"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...

"First, Kill All the Lawyers,"

We all remember this quote from Dick the Butcher, now don't we? (Henry VI, Part 2).

It occurs in Act IV, Scene 2.  It is meant as a tribute to attorneys by Shakespeare, noting that the character who spoke this line wished to cause chaos, and to do so he first had to eliminate all the lawyers.  They serve as the "glue" that holds a society together, Shakespeare believed, and Dick also thought, and only by eradicating them can true chaos occur.  And true chaos was the his goal.  

Flash forward to America today.  Did you know we have 1,366,000 lawyers in America?  That compares to the same number in India, which has one billion more people.  And 300,000 in China, which has one billion more people.  I'd guess you need permission from the State to sue in China, BTW.  And only 144,000 in all of Canada, with 44,000,000 people.  Those Canadians are super nice people, doncha' know.  Eh?  

In short, we've got one serious bunch of lawyers.

I often wondered back when I was in business when we'd reach the tipping point.  That point where there were so many lawyers they'd have to sue each other to make their rent.

Did you know the average salary of a lawyer today is $155,000?  The lawyers I know work hard for every penny they earn, so I'd say they're underpaid.   And they went to school for 7 years to get that license to practice.  Did you know that UPS pays their truck drivers $176,000 a year?  And a college degree is not required?  And Amazon starts their long-haul truckers at $16Ok a year?  Again, no college degree necessary.  And ferriers (horse shoers) earn about $250,000 a year, playing with horses and breathing the fresh air all day long?  Just thought you'd like to know.  

Did you know that 48 of the 100 Senators in our Congress are lawyers?  And 35% of all the Congressweenies in the House of Representatives are lawyers?  I sort of feel sorry for all our legislators who AREN'T lawyers.  I'm guessing the lawyers all sit at the same tables in the cafeteria, making non-lawyers feel like second class citizens.  Members of the same club, doncha' know.  Kinda' like it was back in high school.  The jocks all palled around together and the braniacs were personna non grata.  That last bit is Latin, doncha' know.

I'd like you to think about this:  We elect legislators to go to Washington to do what?  Make new laws!  We don't need no more stinkin' laws!!!  We've got so many we can't even comprehend them!  And the lawyers we send to Congress to make new laws generally don't know squat about business.  All they know is the law!  So they write laws that may in fact be in conflict with the best interests of business.  And the public.  Which is what keeps the turnstyle turning!  Please tell me you know this makes no sense at all!

Did you know that the only colors that look good on lawyers are black and tan (the colors of doberman pinchers)?

Do you know why sharks never attack lawyers?  (Professional courtesy.)

Did you know what they call 100 lawyers lashed together and marched into the sea?  A good start...

A good divorce lawyer charges about $800 or $900 an hour.  Or even more.  In fact, were God to give me the chance to do it all over, I'd actually study in school the 2nd time around and become a divorce lawyer in Hollywood.  The current divorce rate is 50%, and the average marriage lasts but 7 years (same as my first one), plus all those actors are rich.  Imagine snagging a JLo and Ben!  So I'd just get a nice office, hang out my shingle, buy a billboard on Hollywood Boulevard, and wait. 

Or perhaps a criminal defense attorney.  You can charge an arm and a leg, or at least a leg.  And if you don't get the perp off, he goes to the slammer, and can't hurt you.  Better even than a plastic surgeon.  They charge more, but you might have to perform do-overs.  Or deal with their husbands.

Did you know Taxifornia has 366,000 laws on its books?  66,000 more even than the Federal Gubmint.  Twice as many as New York State, and three times as many as Illinoway.  You'd think they'd take a law off the books each time they wrote a new one, wouldn't you?  Except they don't.  They just leave them active, festering, awaiting some crafty lawyer to dig them up so they can beat the crap out of a city or a prosecuting attorney for their client.  

Even though beauticians must go to school for two years, cops only go to school for 28 weeks to get certified.  And much of it isn't even on the law.  They're only trained on the laws that bring in the major bucks.  Like DUI's and speeding and such.  Does that make sense to you?  Not to me!  

So lawyers are necessary to know the laws the cops don't, and neither do we.  The lawyers know that but the cops don't.  The cop arrests you for a non-violation, or violates your civil rights, and the lawyer gets you off.  All's then great in the Land, except you're out the $5,000 for the lawyer.  And the cop doesn't even get his hand slapped (indemnity, doncha' know). 

BTW, my best friend is a lawyer, so I don't paint them all with the same brush.  He's a great guy and I don't think less of him for choosing this profession.  Don't hold it against him at all.  I forgave him a long time ago.  In fact, I learned from him to be afraid, very afraid, because anyone with a law degree can sue anyone else at anytime for just the $125 filing fee.  And they do.  Often.  

