tales of survival, southern racing heritage, & road rage
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| Rush hour - Atlanta, Georgia Civilized society
Trading paint - when cars contact one another while racing, a terminology commonly used in Stock car racing, a metaphor for no holds barred, competitive, survival.
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.. Atlanta's skyline as seen from the north; a typical urban thoroughfare. This was my first impression... |
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Continued...
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| .Rush hour - Mara, Kenya Not much different in the animal kingdom . . |
The big race...
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Interstate 85 South - April fool's day 1994, the day I chose to move from Southeastern Virginia to Atlanta, Georgia. The directions were simple; just point the car south and keep up with traffic. The journey would be nine hours of dodging tractor-trailers and avoiding wily state troopers; I'd soon learn, the sixty-five mile per hour speed limit I'd grown accustomed to no longer existed.
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Braselton, GA - It was early Monday morning when I entered Atlanta's northeastern suburbs so traffic was heavy; I was startled by the NASCAR-like duel developing between the other drivers. Commuters were drafting (extreme tailgating), nudging, and going four wide. Feeling competitive, I dropped a gear and checked my six; it appeared to be a mad sprint to the city limits.
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| South Carolina |
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Braselton, GA - It was early Monday morning when I entered Atlanta's northeastern suburbs so traffic was heavy; I was startled by the NASCAR-like duel developing between the other drivers. Commuters were drafting (extreme tailgating), nudging, and going four wide. Feeling competitive, I dropped a gear and checked my six; it appeared to be a mad sprint to the city limits.
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Atlanta commuters
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| Atlanta's 285 loop a world class racing circuit |
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I was running at the front of the pack when I noticed a helicopter hovering above the highway; shortly afterwards, five lanes of Southbound traffic were being forcibly merged into one. As the traffic slowed to a crawl the drivers around me started mean mugging and revving their engines. I lowered my driver's side window and got sucker punched by a hot blast of Southern humidity. I could sense from all the rumbling engines surrounding me, these were no ordinary commuters. For a minute, I thought I smelled racing fuel. The good ol' boy behind me in the pickup truck had a blower sticking out of his hood, and it whistled every time he tapped his throttle.
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As we approached the accident I heard sirens blaring in the distance. Just up the road, a four by four had forced a BMW sedan into the guardrail causing it to flip. The four by four fled the scene and the BMW remain upside down against the guardrail. It looked like a plane had crashed; there were car parts everywhere and a suitcase lay in the left lane but the other commuters just sped around it. I remember thinking, this must be hell.
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After the emergency road crews arrived traffic quickly regained speed. That's when I noticed a middle aged woman in a silver Mercedes cut across four lanes towards the exit; apparently, she needed fuel. As a rookie competitor, I did what any other aggressive, young, rookie would've done; I headed for the exit too. I figured, if I could get in, and out, of the pits before the woman in the Mercedes, I'd be in a better position to contend for the podium. And there it was folks; that's how I got sucked into rush hour madness.
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| Pit stop of champions if you need fuel, tires, or ammo, we got your back |
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| Chaos in the pits |
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Moments later...
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My engine howled as I merged back into the Southbound traffic and the silver Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. I'd done it! My gamble had paid off; I'd vanquished the woman in the ego chariot and everything that had long been wrong in the world was instantly made right again. I was free to bask in the petty satisfaction that I'd passed the Mercedes.
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That's when I noticed the bright lights closing on my six. At first, I thought I was being nabbed by a Georgia State trooper but as the lights got closer I saw it was the silver Mercedes and the woman driving it was brandishing, what appeared to be, a bottle of Evian water. Before I could react, she'd pulled alongside me and hurled (actually, an ugly left handed hook shot) her water at me across her hood from her driver's side window; which, abruptly, changed direction in the 70 mile per hour wind blast, bounced off her own windshield, and tumbled the entire length of her car.
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| . A cool refreshing drink with poor flight characteristics |
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| ..I was out of the pits in seven seconds |
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...a typical morning on the speedways of Atlanta.
...a typical morning on the speedways of Atlanta.
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.Half-truths & anger as motivation...
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.Half-truths & anger as motivation...
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Walking "a million" miles
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For as long as I can remember, whenever I thought I was in a pinch, or at a critical juncture in my life, I called my father; particularly, in college. It was always a collect call from wherever I happened to be to his lofty position high atop "Mount Olympus" (Philadelphia). My problems were typical; broken down car, no money, big interview, etcetera. My father would listen quietly as I went on and on about the hopelessness of my dilemma; then, after I'd finished complaining, he'd tell me a story about one of the many challenges he faced as a young man coming up in the post war era.
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Without fail, the solutions to my father's assorted predicaments would involve him walking, or riding bicycles, superhuman distances under extreme conditions. Though well intended, my father had his own unique calculus; with him, the end justified the means and the objective was always the moral. In recounting his tales ten miles could become one hundred and mountains could move within the span of a day. Naturally, every journey he had to take would have been uphill; he was the only person I knew who used the numerical terms "millions" or "billions" in daily conversation. Notably, absent from my father's tales were certain realities. Apparently, hardships associated with living and surviving in a segregated environment were of no use to what he was attempting to communicate; then, low and behold, he'd tell me an obvious whopper...
