangement was for us to allow these visitors to kidnap a few of our citizens each year in exchange for technical information we could use to vault our military capability over the Russians.  The information would include data on propulsion, science and electronics.  

Didn't know this, didja?

By "kidnap," it's reported these aliens could gather information from our citizens they could use to aid their research into our reproduction.  Apparently they were so advanced they were having problems with such things.  They could take sperm from men, and eggs from our women.  They were required to report to our Gubmint info about the few citizens they took.  This sounds feasible, considering all the reports we've heard over the ensuing years about people beamed aboard space craft to undergo reproductive investigation.  Such as Betty and Barney Hill back in 1958.  They were reportedly taken aboard a spacecraft and forced to offer up sperm and eggs to those who said they were from a planet 35 light years away.  And then suffered a "lost time" event.  They underwent regressive hypnosis to relive the occasion.  They each gave corroborating info and later passed lie detector tests.  

There are few who doubt their veracity.  They're in fact considered the poster children for such extraterrestrial visitations.  You could Google their story should you be interested in learning more about their activities.  

The "Grays" apparently took far more people than agreed upon over the years, it's been reported, thus violating the agreement.  Maybe they learned from the Iranians.  

For those who scoff at this, just think of myriad technological advancements we witnessed between 1947 and 1969, the year we landed on the Moon (yes, we DID land on the moon).  There were transistors, thermistors, printed circuits, integrated circuits, lasers, CT scanners and such.  Remember our first mainframe computer?  It took up an entire floor in the science building at UCLA.  And required hours to produce an answer to a simple math question.  And just a few years later, we had a computer on every desk.  And even laptops.  

These advancements came so fast it took our breath away.  And just remember that POTUS John F. Kennedy promised us in 1960 that we'd land on the Moon before the end of the decade.  It seems he had inside information, wouldn't you agree?

Think about the technological advancements we didn't see during World War 2, even though it consumed more than 55% of our Gross National Product!  One can compare those advancements to the decade that followed.  And reasonably believe that we had some help, right?

I don't know whether or not Eisenhower actually had a parlais with the Greys.  But we sure did have a technological explosion in just a few short years.  It actually makes  more sense that we did than didn't.  So I'm going to believe that it happened.  That's the romanticist in me.  How about you?  

Now that our Federal Gubmint has admitted there are UAP's, and that it has no idea what they are, or where they're from, or who's piloting them, don't you want to follow that admission up with the belief they're from another planet?  Seems reasonable to me we should just all swallow hard and admit we weren't the first society on this Planet, nor are we likely to be the last.  And if you doubt me, with all our technical mastery, we could not reproduce the Great Pyramid of Giza.  We're not the master of all that we see.  And it seems like we should finally try and prepare ourselves for the day we learn we're not the Top Dog on the Food Chain.  

That day is coming.  Are we ready?   

"Time, Effort, Energy, and Money"

"Boy, I ain't never sold nuthin' to nobody."

Or so said my Father, Leland E. Cassity.  Known as "Lee" to his friends.  He always started every bit of life advice with "Boy," so I knew to pay attention.  Dad was one of the very best salesmen who ever lived.  He kept his family in nice houses, good food and fine cars for my entire life.  And even though he was a salesman, he always said he was one without ever selling anybody anything.  He just made sure. he said, he was around when they decided to buy...  

He always said,"People only buy from those who show them how to save time, effort, energy, and money.  And sometimes grief."  To show them how.  To facilitate.  To arrange.  To broker.  To mediate.  To lead them by the hand.  To offer, and then to aid in making it all happen." 

He always said if a prospective client knows you're a salesman,  and he agrees to an appointment with you, then he's ready to buy what you're selling.  He's just looking for you to give him a reason not to.  

You just don't want to give him that reason. 

Dad said he'd do his best to get that client to see him as an expert in the area in which he was selling.  Someone who knew everything there is to know about the subject so his customer didn't have to.  And then he'd give them advice as that expert.

"Just like it's called fishing and not catching," Dad would say, "it it shouldn't be called selling.  Rather, it should be called 'buying."  

Sometimes, he said, his advice to the customer was to purchase what he was selling.  To buy some of it, or all of it.  And sometimes it wasn't.  He told me that many times he advised his propective clients not to buy what he was there to sell.  After doing a full interview of that client, he'd tell them to keep their money in their jeans.  And then he said he'd see them again sometime in the future.  And that by so doing he'd made a friend for life.  One who'd rely on his future advice on anything.  For no salesman ever intentionally advised their clients not to buy, right?  