I'd suggest you make sure at least one of the girls in your family marries a lawyer so you get a discount on your legal fees.  I'd say to try and get the help for free, except lawyers don't do that.  A plumber or electrician just might, but never a lawyer...

Through my lawyer buddy I learned a bunch about business law, and actually managed to practice it for my own company for 40 years.  During this time I sued 13 hospitals in small claims court and won them all.  Hospitals do not as a rule pay their bills on time, or sometimes at all.  They believe Net Payment - 30 Days means Net Payment - Never (their Chief Financial Officer's are chosen from among the top used car salesmen, where honesty is considered a personal failing), so they need a good suing every now and again.  They need slapping around a bit.  And not enough folks do it.   

I personally suggest that everyone go to law school because our society is so litigious.  Or perhaps an associates degree from the local junior college.  Everyone threatens to sue everybody else these days, and some do.  So if you intend to do business, and unless you have the means to hire lawyers (or have one in your family), it's best to know all about the law.  Or have an Only-Fans girlfriend to provide you with the cash to keep an attorney on retainer.

On the way out the digital door, my advice is to try and avoid cops to the maximum extent possible.  Keep your head down and don't make eye contact.  The same as gazelles tiptoeing among the lions on the Serengheti.  But when one of them gets you in his crosshairs, it's a great idea to have an attorney on speedial.  One who'll rush right out and save your butt.  Only by so doing can average citizens like you expect to keep your money in your pocket, your ass out of jail, and lead a happy, uneventful life... 

   

"Look Ahead"

The aircraft carrier John C. Stennis, CVN-74 as it's known, is one of our largest nuclear powered ships.  It's 1,088' long, 244' tall, and weighs in at a yuuuuge 103,000 tons.  To give you a comparison, the famous Titanic was 880' long and weighed in at 46,000 tons.  In short, the Stennis is One Big Ship!

It's powered by two Westinghouse nuclear reactors, making it possible for this ship to run around the clock full speed at 30 knots for up to 30 years.*  That's impressive!

The Stennis is staffed by 3,500 personnel whose job it is to keep this enormous floating weapon of war running.  They take care of everything necessary to keep the Stennis humming along.  Think of them as the folks who run the hotel.  Plus, another 2,500 pilot and maintenance folks who man (and woman) the (up to) 90 aircraft on board.  The pilots and maintenance personnel fly in from 7 separate air groups stationed around the nation.  Making this ship the home while on maneuvers for up to 6,500 seamen.  

Think of that.  I come from a place where there are towns with fewer citizens than that.  And even though my neighbors were armed and considered dangerous back home, they're nowhere near as dangerous as these folks.

Why do I tell you all this?  Because a few years back my wife and I were invited to join a select few corporate leaders and tour this giant ship.  We met at the Navy's North Island in San Diego to be prepped for our trip out to the ship.  We spent a few hours being briefed for the flight, and then boarded the C2-A "Greyhound" twin engine transport for the flight.  This plane serves as the "gofer" for the Stennis.  It takes people to and from the ship, as well as bringing up to 10,000 pounds of parts and supplies on each trip.  These planes have no insulation to protect your ears, so when the twin engines, and their 10-foot long propellers get going, you definitely need ear protection.  

We strapped ourselves in, as did the two dozen other "VIP's," for our flight.  They included the CEO of the Golf Channel, the Bishop of Phoenix, the Exec. V.P. of Verizon, and others.  We were to meet the Stennis after flying about 125 miles southwest of San Diego.  Each of us were invited to the cockpit to visit with the pilots on the way out and be briefed on the flight.  Very soon we could see the Stennis out the cockpit windows, way off in the distance, preparing for our arrival.

We slammed down on the flight deck in what can only be considered a controlled crash.  We went from about 150 mph to a complete stop in about 100 feet.  That's about 7 negative "G's."  The arresting cable did its job and we were safely aboard the Stennis.  We were then met by Captain Brad Johannsen and our tour began. 

Darkness came upon us quickly.  There was no moon that night so we were treated to what's called "night ops."  That's where they plan for an assault or defensive maneuvers by turning off all the lights and running dark.  Only pencil thin red lights shined straight up from the deck to illuminate the operations (you can't see red at night).  We went to the catwalk some 244' up and got to watch all the F-18 Hornets and Super Hornets get launched into the air.  They departed every 30 seconds, and then after flying out 20 miles and back around, landing one each minute.  This was exhilirating!   It also provided us with proof our Navy knows how to manage the toys we give them to play with.  And filled me, and I presume the others, with a great sense of pride in America.