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"When I was young your grandmother, my siblings, and I moved from Alabama up to Springfield, Massachusetts. We didn't have the money for all of our train tickets so, as the only boy in the family, I had to walk" ..
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Though, seemingly, ridiculous this was typical of my father; he knew full well I understood his story was fiction. This was his version of the Jedi mind trick; letting me know that my, so called, "problem" wasn't a real problem without saying it. A proud and intelligent man, my father didn't play checkers he played three dimensional chess. My response to this overt simplification of my dilemma would be one of seething anger; then, I'd get off the phone and deal with my so called "problem."
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"When I was young your grandmother, my siblings, and I moved from Alabama up to Springfield, Massachusetts. We didn't have the money for all of our train tickets so, as the only boy in the family, I had to walk" ..
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Though, seemingly, ridiculous this was typical of my father; he knew full well I understood his story was fiction. This was his version of the Jedi mind trick; letting me know that my, so called, "problem" wasn't a real problem without saying it. A proud and intelligent man, my father didn't play checkers he played three dimensional chess. My response to this overt simplification of my dilemma would be one of seething anger; then, I'd get off the phone and deal with my so called "problem."
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The Mission sharpening the blade, stalking, & slaying the beast
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As I wandered the Atlanta territory the instinct to move upward and forward surged through me; upward and forward meaning an improvement of some sort beyond my current unfulfilled existence. My internal compass had always been true. Since childhood, I'd clung to, and followed, all of the typical go-getter directives; don't settle for second, never give up, put your face-mask into his chest, and so forth. I supplemented those sacred proclamations by consuming each and every motivational book ever published; Think and grow rich, Churchill, and Hustler Magazine when nobody was looking.
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I'd recently quit my job of eight years at the power company in Virginia, packed my few belongings, and moved to Atlanta without a job. Cold turkey was the method I chose; that way I'd be forced to carry out the mission. Now, I'm in the new frontier hunting for something; I just don't know what it is. My peers had informed me, whatever I could imagine could be found in this glorious Southern wonderland. Upon arrival, I quickly established the basics of food and shelter; yet, I remained pensively dissatisfied. It was a festering madness that had manifested my junior year in college and had since intensified. After a lifetime of being programmed for the relentless pursuit of upward mobility, I sensed there was something more out there for me; something enormous, sexy, and fascinating.
I'd recently quit my job of eight years at the power company in Virginia, packed my few belongings, and moved to Atlanta without a job. Cold turkey was the method I chose; that way I'd be forced to carry out the mission. Now, I'm in the new frontier hunting for something; I just don't know what it is. My peers had informed me, whatever I could imagine could be found in this glorious Southern wonderland. Upon arrival, I quickly established the basics of food and shelter; yet, I remained pensively dissatisfied. It was a festering madness that had manifested my junior year in college and had since intensified. After a lifetime of being programmed for the relentless pursuit of upward mobility, I sensed there was something more out there for me; something enormous, sexy, and fascinating.
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That "something" I sought was the fabled beast and, from what I'd heard, they could be found among Atlanta's impressive skyscrapers. I've had many acquaintances who sought beasts and boasted of how their lives would change for the better when they finally cornered one; although, I also knew some folks who set out on hunting expeditions never to be seen or heard from again.
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What's a beast?
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It's what many of us are seeking; a composite of destiny, accomplishment, and, or acquisition. The amorphous beast can manifest in many different forms; a career, fame and fortune, or even a soul mate. Throughout recorded history humans have crossed the seas and trekked to the far corners of the earth in pursuit of beasts. Napoleon attempted to conquer his, as did Columbus. Winston Churchill stared one down; James Baldwin wrote about them and Einstein figured his out. For the truly afflicted, pursuing a beast isn't an option; its a must.
What's a beast?
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It's what many of us are seeking; a composite of destiny, accomplishment, and, or acquisition. The amorphous beast can manifest in many different forms; a career, fame and fortune, or even a soul mate. Throughout recorded history humans have crossed the seas and trekked to the far corners of the earth in pursuit of beasts. Napoleon attempted to conquer his, as did Columbus. Winston Churchill stared one down; James Baldwin wrote about them and Einstein figured his out. For the truly afflicted, pursuing a beast isn't an option; its a must.
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| Coveting a beast from afar |
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I'd endured what seemed a lifetime of preparation for my hunt; yet, I wouldn't have recognized my quarry if it were staring me in the face. What sort of beast was I pursuing and why did it always seem to be someplace else? Is it possible to start out with a smaller beast and work my way up? Should I return to school and get a postgraduate degree in beast slaying? Alas, the mind tends to vacillate as one covets. Though, at times, luck can play a role, careful preparation and skill improves one's chances of sighting a beast. Lest we forget, finding a beast and slaying it are entirely different things.