Nobody.  Except my Dad. 

Friends, he said, are better than gold.  Friends will vouch for you to their friends.  They will recommend you and stand behind you.  They'll be other deals and other days, Dad would say.  "Never spill your candy in the lobby," he would say.  "There's a movie to see.  Take time to see it."  You never have enough friends, he would always say.  And I believed him.

Just think about that.  If you made it your business to know pretty much everything there is to know about a product or service, and make it a point to be known among the community as such, and you offered up your advice on that product or service, your client would be a certified fool not to take it.  But that requires you to actually KNOW everything.  But it takes a lot of time and study to become that expert.  A lot of time spent studying the marketplace into which that product or service is bought and sold.  And used.  Not very many people who call themselves salesmen will ever take the time to do that.  To become that expert.  Because it takes work.  A lot of work.  But Dad took that time.

And I have as well.

All I ever wanted to do was be a salesman.  Not a lawyer.  Not a doctor.  And not an Indian chief.  Their lives are way too structured.  Too programmed.  Too full of rules and regulations governing their activities.  I wanted to be a salesman.  An expert salesman, just like my Dad.  Someone who grew to know everything about my product or service, how to use it, when, why and how often.  How much it cost.  And how much its competitors' products and services cost.  And why mine was better.  Or made the lives of those who might use it better, quicker, easier and/or perhaps cheaper.  

Otherwise, Dad said, he wouldn't sell it.  And people grew to know that.    

"But the bottom line," as Dad would say, "was to save them Time.  Time can be saved, it can be used, or it can be wasted.  Or Effort.  Like time, Effort can be saved by the customer, or the effort can be wasted.  Or Energy.  Either from the electric company or their backside.  Or Grief.  How much Grief can you save the client by him buying your product or service?  And finally Money.  Either initially, or over time.  Money's almost never the most important reason to buy, regardless of what the customer tells you," Dad would say, "but Money's always on the list."

His clients would invite him to go deer or quail or duck hunting.  They'd invite him and us to BBQ's.  They'd send us a turkey at Thanksgiving.  Who do you know whose customers treat a salesman like a member of the family?  Only those salesmen who aren't seen as salesmen.  Rather, as experts who advise, and whose advice is taken and valued.

My Dad told me that one of his preferred sales methods was to advise his clients he'd be providing them, as an expert, with enough information via his presentation to make an intelligent buying decision.  And then, at the end of his presentation, he'd ask, "Have I?"  And if the client would say anything other than "Yes,"  he'd say, "Oh, I'm sorry, what did I fail to cover?"  Thus accepting the responsibility and blame for failing to fully advise.  And giving the client the chance to tell him exactly what more information (selling) he needed.  This gave Dad the opportunity to hone in on the one (or more) thing(s) the customer felt most important.  Thus bypassing all their built-in sales resistance.  And would not have have been mentioned by the customer via any other approach.  

The result of this sales method was almost always a sale.

Another thing my Dad would state is that you need to let the customer talk.  He'll tell you how he feels and what he wants if you just let him.  Most salesmen, he would say, spend all their time talking, from a prepared pitch, and never let the customer talk.  Even while the customer is making buying indications ("No wait, I'm not finished selling you yet!").  That's why they're salesmen and not expert advisors, Dad would say. 

Dad would say that salesmen and disc jockeys and guys on the radio hate dead air.  They'll talk up a storm when silence would sound better.  They're afraid, he'd say, that staying quiet will cost them the sale.  Let your client speak, he'd say.  Stay silent and learn what your client is thinking.  You have two ears and only one mouth, he'd say.  So listen twice as much as you speak and you'll be successful. 

I once interviewed a dozen solar panel salesmen to find the best deal.  One of them walked in with a package under his arm filled with recently caught sockeye salmon he'd just fished from Alaska.  He said, "Give me the sale and I'll give you the salmon."  Thinking, presumably, that doing so would secure the deal.  That guy wasn't selling solar panels, he was selling salmon.  Selling is that bad in America today.

As Woody Allen once said, "90% of life is just showing up."  I agree.  And showing up no later than 15 minutes early.  Never, ever be late.  I can truly say that I've never been late for an appointment in my entire life.  Thousands of appointments and I've never been late.  It's my Number One focus.  The customer's time is always more important than mine.  To have him see you as protective of his time is one of the very best things a salesman can do, and Number One on a good salesman's list.  And if the customer doesn't notice it, it sure doesn't hurt to mention it.