After a sumptous dinner hosted by the Captain, our other meals aboard were provided in their mess halls.  You could eat pretty much whatever you wanted, as the ship operates 24 hours a day.  So breakfast to dinner is always available.  And each of the three mess halls can host more than 500 seamen.  Ever watch 400 eggs being fried at once?  I have.

We were able to walk the flight deck the next morning as operations don't begin until 10:00 a.m.  So we got to see all the staff jogging the deck while we walked it.  It's covered with something like the bottom of your tennis shoes to keep the planes from sliding off during maneuvers (more on this later!).  

We toured the hanger deck next.  It's situated right below the flight deck, and that's where the planes are stored when not parked on the deck.  It is yuuuuge!  It's about 800' long, 200' wide and about 80' tall.  It will hold 90 planes!  It could also host a football game with 2,000 people watching to give you a size comparison.  There are 4 elevators to bring the jets to the flight deck when needed.

Did you know they can completely rebuild a jet engine while at sea?  They do so in the aft workshop staffed by 20-somethings who surely have a top-paying job waiting when they get out.  They test the engines once rebuilt by strapping them to frames and cranking them up while pointed out the back of the ship.  I'm guessing they could also help push this ship and save electrons.

The anchor chain for this ship is 1,000 feet long.  Each of the links in the chain is the size of a washing machine and weighs in at 388 pounds.  The anchor is 15 feet tall and weighs 4,500 pounds!  We got to watch it deployed and it is LOUD! 

We met and spoke with the pilots of these hot rod F-18's while aboard.  They are all about 25 years old and make Tom Cruise look ugly.  These are the guys who'll be piloting your airplane someday after they gete out as you go to visit your Aunt Maude.  

The steam catapults that sling these planes into the air are managed by several seamen directly under the conning tower.  There are two of them and they're enormous.  They launch the planes from a dead stop to 180 miles per hour in only 100 feet in just slightly more than 3 seconds.  It's a remarkable thing to watch.  There are two of them and they can work simultaneously from each of the two flight decks.

The arresting cables are the diameter of your arm and are maintained by these same folks.  There are four of them situated every 50 feet across the deck.  That gives pilots something to aim for.  They hope for their arresting tail hook to hit the second one.  When they slam down they immediately hit the gas and go into afterburner.  That's because the arresting cable might break and for safety's sake they don't want to wind up in the drink.  These cables must be rebuilt every 200 landings. 

We toured almost all the ship's inner workings.  It has four barber shops, a grocery store, a chapel, 3 doctors offices, 5 day rooms for reading and game playing, a laundry and dry cleaner, and billiard room, of all things.

One of my favorites on the tour was the four "C3-PO-looking" gatling guns positioned at each side, both forward and aft of the ship.  Should any missile or drone or enemy plane make it through the multi-layered defenses of the Stennis, these 7-barrel electric machine guns will start laying down 6,000 rounds per minute of .50 caliber fire.  A "wall of lead" no enemy weapon can penetrate.  Serious stuff. 

Toward the end of our tour we met the captain where he works.  That's up in the pilot house where the controls of the ship are located.  He began to tell us about how the ship operates when all of a sudden he got an emergency call.  He cut short the tour, excused himself, and immediately ordered the guy controlling the ship to make a hard shift to starboard.  As is, a 30 degree turn.  Over on its side it went.  Enough of a turn that several of our group were thrown out of their chairs and onto the floor.  He then told us they were in a planned maneuver and being pursued by a Danish submarine.  It was trying to "kill" us, he said, and that they were doing their best to do so.

CPT Johanssen said they'd met the Danish sub captain in a bar some days before and agreed to buy them a "tank of gas" if they'd try and do us in.  So they plotted to sink the Stennis while the complete floatilla of 10 ships supporting the Stennis tried to keep them from doing so.  Two cruisers, two submarines, two support supply vessels, two destroyers and a helicopter landing craft.  It seems the Danish sub had managed to sneak in and crept to within 8 miles of the Stennis.  That, we learned, is within torpedo range.  That caused the emergency call to CPT Johanssen and the excitement we all got to witness.  Just imagine an aircraft carrier so far on its side the planes might slip off were it not for the material on the deck.  Just imagine the ship trying not to be destroyed and you've got the idea. 

He gave us each a baseball cap when it was over, plus a coffee mug and a complementary book to take home as sourvenirs.  The "almost" dying from a Danish sub was my favorite souvenir of the trip.

After tours of many more parts of the ship (except the Combat Operations Center, which is secret), all too quickly we prepared to leave.  We gathered in the ship's airport lounge (what it's called) just like you'd do if you were on land.  And when our Greyhound was gassed and ready we made our way single file and up the rear of the plane.  It cranked up its engines to prepare for take off, and when ready, pushed the throttles forward.  The catapult snapped and just like that we were jolted from a dead stop to 140 mph.  The noise was enough to break your eardrums were we not wearing protection.  And thank God for that, as I was screaming every swear word I knew at the top of my lungs as we lifted off in the 6 positive "G's."  Nobody heard me, of course, and I'm happy to say so. 