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| The perspective changes up close |
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Funny thing those beasts; if they exist they're probably right under your nose. A shift in perspective is often profoundly revealing; although, the experience gained from the hunt is probably the best path to enlightenment. Choose your quarry carefully.
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Preparing to hunt...
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Preparing to hunt...
Tracking elusive beasts requires a high state of readiness so I had to prepare myself. After establishing base camp in the City of Stone Mountain (GA) I gravitated to the comfortable and familiar; the temple of the dumbbell Gods, aka the local gym. I didn't know the new territory just yet but I did know weight rooms; it's where dumbbell slingers go to worship and immerse themselves in the clarity of self-inflicted struggle. What better way to neutralize the anxiety of learning a new territory.
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It was around this juncture I began to use Stone Mountain (the mountain) as my personal outdoor training facility. I remember waking up at the crack of dawn one morning and being drawn to the enormous rock. Perhaps, it was the cool morning air, or the respite from all things man made that had attracted me. I used that mountain purposefully running up, down, and around it. The huge boulders and steep trails made the training varied and difficult. My rationale was simple; if the training was hard, it had to be good.
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| Stone Mountain, Georgia For some it symbolizes the Southern confederacy; for me, it was just a big rock to climb and run around. . . . |
Survival tactics & rituals...
The weight room is a temple of sorts; its where one goes to perform time tested rituals towards a desirable result. A slave to routine, I prefer older weight rooms with Olympic barbells and free weights. I'm a believer in the connection between the physical and the mental, so I try to focus when I train; although, I have to admit, sometimes, my mind wanders between sets.
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In the weight room there are daily issues of physics and anatomy to contend with so its good to have a plan. As soon as I grip the loaded barbell the competitive adrenaline starts to flow; although, in reality, I'm only competing against myself. Somehow, I feel more alive whenever I train; after pushing through a hard training session everything else just seems easier. One of my survival tactics is to equate heavy lifts with my everyday problems; I convince myself, if I can lift a given weight, I can deal with a given problem.
In the weight room there are daily issues of physics and anatomy to contend with so its good to have a plan. As soon as I grip the loaded barbell the competitive adrenaline starts to flow; although, in reality, I'm only competing against myself. Somehow, I feel more alive whenever I train; after pushing through a hard training session everything else just seems easier. One of my survival tactics is to equate heavy lifts with my everyday problems; I convince myself, if I can lift a given weight, I can deal with a given problem.
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Barbells never lie. If I were to attempt a heavy lift without putting in the requisite work, the barbell would sense my unpreparedness and probably won't cooperate; crying about a failed lift would fall on cold steel ears. I could try to convince the barbell of my "unique worthiness" to lift it until I'm blue in the face and it still wouldn't budge; however, if I were to invest the proper time and effort beforehand, the loaded barbell would sense my readiness and determination and fly through the damn ceiling. Of course, the same logic regarding preparation applies to other endeavors as well. A barbell can even be your trusted confidant; though, it has no voice it will always there for you. That's the thing about using physical feats as goals, it reduces everything to the bare essentials. "But I have a bad back and my doctor says... yada, yada, yada." Yeah, everybody else does too. No excuses; either you put in the work and accomplish, or you don't.
Barbells never lie. If I were to attempt a heavy lift without putting in the requisite work, the barbell would sense my unpreparedness and probably won't cooperate; crying about a failed lift would fall on cold steel ears. I could try to convince the barbell of my "unique worthiness" to lift it until I'm blue in the face and it still wouldn't budge; however, if I were to invest the proper time and effort beforehand, the loaded barbell would sense my readiness and determination and fly through the damn ceiling. Of course, the same logic regarding preparation applies to other endeavors as well. A barbell can even be your trusted confidant; though, it has no voice it will always there for you. That's the thing about using physical feats as goals, it reduces everything to the bare essentials. "But I have a bad back and my doctor says... yada, yada, yada." Yeah, everybody else does too. No excuses; either you put in the work and accomplish, or you don't.
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Remember, push the weights, dash up the mountains, and strengthen the resolve. With "beasts" lurking everywhere it would be wise to keep your weapons sharp.
Remember, push the weights, dash up the mountains, and strengthen the resolve. With "beasts" lurking everywhere it would be wise to keep your weapons sharp.
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| Rantings of a gym rat... . .. "Heavy weight = problem" . ... "Lift the heavy weight = Solve the problem" . "Mountain = Obstacle" . "Climb the mountain = Overcome the obstacle" . .. "If you don't succeed at first, curse loudly and try again" .
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| .My old man still putting in work in the temple in his mid-50's Ladies and gentlemen that's between 655 and 700 pounds. Take your hat off! |
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The fast lane...