Another thing Dad would do is spend the first few minutes getting to know his customer.  Where and how he lived, what he did for a living, was he married, how many kids, their ages and sexes, etc.  And why he might need what he was selling.  No need, no sale.  But if there was a need, he'd try and prepare his sales presentation, on the fly, around it.  The customer by this time was at ease.  Not defensive.  Ready to listen, and to participate.  Disarm your client, he'd say.  Take away his natural sales resistance and become a friend.  And expert.  

My Dad sold life insurance for much of his life.  Nobody every WANTED to buy life insurance, he would say, but everybody always knew they NEEDED life insurance.  Buying life insurance made the client focus on his or her mortality, he'd say.  Nobody wants that.  Nobody wants to think about dying.  So Dad would focus on how much better it would be for their family to have financial matters covered when they pass.  Their not having to worry about money at such a painful time.  Dad said helping the customer make the buying decision of a product he knew he needed but didn't want to buy was a true art.  And Dad was an artist at doing so.

Dad would sat he'd try and paint pictures in the air with words and sell you the pictures.  Oh, and then throw in the product or service.  

Dad then gravitated to real estate.  Why this house or farm, versus that one.  And why folks should list with him versus another R.E. guy.  And once again, if you're going to pay some dude 6% of the sales price, you're going to want to opt for the guy who's an expert in the subject, he would say.  Somebody you feel will get the job done, and have your best interests at heart.  He would always tell the client, "Under all is the land.  The only thing that's real.  That's why," he'd say, "they call it REAL estate."  Another thing he'd say is, "You can never pay too much for real estate.  You can only pay it too quick."  Thus taking away the focus on price alone.  

Just like wanting the best lawyer or the best doctor, people choose the one they view as an expert.  "You don't pick a doctor 'cause they're cheaper, or a bargain basement lawyer when you're in legal  trouble.  You pick an expert," he would say, "regardless of price."  

"Once again," he would say, "be that expert."

Companies whose products or services are complicated, or difficult to understand, will hire professional salesmen/women to represent their efforts.  If they're good they're worth their salt.  They'll help you make an intelligent buying decision.  They'll save you time, effort, energy, money, and sometimes grief in the process.  It's a great profession.  I always loved it.  Be happy they're around.    

If you're going to be buying anytime soon, especially something expensive, like a house or car or a racehorse or a yacht, look for the sales professional who's an expert in his or her field.  Somebody who not only knows all the answers, but one who knows all the questions, too.  They're around.  

They're just harder to find.  

Names Are Much Better

I've been accused of knowing everything there is to know about cars.

That's not true.  I don't know everything.  I know a whole bunch, but not everything.

I used to know everything, but that was back when cars were fun.  Back before the 1990's.  Back when they were all redesigned each year.  Back when they all looked different.  From each other and from last year's model.  Back when you could tell them apart from 50' away.  Back when every 10th car was a convertible and every 5th car was a station wagoon.  Back before there were "SUV's" (pickup trucks with sedan bodies), and back before pickup trucks were bought by folks as pavement princesses.  Back when Detroit owned 92% of new car sales.  As opposed to today's 44%. 

There's an old Arab saying:  "Never let a camel get his nose under your tent.  Pretty soon you'll have a camel in your tent."  Detroit has a camel in its tent.

Detroit should be ashamed of itself.  Their executives sat back, collected $Millions, and watched the Germans and the Japanese and the Koreans and the Italians and the English eat our lunch.  

And they're on their second desert. 

Back when cars had names like Impala (Chevy).  And Bonneville (Pontiac).  And Belvedere (Plymouth).  And Galaxie (Ford).  And Saratoga (Chrysler).   And Azure (Bentley) and Golden Hawk (Studebaker) and Starfire (Oldsmobile).  And not numbers.  Ahhh, numbers!  Maybe their marketing departments have run out of creativity.  They're no longer able to come up with neat names.  I'm so bummed!  This number thing really sucks, and I'll bet you agree with me!