We landed back at North Island, made our way to our cars and drove on home.  I have to say this was the trip of a lifetime.  As a military veteran I can tell you I was in heaven.  My wife, being from New York City, was lukewarm to the idea of this trip.  I forced her to go knowing she'd be impressed.  Being a red-blooded patriot, she was.  She couldn't stop talking about it, nor could I.  How many civilians do you know who've had the chance to visit an aircraft carrier while on maneuvers?  I'm guessing zero.  But I have, and I'm in debt to the U. S. Navy both for the invitation and for the tour.    

Oh, by the way, "Look Ahead, and Stay Ahead," is the Stennis' motto.  Stennis was a Senator from Alabama and mainly responsible for the amazing radar systems these ships now sport.  They can see a danger coming from more than 120 miles away, way past the curvature of the Earth.  So they're certainly "looking ahead." 

These ships are worth the $4.5 Billion Dollars they cost, as far as I'm concerned.  As people live on average within 70 miles of the ocean around the globe, these floating airports can bring America's strength to every part of the Earth.  Be happy they're here to protect us... 

*  The Stennis is now in for a complete update.  It's berthed in Newport News, VA, and is undergoing a five year rebuild there, including a recharge of its reactors.  This refurbishment is expected to cost some $1.8 Billion Dollars.  We have 9 other "flattops" keeping us safe while this is going on. 

Reimagining Modern Medicine

You may not know it, but I spent more than 50 years in the medical field.  

First as a guy selling the newest and the most amazing technologies to doctors and hospitals.  And later on while starting and running a company bringing acute dialysis and related treatments to hospitalized patients throughout Los Angeles and Orange County.  The very first such company of its kind to do so, treating more than 10,000 patients over its 40 year history.

So this qualifies me to offer up an opinion as to how we might remake our entire our medical system.  To make it less expensive and more responsive and more competitive.  Because, Fellow Patriots, it seriously needs remaking.  I'm pretty sure you'll agree with me on that.  So here goes:

First, instead of students spending $200,000 of student debt to become doctors, I suggest that the Federal Gubmint choose to be the payor of first and last resort.  I propose that we, you and me, the Taxpayers, underwrite that expense.  I suggest that we send students to medical schools that we select and pay their entire cost of education.  And when they graduate and are ready to become practitioners, I propose that they work for us to pay off their obligations.  By working in gubmint sponsored clinics for 7 years.

We should provide a nice, new Cadillac, all their malpractice insurance with premiums paid, and an attractive $150,000 a year salary to keep them warm and fuzzy.  Insuring that there's no disincentive to taking part for them in such a plan.  Similar to those whose medical education is paid for by the military in exchange for a multi-year commitmemnt.  And keeping them from having to go to work for HMO's because they can't afford the malpractice insurance.

Right now there's a law that specifies hospitals may not refuse to treat patients (Emergency Medical Treatment and Labor Act, 1986).  They HAVE to take anyone who shows up in the emergency room.  Whether they're illegal aliens or not.  Whether they're poor or not.  And whether they have the means to pay their bills or not.  They must stabilize patients without consideration of their ability to pay.  And keeping the hospitals from dumping patients to offload their obligations.  And the cost of that treatment must be borne by the hospitals.  The hospitals then have no choice but to raise their rates and force others who have insurance to pay those costs of operation.    

Making an aspirin cost you $10.00.  Making a gall bladder operation cost you $20,000 or $30,000.  Making a obstetrical baby delivery cost you $15,000 or $20,000.

Now we all know those services don't cost them that much.  But the hospitals have no choice but to boost their rates to make up for those who cannot, or will not, pay.  They admit to this.  But they will not tell you what you'd have to pay if this law were not in force.   

But if there were a Gubmint clinic next door or a block away from the hospital, with all the costs of treatment borne by the Federal Gubmint, that the indigents could visit instead of the emergency room, staffed by Gubmint doctors, and nurses, the cost of health care would drop like a stone.  Patients would still have to pay, but only fees deemed reasonable for the area.  Sort of like an actual Gubmint NGO (Non-Governmental Operation).  The treatments they'd offer would prove to be quicker and cheaper all around.  

A broken arm?  $50.00.  A knife wound?  $100.00.  The flu?  $50.00.  Removing unpaid patient care from the nearby hospitals.    