. Be careful what you wish for. |
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1994 - Atlanta, Georgia, a time and place where e-mail and pagers were considered vogue; ideologically opposed factions debated whether it was proper to say fax or facsimile. I'd arrived in the midst of a technological revolution; I even got myself one of those newfangled Internet accounts with that Mind Spring outfit. As a young greenhorn from the sticks I'd soon discover what the good folks in those tall, shiny, buildings did all day. Perhaps, I'd find my very own "beast" in one of those tall buildings. I'd spent twelve long years in ol Virginia so my guard was down; that's what living in a small town does to young people, dulls their senses. I'd go on to learn a thing or two in the big city, mostly, the hard way. I'd learn to determine if a fellow is a liar based on the cut of his suit. As a rule, the finer the suit, the lesser of a straight shooter a fellow is. Typically, attorneys, dentists, and high end car salesmen are primped in such a manner that they always fail this test.
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From the get go, my big city lessons came fast and frequent. I learned, real parking valets don't stroll up to your car's driver side window late at night on a dark street saying "we the valet" three blocks from the restaurant. I also discovered, for some odd reason, the gym I trained in, which was typically full of both men and women, had no customers of the fairer sex on Fridays, and the gentlemen present didn't seem interested in training. One young fellow just sat cross-legged on the leg press machine, for an hour straight, grinning and batting his eyes at me; strange folks those city slickers. Thus far, my urban indoctrination had been rife with shysters and snake oil salesmen; however, I'd begun to see the light. I'd come to realize, in the big city, both the learned men and the common dimwits are prone to crookery.
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From the get go, my big city lessons came fast and frequent. I learned, real parking valets don't stroll up to your car's driver side window late at night on a dark street saying "we the valet" three blocks from the restaurant. I also discovered, for some odd reason, the gym I trained in, which was typically full of both men and women, had no customers of the fairer sex on Fridays, and the gentlemen present didn't seem interested in training. One young fellow just sat cross-legged on the leg press machine, for an hour straight, grinning and batting his eyes at me; strange folks those city slickers. Thus far, my urban indoctrination had been rife with shysters and snake oil salesmen; however, I'd begun to see the light. I'd come to realize, in the big city, both the learned men and the common dimwits are prone to crookery.
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The folks in the fancy suits have remedies for everything
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Sales - the art of bending the truth without flinching
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After months of hopscotching from one short-term gig to another I found myself on the coveted treadmill as an
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As I continued to press for employment the mansion's occupants discreetly drew the curtains. And so it went, month after month, back and forth. "Am I in? Am I out? Should I invade?" Ultimately, it would be my blockade of the mansion that broke the stalemate. The surrender occurred one morning when one of the "higher ups" peered out one of the mansion's upper windows and saw I'd pitched a tent on the front lawn; finally, realizing I'd never leave they ran up the white flag. After a brief welcome aboard I was, summarily, tossed into the deep end and "shuffled" to the CNN Center where I was dubbed the "right hand man" of some radio bigwig; to this day, I haven't figured out what a right hand man does other than stand off to the side. That whole shuffle over to CNN Center affair stunk to high heaven; when I arrived nobody knew what was going on. Finally, faster than you can say Mississippi, I was "reshuffled" back over to DubyaSB.
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| DubyaSB's old "White Columns" mansion |
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It was a bit of a letdown when DubyaSB finally hired me; I'd expended so much time and effort trying to get in that once it happened it was anticlimactic. I was the proverbial car chasing Labrador retriever that finally caught a Buick and didn't know what to do; those shiny, spinning, hubcaps had seemed so irresistible from a distance. There was no time for misty eyed reflection on my behalf; I had to put on my poker face and stomp the butterflies. Moving forward, my new mission would be to develop new business utilizing DubyaSB's vast array of media resources (News talk too much 750 DubyaSB, WCNN-AM 680 "the Obsessed nerd," DubyaSB 98.5 FM, Atlanta Cowards Baseball, Atlanta Dirty Bird Football, University of Big Dog Football, Bumble Bee Tech Football, and the local HeyBC TV affiliate). Simply put, my new job was to grease the rails of commerce and make it rain; all they'd ask of me in exchange for this excellent opportunity would be my soul.
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| .The CNN Center |
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| .DubyaSB's museum of broadcasting |
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Of all the good folks on the DubyaSB staff I was the lone greenhorn; most were veterans who'd come from broadcast media, or advertising backgrounds, or had hopscotched the typical progression of smaller media market to larger. My only redeeming quality was, at my former job, I outran a hog. DubyaSB, a subsidiary of Box Media Group, was considered the "big dog" among Southeastern US broadcast media, with Atlanta being the fourth ranked market (at that time) in the country; it could be considered a coup that they even let me in the building.
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The tactics I used to get into DubyaSB were probably more suited to a career in espionage than in media sales; I'd methodically profiled, stalked, and harassed the DubyaSB brass with an array of techniques that would've made a KGB operative envious. My tactics included tape recordings, double agents, and fake magazine subscriptions; hell, I even conducted covert ops in the employee parking lot. There's a fine line between impressing upper management and getting a felony stalking charge; according to my mother, those were skills I mastered in early childhood.