I'm addicted to cars.  Some people are addicted to cocaine, or heroin, or alcohol, or crack.  Or porn, even.  I'm addicted, on the other hand, to cars.  I've owned 127 of them.  From 409 Chevy's to 911 Porsches.  From  Rolls-Royces, to Volkswagen Beatles.  From Cad Eldorado Biaritzes to Corvettes.  From Monte Carlos to Mercedes-Benz's.  From Bentleys to Oldsmobiles. And I loved every one of them.  And I wish I had all of them back again.

I even owned 5 of them at one time while I was in in the Army in Germany.  It only provided me with 2 license plates and I had to keep juggling them between the cars to keep the politzei from towing them.  Ahhh, the problems of owning so many cars.

I have memorized everyone of Detroit's "Big Three" car models and engine cubic inches, torque and horsepower ratings from 1955 to 1990.  And if that's not enough, I have every paint color of every one of the "Big Three" from 1955 to 1990 all memorized.  And their interior color options, too.  Why?  Why not?  As I said, I was addicted.  Example:  It's okay to have a strange hobby, right?  My 1962 Chevy Impala Super Sport 409 cubic inch, 409 horsepower Impala was painted a beautiful Honduras Maroon with black bucket seat interor.  Oh, and a 3:70:1 "Posi-Trac" rear end gear ratio.  

I owned it while the Beach Boys' record was on the charts, BTW.  "Giddy Up, Giddy Up 409!"    

As I said, I would still own them, except I had no place to store them.  I owned 11 of them at one time back in the '90's.  Four car garage, four car driveway, and 3 on the street out front.  And they were all beautiful, even the 2 slow ones.  Some of them are true collectors items today.  The 427 Corvette with all 4 off-road options is worth a cool $250,000 today.  The 409 Chevy is worth at least $100,000.  The '53 Mercedes-Benz 300D Cabriolet ganster wagon I owned in Germany is worth at least $200,000.*  The '54 Bentley is worth at least $60,000.  The '66 Porsche 911 is worth at least $50,000.

I'd be a multi- multi-millionaire if I still owned them.  I have ongoing nightmares over having to sell them.  Oh, to have owned a warehouse to store them!  And enough $Cash to hire a mechanic to look after them.  While I moved all about the country and raised a family and grew my career and businesses.  And that's exactly why I had to sell them.  So I don't hate myself too much for letting them go.  A little bit, but not too much.   

I'll provide this unassuming little blog with a full listing of all the cars I've owned in a future posting.  But for today, I'll just provide my opinion as to why I think cars have ceased to be fun.  And "fun" is a major part of why people buy cars.  Or at least they used to.  And realizing they're not fun anymore is why fewer are bought.  Example:  Detroit sold 22 million cars in 1966.  It will sell fewer than 11 million this year.  

It has to do with them being called by "numbers" instead of "names."  Numbers, I believe, have no soul.  No heartbeat.  Unless they have to do with the size of the motor or the horsepower rating.  They don't elicit excitement.  They don't cause you to break out in a cold sweat when you hear their names or think about how they look. They used to.  And here's my proof.

There are 19 separate models in the Mercedes-Benz lineup, as an example.  Expensive German cars.  Known to everyone as the pinnacle of the car market.  On everybody's list to buy when they win the lottery or graduate from medical school.  Yet, nobody knows anything about them.  Especially what they're called.  I'm about to change that.  You just won the lottery, let's say.  You call your M-B dealer and ask him to tell you about his new car inventory.  He says, "Sure!"  And proceeds to do so.  He provides a complete run-down, from least to most expensive, along with their prices.  So as not to bore you, here's a partial listing of them, along with their base pricing: 

     -  GLA         $45,825

     -  GKV         $49,235

     -   "C"          $52,850

     -  CLA          $53,475

     -  EQB          $61,467   

     -    "E"         $67,040

     -  EQS          $88,973

     -  EQE          $91,230

     -   "SL"       $118,520

     -    "S"        $135,180

     -    "G"        $216,460 

Back in the good old days you would call your brother-in-law and tell him you just bought a new Pontiac Catalina convertible.  "Mahogany" brown with the Saddle bucket seats and matching color top.  Optioned with the 4-speed transmission and Posi-traction.  With the top-of-the-line 389 cubic inch motor and 3 x 2 barrel curburetors.  348 horsepower to get your heart started.  And your brother-in-law would be drooling over it.  And be asking you when he'd get to drive it.  

Today?  You call you brother-in-law and tell him you hit the lottery and just bought a new, top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz EQS.  $90,000 worth of M-B luxury.  And he'd say, "What's an EQS?"  