Second. allow citizen to develop their own Medical Savings Accounts.  Right alongside their 401(k)'s.  With the Gubmint and their employee health insurance serving as the backup.  The citizen could shop around, like they do for their cars, or a new roof, trying to find out which hospital offers the most cost-effective surgeries.  And CT scans.  And obstetrical services.  In advance of need.  This would certainly lower prices almost immediately by forcing hospitals to compete with each other.  

Doubt me?  What did your last CT scan cost?  $500?  $1,000?  $2,000?  Or your last baby?  $1,000?  $5,000?  $10,000?  You don't know, do you?  All you know is your insurance paid for it.  You should know.  And you could.  By putting YOU in charge of your health care.

Why do patients go across the Border to Mexican providers?  My suggested changes would eliminate the need to do so.

Third, require all health insurance companies to pay the patient, YOU, rather than the healthcare provider.  You negotiate the arrangement with your doctors or hospitals.  YOU decide where to go and how much you'll have to pay.  And then have YOU, the patient, write a check to the hospital.  Or the doctors' clinic.  You pay them out of your Medical Savings Account.  Sort of like a PPO, except you're also the payor.  And the incentive to save would let you keep what's left and unspent out of your MSA.  Such an arrangement would put YOU in charge of your health.  Not the insurance company.  Not the hospital.  Not your doctors.  

All of these changes are based upon "Enlightened Self-Interest."  You negotiate what's best for YOU and your family.  Nobody else.  The vey essense of capitalism.  The very same way you negotiate to buy a new car.  Or a house.  You're smart enough to do those things, right?  Whose to say you're not smart enough to manage your own healthcare?  

Talk to your Congressman/woman/other.  Talk to your Senator.  We need all of you to bang the drum or your voice won't be heard over the noise made by the hospitals and the health insurance companies.  They like it exactly the way it is.  That's because they created it.  That should tell you all you need to know...

"Just in Time"

It might surprise you to learn that at one point during my upbringing Detroit automakers controlled a whopping 92% of the American marketplace.  

Meaning more than 9 out of every 10 cars sold in America were made by American manufacturers.  Built by American labor and sold by American dealers.

The only foreign cars sold here back then were mainly those little Volkswagen beetles and the 190d Mercedes-Benz ugly, clunky 4-door sedans.  They were very expensive even back the.  Hippies drove the Beetles and doctors drove the M-B's.  Just a few of them, certainly not enough to worry about.

They thought.

Now?  Detroit, meaning what's left of the "Big Three," General Motors, Ford and Chrysler (which is owned by the Italian Fiat) control only 44% of the American marketplace.  And who controls the other 56%?  Mostly Japan, with Toyota and Honda leading the way.  And South Korea featuring Hyundai and Kia chief among them.  And Fiat of Italy, meaning besides little Fiats, Ferraris and Maseratis, to be sure.  And Mercedes-Benz and Porsche of Germany, plus a few others.  To put it coloquially, they've eaten our lunch.  We served it to them, and watched them chew it up and swallow it...

At the end of the Big War, back in the 1950's, Soichiro Honda started a motorcycle company.  The little 50cc motorbikes he made were selling like hotcakes in Japan.  For those who wanted a quick, simple and cheap way to get from here to there, those little bikes were paramount.  Some of them were exported to the U.S. and we bought them like hotcakes, too.  They were bulletproof, cheap and fun.  

And that's what started it all.

What followed during the late '50's and early '60's was what's called "Just in Time" manufacturing.  The Japanese didn't have much money or a stock market to help them finance unlimited production like we did.  They also didn't have the raw materials to make oodles of cars to put in gigantic parking lots as we Americans were doing, to build millions of them and then wait for people to buy them.  Back then Detroit would guess at how many cars they'd sell and manufacture to that number.  If they overproduced, they'd sell last year's model alongside this years' at big discounts until last years' was all sold out.  

The end of the model year was August 31st.  All the new automobiles were released during the first two weeks of September.  And each car model was introduced in a big reveal.  The dealers would put butcher paper on their usually floor-to-ceiling windows so no one could see them early.  And then, on that Big Day, they'd invite in the public and show them the two or three they had in their showrooms.  And hopefully take orders.  So when sales didn't match production and we'd overbuilt, Detroit would close the plants and everyone would go to the lake for a few weeks.  Unlike today with cars being built all the time.  

The Japanese, on the other hand had to figure a way to make a lot from a little.  They had to figure a way to make cars from parts that arrived at exactly the right moment.  At exactly the moment they were ordered.  And not one car more.  They struggled to figure a way to do it protifably, quickly and with little overlap.

While we were building works of art, like the '57 Chrysler 300c, and the '59 Chevrolet Impala, and the '57 Studebaker Golden Hawk, the Japanese were building tiny little cars that we were loving to buy.  Cars like the original Honda Civic and the Toyota Corolla.  Cheap, well built and producing great gas mileage, they were.  Even before worrying about gas mileage was a thing. 