..The things you do to infiltrate a company
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At DubyaSB, Media Peddlers operated with a great deal of autonomy. There was no punch the clock aspect because our individual charters were mutually understood and agreed upon; in short, we had very long leashes. The company provided more than enough resources and support for us to sufficiently hang ourselves with. It was made clear we were responsible for one thing, and one thing only; appeasing the Gods of new business revenue. After months of paternal coddling my bosses removed my training wheels and shoved me out the door; their methods were expectantly cold and calculating. I was given a high five figure quarterly revenue target starting with zero billing clients and one minor ad agency; then, as if I were a bloodhound being turned loose on a hunt, I was given a sizeable cash bonus to whet my appetite.
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"Go on now... And don't come back without the money...You hear? ...Don't forget your lunch money"
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I was nervously hesitant as I set out alone for the very first time; I remember pausing on my way out, just outside the mansion entrance to check my pockets because I thought I'd forgotten my Mont blanc pen. I'd recently noticed some of the top executives were conspicuously signing high dollar contracts with them. As a neophyte, I figured having a similar pen in my possession would work wonders; for me, the Mont blanc would be Excalibur and it's powers would allow me to get past those dreaded "gatekeepers" (secretaries).
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."I don't need an appointment, I have this"
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My chance to get in the game had finally arrived; after everything I'd been through to land the gig I wasn't intimidated. I knew there were industry specific situations I'd yet to encounter and that I'd gather those in time; it was the culture and subtle intricacies of executive level commerce I sought. I was new to media peddling so my learning curve was steep. The day to day was straightforward but there were situational nuances that could only be gained from time spent "inside the ring." What I experienced was total immersion; I studied the mannerisms and quirks of everyone.
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Survival of the fittest...
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."Let's settle this"
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It can be a vulnerable time learning the ropes when your peers are aware of your naivete. The pressure to perform is real; everyday Media Peddlers chase their budgets with real consequences. There are no shortcuts to learning in the pressure cooker and, for retention, there's nothing like "stepping in it" right out of the gate. I learned the meaning of "thrown under the bus" by being thrown under one; my tormentor didn't just throw me under one, they put the bus into reverse and backed it over me to finish the job.
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Our compensation was fair and reflected the stakes involved in the business; although, there was a price. Some Peddlers routinely worked twelve hour days. There were occasions when I'd leave for the evening and return the next morning to find a co-worker wearing the same clothes. Grey haired, spouse-less, and vice-versa, Peddlers were getting their candles incinerated at both ends. After learning the ropes, I too experienced the anxiety of a dollar chaser.
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Naturally, the good folks upstairs (upper management) were aware of the enormous pressure and its effects. One day, our bosses took the entire staff out for a day of team building exercises; their method of choice, paintball. We were handed eerily realistic paintball rifles, divided into two teams, and told to go in the woods and "unwind." Tellingly, within minutes I mowed down the entire right flank of the opposing team; then, I promptly shot my boss.
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| . Nothing builds camaraderie like gunplay |
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Old haunts...
In the mid-90's my old college buddy, Tim R., and I had both recently moved to Atlanta from Virginia and, in the process, had taken our share of lumps. Every so often we'd get together over steaks to vent and swap war stories, musing over our plight as regular working guys who aspired to live more like the men of yore; these vent sessions would go for hours. Whenever I attempted to steer the conversation towards introspective topics I'd catch Tim with his fork near my food; I'd respond by stabbing his arm with my fork. No stranger to local eateries, Tim was known for manipulating local waitresses into replacing his entire meal despite having already eaten the entrée.
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| Me, Tim R., and Daryle H. (1995) |
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| Starbucks cafe in Buckhead (1997) |
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| Tim R. Pretending to be a cigar aficionado |
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..American Roadhouse restaurant
in Virginia Highlands.
Good grub
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| A classic 24 hour breakfast menu A local favorite for good ol boys, knuckleheads, and night clubbers. |
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| Atlanta's foremost soul food joint |
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Peddling air...
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| The art of selling things you can't see or touch |
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It'd only been a few weeks since I finagled myself into the grand old mansion. Thus far, I understood the who, what, and when of a Peddler's routine but had yet to figure out what the good "folks upstairs" wearing the shiny suits did all day; "folks upstairs" meaning upper management. It was plain as day they liked meetings but I knew there had to be more to it. What did they do and how did it relate to us Peddlers? At the time, I'd yet to attend a full-blown "sales sermon" by the renowned "Sales Deacon" J. Brain; "hallelujah!"
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There was one particular morning when I finally figured everything out; "everything" meaning the reason the good folks upstairs rose from their precious slumber each morning, donned their finest garb, teased their coifs, and gathered in this antebellum mansion. It was during a sales sermon (my first) and all the Media Peddlers were gathered around the long table in the boardroom and two levels of management were present. Suddenly, the lights in the room dimmed and "God" himself called down from high above via intercom and bestowed upon us the sacred rates for morning drive. Apparently, God had a flat tire that morning and couldn't make it to the meeting so the Sales Deacon turned the volume up on the intercom so we all could partake of God's precious wisdom.