Exactly...

*          One of the cars I owned in Germany at the same time was a 300D Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet.  A 19' long 4 door convertible.  Near perfect condition.  Collectors item.  I also owned a 1965 Porsche 911, a  1969 Volkswagen Beetle, a 1955 Volkswagen Beetle, and a 1967 Alfa Romeo Guilia Spyder.  A good friend and fellow G.I. really liked the 300D and wanted to buy it.  I was shipping the Porsche and the '69 VW.  As he was getting out sooner than I was, I offered to sell it to him if he'd pick up my Porsche in Bayonne, N.J. and drive it to my home in Missouri.  He agreed.  Even though it was worth a lot, I sold him the 300D for $100.  I signed over the Porsche, gave him the keys, he picked it up in N.J. and drove it to my MO home.  Some 1,200 miles away.  He handed the keys over to my Dad.  It was there when I got home.  And I never saw or talked to him again.  That's what's called trust.  And honor...

We're Doing it all Wrong.

We're born, we go to school, we graduate.  Then go to work for more than half our lives.  At a job or career we may dislike.  Then presumably play golf at the Villages for a decade, living off our retirement.  Then we die.  Is that it?  Is that to be our lives?  I'd say we're going it all wrong.  Let's see if you agree with me..

My Dad was a modern day Will Rogers.  He offered up sage advice on a recurring basis.  He once said, "Boy, you got to do a lotta' stuff in this life if you want to be successful.  That which works, keep on doing.  That which don't, stop."

 I've been thinking that it's wholly unrealistic of us to expect a kid in his late teens to choose a career path and then stick to it for his whole life.  

Just because you enjoyed the Indiana Jones movies doesn't mean you should be an archeologist.  Maybe you won't enjoy endless hours digging in the dirt.  In the heat.  Sweating like a Turk.  But you won't know until you try.  But by then, you've got that expensive degree and a gigondo student debt.  Too late to change careers.

Most of us need a job when we get out of high school.  To pay for the rent and the Mustang.  The Post Office is hiring.  They offer you a job.  And you start delivering somebody else's mail.  For 30 or 40 or 50 years.  Day in and day out.  Driving that uncomfortable little car.  Putting mail in peoples' mailboxes.  You hate it but can't quit.  It's no surprise to me that some folks wind up shooting up a pizza parlor.

And it's the same for Iowa farmers.  And Detroit automakers.  And Mississippi furniture builders.  And pharmacists.  And police.  And doctors.  Who are, BTW, our Number One group to commit suicide.  It seems being a doctor isn't quite as wonderful as it sounded when our kids went to medical school.  I've known 10,000 doctors and I can tell you for sure this is true.

I'd say we're doing it all wrong.  I'd say we should have our yout (what's a yout?) go to college only after a stint in the military.  And then a job or two after getting out.  Maybe don't go to school until they're in their mid- to late 20's.  I'd say doing that would help our young people have a better idea of what they want to do with their lives after growing up a little.  Seeing the world.  Having a few different jobs.  They'd do better in college, and be laser focused on what job they want, and happier in their lives.  

I did.  And still decided to become a salesman.  After a tour in the Army and visiting 37 countries.  My best friend worked with me in sales for several years before deciding to become a lawyer.  And he never looked back.  Happier than a clam. 

Not everybody is Josh Gates.  He decided to become an Indiana Jones lookalike and has made a fabulous career doing so.  Maybe you'd do the same.  But I'm advocating for America doing what 33 other countries do: have our youth spend at least 2 years in the military.  Or at least in Americorp.  Or working with the blood bank.  Or painting yellow stripes down the center of the roads.  Giving something back to the Country that birthed and protected them.  But not heading off to an expensive college or university to become a ___ without knowing, for sure, that this is what they want to be.

Our society is set up on what's called "Golden Handcuffs."  You become that mail carrier and you're lashed to the Post Office by your 401(k).  Forever.  That retirement is not portable so you'd lose it by quitting.  The same with being a teacher.  Every career job is the same.  They don't want to keep recruiting all the time so they make it desirable for their employees to stay where they are and painful for them to leave.  Garbage men, included.  

Don't let your children get caught by those "Golden Handcuffs."  Don't let them hate their lives because they weren't smart enough to make an informed choice when they were 19.  Their marriages might suffer, their job performance might suffer, their mental health might suffer.  And you're in a position to stop it.  