Even I, your friend The Chuckmeister, bought a Honda Civic wagon as I was starting my family.  I needed cheap transportation and that Honda provided it.  So a guy who loved loud, fast and thirsty muscle cars found a place in my garage for one of "those."  And so did a whole bunch of others.

Detroit decided to try and compete with these cars by producing dumb, ugly, poorly screwed together pieces of crap and sell them alongside thier usual fare.  Remember, they were in the business of producing 18' long behemoths.  Like the 1970's Cadillac Eldorados.  19' long and wouldn't fit into anyone's garage.  But they tried to also compete with cars like the Chevy Chevette.  And the Ford Pinto, and the Plymouth Valiant.  Not worth the powder to blow them to Hell.  And in the case of them Pinto, it would literally burn you to Hell.

Nobody bought them.  And Detroit nearly went bankrupt.  The Federal Gubmint had to extend loans in the 80's (to all but Ford) to keep automaker jobs from going away.  Chrysler's Lee Iaccoca responded by creating nice little cars.  Smart.  I even bought the very first Plymouth Voyager minivan to land in Orange County, California.  I drove the wheels off it.  They sold them by the tens of thousands.  And Iaccoca paid back his loan to us 4 years early.  GM never paid back their loan, BTW, so far as I know.

So America put tariffs in place to protect our car manufacturing.  What did the foreigners do?  They built car plants here.  They hired Americans to compete with Americans at non-union plants.  Paying the workers $27 an hour vs. the $50 paid in union plants.  But without union dues, and in places like the south where there were no other jobs, people took those jobs and prospered.  There are now 23 foreign car plants here in 'Murica, selling us foreign cars, produced here locally, and made by Americans.  Confused yet?

So now we sell 11 or 12 million cars every year.  We used to sell upwards of 20 million cars.  But we've been subsidizing the world with our favorable trade arrangements.  Up until Trump, that is!

Now Trump is finally charging a flat 20% on all foreign cars the moment they land on our dirt.  Which brings in a projected $1 Billion New Dollars every year.  Finally somebody did something about it.  

Oh yeah, BTW, there was this named guy named Ernest Sadler who worked for Henry Ford.  He helped Ford establish our very first assembly line back in the early 19th Century.  Sadler developed the "Just in Time" concept for Model T's.  Later, while he was teaching at a college, he offered to bring that concept to General Motors.  Like how to have a railroad car full of bumpers and fenders and car seats arrive exactly when bumpers and fenders and car seats were needed.  They told him to pound sand.  So what did he do?  He went to Taiichi Toyoda and taught him and the Japanese how to manufacture cars using his plan.  Toyoda (his real name) used that system to produce his cars better, cheaper, of higher quality, and only when needed.  So he could successfully compete with us Americans like never before.  He was able to finally win World War II without any more bullets flying.  

And BTW, Detroit ultimately adopted the "Just in Time" system as well.  Long after the Japanese did.  Long after they'd figured out how to make their cars more profitably.  After they were taught how to do so by an American.  Long after the horse had left the barn.  Long after the Japanese had eaten desert.  Just thought you'd like to know... 

TTRPMO (Part Drei)

   ("Things That Really Piss Me Off," Part 3)

As you've learned, having put up with me all these years, I occasionally comment on the things that really piss me off.  Because being older than dirt qualifies me to comment on such things.  The 30,000 foot view of those things that cause me angst, and anger, and tight jaws.  And perhaps other old folks as well.  Perhaps you, Fellow Patriot, are among them.  The folks like you who know the answers to every question but nobody's asking.  And they're pissed about it.  So read on...

Number One:  Celebrity Worship

I'd like to start by saying that I was apparently not invited to Travis and Taylor's wedding.  I kept going to my mailbox, but strangely, no invite.  And this missive should not be misconstrued as me being pissed at that obvious oversight.  So don't take it as such.  They had to stop at 1,000 and I didn't make the cut.  Okay?   

Now then, Travis catches footballs for the Kansas City Chiefs.  And since I'm from Kansas City, and was at Super Bowl 3, trust me, I'm a BIG Chiefs fan.  And Taylor sings and plays the guitar and is a billionaire.  A self-made billionaire.  So she should be congratulated for figuring out how to make a bundle by singing and strumming.  But beyond that, I could give a royal sh*t what either of them do when he's not catching footballs and she's not singing and strumming.  Whether they hunt, or fish, or drive, or sleep, or whatever, I could care less.  

So renting out New York City and spending $30,000,000 to get married impresses me like zero.  I don't care.  I don't need anyone to look up to.  Not Kel, Tay Tay, or anyone else.  Don't need them at all.  Don't need to read about them or see them on TV.  Nor should you.  Being able to catch footballs, or memorize words to a song, makes them oddles of bucks but impresses me not at all.  Fuggetabout it!