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"Let it be known, 'morning drive' is now a thousand bucks for sixty seconds"
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Immediately, after God hung up the lights came on and the organ started to play. That's when, our boss's boss, the one and only "Sales Deacon," J. Brain, started in on a sermon about selling concepts. Then it hit me; the good ol folks at DubyaSB were peddling plain old "air." Hot damn. Now, I don't know much about anything; but it never occurred to me, there was a speculative market for invisible things. Leave it to those city slickers with their fancy shiny ways to carve everything up and slap price tags on it. Plain ol Virginia folk would never stoop to such foolishness as pricing something everybody knew was free.
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"Let it be known, 'morning drive' is now a thousand bucks for sixty seconds"
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...then God hung up
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| It was a big deal for Media Peddlers whenever the new rates came down. |
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Immediately, after God hung up the lights came on and the organ started to play. That's when, our boss's boss, the one and only "Sales Deacon," J. Brain, started in on a sermon about selling concepts. Then it hit me; the good ol folks at DubyaSB were peddling plain old "air." Hot damn. Now, I don't know much about anything; but it never occurred to me, there was a speculative market for invisible things. Leave it to those city slickers with their fancy shiny ways to carve everything up and slap price tags on it. Plain ol Virginia folk would never stoop to such foolishness as pricing something everybody knew was free.
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Where I come from a fellow wants to eyeball what he's paying for; you know, touch the merchandise before pulling out the ol' billfold. Yet, there I was in a fancy oak paneled, long tabled, plush red carpeted, boardroom discussing strategic objectives and the sale of ideas. We were conceptualizing if you will; not in the "Einstein-ish" abstract way but in a more sensible "picture this" manner. I grinned like a Cheshire cat as our very own Sales Deacon, J. Brain, bounced, twirled, and hallelujahed through his motivational exhortations. He spoke with flair and stalked the boardroom like an articulate panther. No doubt the Sales Deacon was the sole visionary in the building; like a good hot cup of Joe, we sipped and savored his words. Though new to the business, I remember thinking, the Sales Deacon was an original among average folks.
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The Sales Deacon implored us to "raise the rates to the heavens" and spread the gospel of high demand. His sermon was dynamic and had a little bit of everything; there was crying, dancing, and promises of gold and honey for all. The power of the Sales Deacon's performance brought tears to our eyes. Yet again, we Peddlers had been moved to believe. It takes a fair amount of chutzpah to cajole folks into seeing things they can't. Turns out selling air is somewhat complicated so it took a while before I figured out how to put a proper price tag on it. For some reason, morning drive air was more precious thanmidday or afternoon air, and to add to the confusion, some Media Peddlers were giving away overnight
air for free. Actually, overnight was only free if it came in the same box
as morning drive; a veritable two fer one, and afternoon drive air sold itself. Those DubyaSB folks were slicker than owl poo.
Where I come from a fellow wants to eyeball what he's paying for; you know, touch the merchandise before pulling out the ol' billfold. Yet, there I was in a fancy oak paneled, long tabled, plush red carpeted, boardroom discussing strategic objectives and the sale of ideas. We were conceptualizing if you will; not in the "Einstein-ish" abstract way but in a more sensible "picture this" manner. I grinned like a Cheshire cat as our very own Sales Deacon, J. Brain, bounced, twirled, and hallelujahed through his motivational exhortations. He spoke with flair and stalked the boardroom like an articulate panther. No doubt the Sales Deacon was the sole visionary in the building; like a good hot cup of Joe, we sipped and savored his words. Though new to the business, I remember thinking, the Sales Deacon was an original among average folks.
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| The Sales Deacon giving a sermon (1995) |
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The Sales Deacon implored us to "raise the rates to the heavens" and spread the gospel of high demand. His sermon was dynamic and had a little bit of everything; there was crying, dancing, and promises of gold and honey for all. The power of the Sales Deacon's performance brought tears to our eyes. Yet again, we Peddlers had been moved to believe. It takes a fair amount of chutzpah to cajole folks into seeing things they can't. Turns out selling air is somewhat complicated so it took a while before I figured out how to put a proper price tag on it. For some reason, morning drive air was more precious than
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.The DubyaSB "white columns" building (circa 1990)
Peculiar folks those Media Peddlers getting dolled up every day and
Peculiar folks those Media Peddlers getting dolled up every day and
going to fancy office buildings just to peddle air.
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Advertising clientele, high and shiny as they tend to be, demand options; naturally, we obliged offering a delightful menu of "air" for them to choose from. If a fellow took a liking to a particular flavor we'd serve it up topped with butter. Our specialty was "moneyed folk" from 25-54; the flavor was so popular we often ran out. My compadres at DubyaSB weren't just peddling air by the cup; no sir, they were pushing it by the pound and, like lobster, our rates had a propensity to go north and stay there. Those days, morning drive was a thousand bucks for sixty seconds and, a fellow couldn't just purchase one serving, no sir ree; it was sold by the bushel.