My Dad also once said, 

"You work 8 hours a day to pay for the 8 hours you're not working.  Then sleep for 8 to get ready to go back to work.  For decades.  Don't settle for a job or a career you hate so much it gives you insomnia..."  

Escalade!

While you and I weren't watching, Cadillac started putting eeeenormous prices on their Escalade window stickers.  And their dealers started selling them like crack.

As in, $91,439 for the base, unloaded, no luxury model, to $93,332 for the base with the luxury package.  Up 30% in just the past 5 years.    

I didn't stutter.  For what is today's station wagon, Cadillac thinks it's a good idea to sell Escalade's for near $100,000.  Except they do.  Next step up is the Escalade with the high-zoot luxury package at $120,455.  And if you want the super desirable "V" model, with the 620 horsepower Corvette motor, the window is...ready for it?...$172,223.  That's the price of a house in Salina, Kansas.  Where I used to live.  Or in 40 of the other 50 states.  

Oh but wait!  Since there's "only" 556 of those "V's" nationwide, the Cadillac dealers are routinely putting a "market adjustment" on top of the Manufacturer's Suggested Retail Pricing," or MSRP.  And the average of all "market adjustments" nationwide is now $25,000!  It goes from a paltry $10,000 for the lesser models, to upwards of $50,000 for the "V" model.  So, for a "V," with the average $4,000 of dealer add-ons, for window tint, interior treatment, paint protection, door edge guards and nitrogen in the tires, et-friggin'-cetra, we're talking $200,000 for an SUV.  That immediately loses an average of $50,000 in depreciation the very instant you drive it off the dealers lot.

(Note:  The average price of a 5-year old Escalade nationwide is $25,000.  Much less if its a "miley."  As in, more than say 50,000 miles.  And as little as $15,000 if its a bit rough.

And oh by the way, the dealers will tell you that since these add-on items like window tint and alarm and door edge guards are already installed in every car they have, they say, they cannot be removed (!).  So you have to buy them.  Too bad, so sad.  Of course, you can negotiate them out of those items, but you have to work at it.  And it's painful to do so.  That's why people hate dealers so very much.

(Note:  There's a company called "Deliverd" that will negotiate a deal for you for an all-inclusive price of $1,000.  They'll find the car, get the best price, arrange the trade-in and handle the documents and shipping, if necessary, at no extra price.  Flat fee.  That's all they do.  Keeping you from having to do business with these miserable slimy deaers.  Sounds like a deal to me!)

Sometimes car manufacturer's will make and sell cars that are instant collector's items.  Cars that hold their value, or even increase over time.  Cars like the original 1960's Ford Mustang or the newer "Dark Horse."  Or the Corvette "ZR-1."  Or the Toyota 1990's Supra.  Or the Ford Bronco.  Or the Toyota Land Cruiser.  But you almost never know which new car will attain that status until time passes.  

For those that don't know, an "SUV" is nothing but a pickup truck with a Givenchy suit of clothes.  A station wagon body on the back of a pickup truck.  Folks like me who've been around for awhile know that pickup trucks used to sell for $20,00 or so.  And then somebody in their marketing department said, "You know what, if we put a high-zoot interior in them, and a special sound system, and a big-ass motor, we might be able to get another $20,000 on top of the usual price."  And so it began.  From $20,000 to $200,000 in a very short time.  

That's why I spent my career in marketing.  Where the rubber meets the road.

So I'd suggest if you really, REALLY want an Escalade, for whatever reason, buy or lease one used.  The depreciation will have already done its dirty deed, the "dealer add-ons" and "dealer market adjustments" will have been lost in the wash, and the usual updates and new car whoopsies will have been handled.  And you can then buy one with a few thousand miles for $50,000 or $60,000 or $70,000 off MSRP.  

And again, much more off if you don't have to pay the "market adjustment."  

Excuse me, my fingers wouldn't type those numbers without a lot of work.  I had to try several times in order to get them down on paper without throwing up.  But I did.  Don't thank me.  That's why God put me here.

It never ceases to amaze me that folks will buy the second most expensive item in their lives like they'd buy a cup of ice cream at Baskin-Robbins.  They drive into the dealer with a smile on their faces and a fat wallet, not knowing they're going to get taken for an expensive ride.  The dealer knows every trick in the book to remove the maximum amount of bucks from their wallets, yet they still buy.  So they can turn heads as they drive home.  So they can look over their shoulders at their shiny new trophy as they walk into their homes.  Without knowing they've been screwed to the wall by the professionals whose job it is to do that.  And it's all legal.  Legal theft.  What I would call a scam, but that's just me.