In my opinion, those who need to dote on the activities of others to get through the day need to get a life.  Literally.  I don't.  So there.

Number Two:  Blivet

We used to have a saying back home in Missouri.  It was called a "blivet."  That's "two pounds of sh*t in a one pound bag."  In short, that means whatever you're talking about is too much of a not-good thing.  We had 176,433,000 people in America the day I was born.  Now?  341,555,000.  Not counting some number of million illegal immigrants.  Almost exactly double.  Yet, there's the same amount of space to pack it into.

Example:  California hasn't built a new freeway since 1976.  That was the 105 Freeway, an 11 mile connector from the 605 Fwy. to the 105 Fwy., near Lost Angeles International Airport.  Yet, there's twice as many drivers.  Twice as many cars.  And Johnnie Carson used to joke about the traffic jam we faced while stuck in traffic on the 405 and the 105 near that airport.  And that was 30 years ago.  Thank God he's dead, for he'd die if he saw what it's like now!

CA has the highest gasoline taxes in the Nation!  About $0.68 cents a gallon.  Just imagine how many gallons of $6.00 gas is sold here in the Once-Golden State.  And then wonder where all that money's going, 'cause it's certainly not going to build freeways!  Nor even repair the one's we've got!  The Taxifornia highway system is a blivet.  Two pounds of sh*t in a one pound bag!

Number Three:  The "Thin Blue Line," vs. "The Fat Wallet You."

It takes two full years to become a policeman in Germany.  That's where being a cop is a real profession.

It takes two full years to become a beautician in America.  To cut hair and style it and make people think they look good.  A real profession here in America.

But it takes less than six months to become a cop in America.  Just attend any of the various police academies, and voila!  28 weeks later, you're a cop!  And then you can enforce any of the laws in your particular city or county or state.  

Here in California, there are 366,355 laws.  More than twice as many as the second most litigious state, New York, and three times as many as number 3, Illinois.  More even that our Federal Gubmint, at 300,000!  So how is a cop supposed to enforce them when he hasn't been trained on them and doesn't know them?  Not the slightest clue.  Exactly!   They're trained on only those laws that bring in the $cash.  DUI's and speeding and careless and reckless and like that.  Taking DUI violators off the roads is great.  But I say lighten up on those traffic tickets!   

I think having 880,000 cops in America is a great idea, especially if they catch thieves and robbers and carjackers and murderers and rapists.  But NOT a good idea if they park behind a tree and hide so they can catch those breaking minor traffic laws on our highways.  NOT a good idea!  A warning is what should happen.  We already pay them to enforce the laws.  We don't need to pay them again via high-priced traffic tickets!  If they have to pull a driver over, they should give them some education on why they should stop doing whatever they were doing.  That's what we pay them for.  

Here in Taxifornia the average traffic ticket, like rolling through a stop sign or 10 mph over on the freeway, costs the driver an average of $799.  Money they could be spending on their kids' food and their rent and on our Nation's most expensive gas to put into their cars.  But there's a bunch of cities and towns out there who pay there bills with traffic fines.  And they field Road Pirates to write those tickets 24/7/375.  That pisses me off!  

To our cops out there:  Start catching bad guys and stop giving out traffic tickets.  They cost points on licenses and increase insurance premiums and bring on the risk of license revocations.  Protect and Serve for a change.  You'll sleep better at night.  And so will we, the taxpayers... 

Growing Up in "Flyover Country."

For those you who were born in California, or another of the Deep Blue States, and wonder how growing up in "Flyover Country" was altogether different, read on...

I remember vividly shooting one of my Dad's rifles at the ripe old age of five.  And I emphasize "one of."  For he had many rifles, and many shotguns, and many pistols.

In fact, Dad won the Missouri State Pistol Championship in both 1938 and 1940.  He was also a champion skeet and trap shot, and the winner of many rifle competitions.  Plus, he was a hunter of anything that walked, ran or flew.  

So I was introduced to guns at five years old.  That's when Dad let me pull the trigger on his .30-06.  I was gifted a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas at the age of 6.  And recevied a Stevens .22 single-shot rifle for Christmas at the age of nine.  Imagine having a .22 rifle at nine years old.  

And because my Dad's best friend was a guy named Kenney Frost, who owned the local Army/Navy store, with a substantial gun sales department, I was "given" to him as an intern.  To learn all about firearms.  And I did.  For years.  