...."Say it and they will believe it... Amen... Now drink the Kool Aide"
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DubyaSB's motto: "Ut pecuniam prius"
Translation: "Get that money" |
Advertising clientele, high and shiny as they tend to be, demand options; naturally, we obliged offering a delightful menu of "air" for them to choose from. If a fellow took a liking to a particular flavor we'd serve it up topped with butter. Our specialty was "moneyed folk" from 25-54; the flavor was so popular we often ran out. My compadres at DubyaSB weren't just peddling air by the cup; no sir, they were pushing it by the pound and, like lobster, our rates had a propensity to go north and stay there. Those days, morning drive was a thousand bucks for sixty seconds and, a fellow couldn't just purchase one serving, no sir ree; it was sold by the bushel.
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Apparently, there's a
pecking order in the Atlanta
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Boys will be Boys
a classic case of mine is bigger than yours
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As a Media Peddler I spent a fair amount of time in the visitor's chair of decision makers. Though initially apprehensive I grew to enjoy the assorted personalities and quirks of my hosts. I've found that when calling on the holders of the purse strings that one has to be prepared for most any eventuality. Of course, if the Peddler has a valid business reason for calling it levels the playing field; although, any sign of doe eye on the visitor's behalf and the gig is up.
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Clients, AKA corporate overlords, are typically proud and esteemed folk who demand to be acknowledged as such. The initial fickleness often found early on in the Client Peddler relationship dynamic just adds to the drama; especially when said client's signature has yet to be obtained. In the all-important "post agreement, pre-signature, phase" of a transaction a client will often attempt to leverage his or her signature for whatever they can get beyond the original agreement; tis the dark side of mankind.
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Business relationships often require a certain flexibility or give and take that often goes beyond the call of duty. I stubbed my toe on this particular point once myself on an early sales call because it wasn't in my Peddler's survival handbook. If the client or decision maker isn't the company founder its fairly common for him or her to hold an elevated position of power within a given organization. Power, real or imagined, often affects folks in interesting ways.
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Imagine this scenario; a Media Peddler arrives to meet a prospective client for the very first time and finds himself ensnared in the client's personal shrine of accomplishment, AKA office. Once seated, the Peddler is exposed to a withering crossfire of question inducing stimuli from strategically placed artifacts and credentials; the setup would make most any sniper green with envy.
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As the veteran Peddler feigns awe at the museum-like decor of the host's office he can't help but notice a huge painting on the wall directly over the host's desk. The painting is of a heroic, smartly dressed, figure on horseback and is illuminated by lights despite the office being well lit by the afternoon sunlight. The beaming client is seated directly beneath the painting and has an uncanny resemblance to the figure on the horse. An awkward silence ensues between host and Peddler; clearly the ball is in the Peddler's court since the host appears to be waiting for something. Though the set-up is pitifully obvious this is a serve an experienced Peddler has no choice but to volley.
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A client's first words to a visiting peddler
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Clients, AKA corporate overlords, are typically proud and esteemed folk who demand to be acknowledged as such. The initial fickleness often found early on in the Client Peddler relationship dynamic just adds to the drama; especially when said client's signature has yet to be obtained. In the all-important "post agreement, pre-signature, phase" of a transaction a client will often attempt to leverage his or her signature for whatever they can get beyond the original agreement; tis the dark side of mankind.
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| The "other" currency |
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Business relationships often require a certain flexibility or give and take that often goes beyond the call of duty. I stubbed my toe on this particular point once myself on an early sales call because it wasn't in my Peddler's survival handbook. If the client or decision maker isn't the company founder its fairly common for him or her to hold an elevated position of power within a given organization. Power, real or imagined, often affects folks in interesting ways.
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Imagine this scenario; a Media Peddler arrives to meet a prospective client for the very first time and finds himself ensnared in the client's personal shrine of accomplishment, AKA office. Once seated, the Peddler is exposed to a withering crossfire of question inducing stimuli from strategically placed artifacts and credentials; the setup would make most any sniper green with envy.
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As the veteran Peddler feigns awe at the museum-like decor of the host's office he can't help but notice a huge painting on the wall directly over the host's desk. The painting is of a heroic, smartly dressed, figure on horseback and is illuminated by lights despite the office being well lit by the afternoon sunlight. The beaming client is seated directly beneath the painting and has an uncanny resemblance to the figure on the horse. An awkward silence ensues between host and Peddler; clearly the ball is in the Peddler's court since the host appears to be waiting for something. Though the set-up is pitifully obvious this is a serve an experienced Peddler has no choice but to volley.
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Peddler: "Is that you on the white horse?"
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Host: "What horse? Oh that? Why yes... it is me. That's my Arabian stallion; a rare breed, I had it imported myself. Are you an art aficionado?"
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Fridays...
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Fridays...
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Ashford Dunwoody, GA - Fridays; in the realm of business to business commerce it's a day reserved for face time and tying up loose ends. For Media Peddlers Fridays are the opposite of Mondays; they're for long lunches, buttering up clients, and easing into the weekend. My mission on this particular Friday was to close on a deal for an annual radio campaign. The outcome had already been agreed to informally so all I needed was a signature. I arrived at my client's office complex early so I could appreciate the décor of the building and the grounds. At the reception area I announced my presence.