You're an idiot if you go for this.  If you buy one of these expensive toys when a Chevy Tahoe, or a GMC would do just as well, as they're on the same truck platform, you're the guy the car salesmen are trained to skin like a beaver.

And they do it.  Every. Single. Day.

  

A Quick Drive Down Memory Lane...

I just got back from the discount gas station.  I filled up my car for a nice, round $92.00.  Or, roughly twice as much as my previous record for a fill-up.  And not in a muscle car.  Making California the place where people go broke who don't wish to walk.

And while there, I stuck a credit card in the pump, took out the nozzle, put it in my car, pumped it full, and then took the nozzle out and returned it.  Oh, and checked my own oil and washed my own windows.  Mine was the labor that served me that day.  Making me wistful for the "Good Ol' Days."  And giving me cause to write this blog posting.  So sit back, grab an adult beverage, and take a quick drive with me down Memory Lane to learn what it was like in my storied yout ("What's a yout?")

I hate those people who start their blog postings with, "Back in the good old days."  But I'm going to start this posting with, "Back in the good old days," because the days were good back then.  And simple. And enjoyable.  And inexpensive.  And fun.  Unlike my visit to the local gas station I recalled above.  Which was expensive, noisy, smelly, and required of me to work for myself without pay.  In other words, awful.  

When I was young and dumb and a little bit crazy, I lived in a little Midwestern town where the only source of fun with our pants on was driving our muscle cars up and down the 4-lane highway.  We had two fat cops in 6-cylinder Plymouths, and one State Trooper named Dick Defreece in a light blue Dodge.  And when things got dull we'd do a burnout in front of one of them where they could see us, they'd chase us, and then we'd outrun them.  

Just for fun.

The 4-lane in our town was about 6 miles long.  And we'd go from one end to the other, flashing our lights at our friends, and maybe giving them a little beep from our horns.  And God help us if we failed to flash or honk.  They'd think we didn't like them anymore, and it could end in a fistfight.  We'd then turn around, rev our engines, dump our clutches and lay a yuuuge strip of rubber as we ran up through the gears.  Getting some scratch each time we power shifted. And then we'd do it all over.  

And when we ran out of gas, we'd pull into the local Phillips 66 station or Citgo station or Sunoco station or Mobil station to get some more.  Push juice.  Motion lotion.  And it was a pleasure.

Because back in those days, there was an old guy in a denim jumpsuit who'd come out to serve us when he heard that ding-a-ling from the hose.  The one that occurred when you ran over the ring thingie.  He'd ask how he could help us.  We say, "Fill 'er up!"  He'd then start the gas flowing.  Alway Hi-Test, 93 octane to be sure.  (Which is no longer available, BTW).  He'd then check our oil and the air pressure in our tires, and wash our windows.  All around.  By then he'd be finished pumping gas.  We'd give him our credit card  or tell him to charge it to our account, and then make our way back on to the 4-lane to do it all over again.  

Happily.

Because back then there was a "GAS WAR."  The various gas companies were in competition with each other for market share.  Mobil was trying to undercut Sinclair, and Shell was trying to undercut Phillips.  The essence of capitalism.  So they'd each keep on lowering their prices to capture our business.  They'd keep doing so, a penny at a time, until they reached Rock Bottom.  I recall the least I ever paid when that bottom was reached.  Are you ready?

            $19 CENTS A GALLON! 

Imagine filling up a 409 Chevy or a 427 Ford or a 426 Plymouth for, ummm, $4.00?  We did it.  And thought nothing of it.  I'm so sorry those days are behind me.  Be advised "change for the sake of change" is not necessarily a good thing.  No, not at all.  Not when you're filling up for $90.00.

Sometimes we'd fill up two or even three times a night.  Our driving only broken up by an occasional trip to the Dairy Queen.  Where we'd back into a parking space next to one of our friends in some other delicious car, and then open our hoods so everyone could see our massive motors.  All dressed up with a cromed this and a chromed that.  Boy, were we proud of ourselves! 