I'd go to his shop after school and on weekends and he'd train me about guns.  I actually learned to repair and build custom varmint rifles (gophers, woodchucks, coyotes, etc.) to order for Kenney.  I don't know if those who ordered them from Kenney to be manufactured from scratch, actually knew a 13 or 14 year-old kid was making them in the back room, but they were.  That's where you order a wooden stock blank, a barreled rifle action, and all the other parts and pieces necessary to make a custom gun.  And then fit them together with lots of elbow grease over several weeks into a shiny new rifle.

If fact, I even built one for myself.  It was a 13 pound .270 Winchester small game rifle.  It was a rifle to behold!  My cousin Reinhard Fajen owned the best rifle stock business in the Country at the time, and he gave me the most beautiful Circasian Fiddleback walnut rifle stock blank anyone's ever seen.  It featured a full beavertail forend and scoop cheek piece.  Add to that it had a 10x power Lyman Wolverine telescopic sight and helium-filled Redfield Jr. scope mount.  I chose a Model 98 Mauser magnum bolt action and a 30" Timken steel bull barrel.  Add to that a fully-adjustable trigger with an Ace trigger shoe and you've got a rifle that can put five bullets into a playing card at 600 yards.  That's sub-minute of angle accuracy (1" per 100 yards), for those of you who care about such things.

Oh yeah, I still remember the recipe for my handloads.  That's where you shoot rifle cartridges and then reuse them.  You use the cases and primers and gunpowder and the necessary tools to remake ammunition after it's been shot.  I used Norma .30-'06 rifle cases necked down to .270 so they'd hold more powder.  I used 50 grains of Dupont #4350 smokeless powder and Peters primers.  And 110 grain open point Speer bullets.  This enabled me to obtain 3,200 feet per second performance with flat ballistics out to more than 200 yards.  And all this at less than 0.25 cents per shot.  A quarter.  That's damm cheap fun!  

I was also a member of two quick draw clubs.  That's where you wear a quick draw holster like you used to see on TV, and use an 1873 .45 Colt Peacemaker clone.  You slowly walk toward a man-shaped target with a light bulb on its head.  When the bulb lights up, you draw and shoot a wax bullet propelled only by the primer.  That still propells the wax "bullet" at about 400 fps.  And the clock determines how many pieces of a second it took you to accurately respond and hit the target.  With about a quarter of a second as normal  reaction time, I would average about .320 of a second to observe, draw and shoot. 

Great fun!

And a great afternoon for me back then would be to throw a few guns in the back seat and drive down a gravel road until I found the city limits sign.  Then I'd get out and fill my .22 cowboy revolver with six shots and throw the paper box they came in out as far as I could.  Then I'd draw quickly and shoot at it.  And keep on doing so until I ran out of bullets or the box was so far out of sight I could no longer hit it.  And then do it all over again.

So I owned more than 50 firearms when I was finally drafted into the U. S. Army.  I gave or sold most of them away, figuring I'd likely be killed in the "Nam."  I even posted the highest basic training rifle range score in Fort Leonard Wood's history.  998 out of 1,000.  Even after 50 years, I think that high score still stands today.

And oh yeah, I entered the Schwarzwalden (Black Forrest) Shooting Club's 1968 Olympic qualifications finals competition.  I came in third.  Had I placed first or second, I'd have qualified to represent Germany in the '68 Olympics.  I always wondered how my commanding officer would have received that bit of news.  An American G.I. competing in the Olympics for a foreign country.  Somehow I think that might have caused a stir.  Hmmmm...

I tell you all of this to explain why some of us who weren't born and raised in Democrat, high population states know their way around guns.  And horses and cows and wild boars and so much more.  And why we take it as a personal insult when our governor, and the governor of the other wussie states, sign executive orders limiting our ownership and use of the firearms they deem dangerous.  Or all black and scary looking.  I personally don't care what they deem.  Perhaps if they'd had an upbringing like mine, and like my neighbors, and like the people born and raised in the South and Mountain states and the Big Sky states and all the others with country you can hunt in,  consider as routine.  Normal.  Usual.  Places where they value their 2nd Amendment Rights and are willing to fight to protect them. 

We consider guys like BoyGuv ("Hairgod") Newsom as a shining example of pussyhood.  And that fat dude in Illinois.  And the one in Colorado.  And in the 22 states of our Union where they attempt to outlaw firearms.  Maybe they should be required to take firearm owners and users courses when they're elected.  So they'd know what it's like to grow up like a Man.  Like an American.  Not like a lily livered girly man, as Schwartzenhoozits used to call them.  Before his Kennedy-raised wife threatened to withhold her female favors if he didn't start acting more like a Democrat.  

Sorry to post about guns so often for those of you who "know."  Who know what us gun owners and users know.  But for those of you who don't, it's time to learn what the rest of us consider "normal."

As a remember, here's what the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution guarantees:  

"...the Right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."