I remember we had a farmer named Terry Smith.  He had a 1963 1/2 Ford Galaxie Lightweight.  Its fenders and hood and trunk lid were all fiberglass and its windows were so thin they were barely there.  This was all done to make it so light he could win drag races against the hated Chevy 427's.  He'd drive into the DQ with his car on a trailer and then park it so all could drool.  I wish I knew then what I know now as that car is now worth a cool $250,000 on the collector market.  

But then again, my 409/409 Chevy Impala Super Sport, 4-speed, posi-trac, honduras maroon with black buckets, would bring a nice $100,000, too. 

We'd get ourselves an order of tater tots and a cherry coke which cost $0.25 cents.  And by the time we were finished somebody had arranged a drag race.  To be held at the "Old Highway."  The highway in Bear Lake Bottoms.  And then all the cars would peel out and head to the drags.

BTW, I had a friend who worked at a printing company.  We printed up a bunch of "BLBTA" stickers and sold them for a nickle so we could put them on our bumpers.  It stood for the "Bear Lake Bottoms Timing Association."  Or some said, "Better Leave Betty's Tits Alone."  I liked both.

The New Highway 36 had left the old one unused and growing grass between the cracks in its concrete.  But it was good enough for 30 or 40 of us to head that way nearly every night and proceed to race a little bit.  We even had radios for the designated spotters to wait at each end so the highway patrol couldn't snag us.  Our spotters would let us know if Dick Defreece* was on the way so we could all jump into our cars and make like a bananna and split.  Otherwise, we'd race for at least an hour or two.  Bonfire raging, beer guzzling, tires burning, the smell of burnt oil hanging blue smoke in the air.  Winter or summer, no matter.  Drags almost every night.  Was it dangerous?  Sure.  Did anyone ever get hurt?  No.

And then we'd go fill up again, get our oil checked and air pressure checked, windows washed, and another $4.00 worth of gas to get burned up.  Sweet 93 octane out the tailpipes.  Yummm!

Just for a change of pace we might go to the Highway 65 Drive-In and watch a movie or two.  And then go park out in the weeds with our girlfriends.  Then go home for some much needed Zzzzz's to get ready for tomorrow night.

Then we'd do it all over again.  And it was amazing!  I might mention we had 11 American Hot Rod Association record holders in our town of less than 10,000.  The fastest cars in every class.  Everyone was smitten with speed!  We loved it!  I still love it! 

Now?  We all drive 5 mph under the speed limit 'cause we cannot afford BoyGuv's 87 octane "summer blend" gas.  And also because there's jillions of cops on the road just lusting to take us to the slammer.  The Gray Bar Hotel.  And tow our cars.  And steal our money. The money we worked hard for.  The road pirates we hire with our tax money to rob us blind!  

We can afford the gas in Oklahoma, BTW, and Texas, and Kansas, and Tennessee, and Arkansas, and all the other states not named Taxifornia.  Where it's $4.00 a gallon.  But here we can't.  Too bad, so sad.  Gas is like a precious comodity, to be priced like gold.  It should be sold to us by the c.c. insted of the gallon.  Only those who've been born and raised here, and know no better, are immune to bitching about it.  They think this is normal.  Like the Uyghurs in China who are held as captives.  Robbed of their organs and made to work as slaves.  The rest of us know we're being taken for a ride, and not in a good way.  

I sure do hope you feel better having read this.  As for me, conjuring up all these memories from "way back when," I feel worse.  Mucho Worso.  That's Spanish, I think.  Please just forget you read it and I'll forget that I wrote it.  And then like the guy with a feather up his ass, we'll both be tickled... 

*     Dick Defreece was our one and only resident Missouri State Trooper.  He'd arrested me so often for traffic crimes he had my driver's license number memorized.  Including twice on my 19th birthday.  It seems driving 140 mph in my brand new 1962 409 Chevy Impala Super Sport was not acceptable.  It was a birthday present to myself and I thought opening it up just a bit seemed reasonable.  I'd gotten a total of 23 speeding and careless and reckless tickets in the preceding year, so I was expecting to get the notice from the State my driving priveledges were suspended.  Except, Kelsey Reeter, the Sheriff, had failed to send the State its copy of my tickets (and everybody else's, too!).  Thus causing the statute of limitations to run out on them.  So oopsie!  Tickets all cancelled.  

It seems Kelsey was too busy romancing his Black hooker girlfriend to do his day job.  And we know it's true, 'cause the State inspectors who'd come to check on him found her bare footprints on the inside of his patrol car.  I wonder how that happened?  Another big oopsie, I'd say...