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"The Emperor will receive you momentarily"
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Moments later an attractive woman emerged and beckoned me to follow. Her gestures and mannerisms were graceful as she led me through a maze of corridors toward some ornate double doors. To my surprise the doors parted when she touched the wall; I felt a twinge of intimidation welling before quickly regrouping and regaining my composure.
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And there he was, stumpy, rotund Napoleon standing proudly behind a huge desk in a three piece suit. He greeted me warmly, then he offered me a chair and a cigar; I politely declined the tobacco. As I settled in the Emperor smilingly tracked my eyes as they reacted to the assorted stimuli around the office. Then, as if scripted, he started to narrate the origin of every skull and rhinoceros bone in the room from right to left. I feigned interest as I continued to prepare for my spiel.
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It was obvious from the numerous assorted nick-knacks and artifacts around the office that Napoleon was an accomplished, well-traveled, man who enjoyed the finer things; after all, he was wearing the biggest gold cufflinks I'd ever laid eyes on. Napoleon, a matter of factly, informed me the huge desk between us was a scaled down replica of the Arc de Triumph that had been carved from a rare type of African mahogany. It seemed Napoleon's thirst for adulation was insatiable; it was only after each and every noteworthy item in the room had been thoroughly embellished that he finally came up for air.
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. Napoleon's desk resembled the Arc de Triumph
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With the Emperor, seemingly, out of ammunition our one way dialogue experienced a lull. Sensing an opening, I went about the task of easing his highness into business mode. Subsequently, we arrived at a juncture that necessitated I obtain his endorsement. Being aware of a Media Peddler's lowly position in the grand scheme of things, I prefer to follow traditional business practices. I stood, placed the contract in front of my client, and I presented my uncapped Mont blanc for his use with the point toward myself.
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Apparently, compelled by some unseen urge, Napoleon twirled left in his throne-like chair and pulled open a desk drawer. I stood there, frozen in the contract presentation position, somewhat, concerned about the possibility of an incoming monkey wrench.
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Napoleon became, increasingly, frantic as he fumbled through his desk. Suddenly, his expression shifted from one of tight lipped concern to that of smiling accomplishment. Then he pulled a Mont blanc pen from his drawer, the brand identical to my own; except, his pen was bigger.
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| .A case of pen envy |
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....One fine afternoon in Ashford Dunwoody, Georgia.
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..<HOME>
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Taking Lumps
when the goal posts have wheels
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Almost immediately after being turned loose on my own I began experiencing what were known as "fire lighting" meetings (as in lighting a hot fire under one's ass). It was during one of these little get togethers, as my fellow Peddlers and I sipped from the Kool aid of selling "added value," that I realized how truly good our bosses were. They weren't just prodding us to peddle air; they were imploring us to "educate and communicate concepts," and they preached this as if it were the holy gospel.
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As we all sat quietly in the conference room, pretending to care, we understood the source of the pressure was "upstairs" where folks who had more zeros on the right side of their salary figures than we had were also feeling the heat. I had no way of knowing the other Peddler's individual circumstances but I already had my pedal to the metal. Nothing good ever comes from redlining; either the engine blows or you run into something.
."faster, faster"
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Funny thing those quarterly revenue targets; without fail, they have a propensity to go up. The pattern was always the same; with much difficulty I'd chase one revenue projection only to see the next quarter's goal go up by thirty percent. You don't have to be a Rockefeller to realize you're not getting any closer to the carrot; if anything, the folks upstairs were lengthening the stick. It was then that I realized the game I was playing was impossible to win.
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| . "We're just going to move these goalposts a little further back" |
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The twenty-four-hour awareness necessary for working in high stakes media sales had begun to affect my training. I remember lifting weights one evening and losing focus during a set of incline
presses with 225 pounds over my head. I thought about work briefly, and the barbell came right down on my chest like a bowtie. More and more frequently, I'd find myself
sitting in traffic with my adrenaline pumping for no apparent reason. As we all
know, adrenaline is only useful for two situations; fight or flight.
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My fellow Media Peddlers were mostly veterans; many of whom, had hop scotched the typical progression of smaller media market to larger. There was good old Henry H., a "top biller" who "knew where all the bodies were buried" and would begin his two hour commute from Conyers (GA) as early as 4:30 am. Rumor had it, the ever stoic, Henry had dark connections to the puppeteers of the media underworld. He never talked much because he was always scheming his next move.
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Eric W., then in his early 30's, was closest to my age making him the logical candidate to be my interoffice sparring rival. I'd often put Eric into a headlock as he helplessly flailed his arms and legs; then, I'd drag him out into the hallway and dangle him over the second floor staircase banister until he relinquished his lunch money. The heavily mustachioed, Tom N. brought a bit of Detroit polish with him from a large Midwestern market; aside from the eternally dapper Neal M., Tom had the best tie collection in the building.
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Diversity of personality was a strength of DubyaSB's programming. Squeal Moortz, DubyaSB AM's marquee on-air talent, stalks silently through the office in contrast to his on-air persona. Sports Talk 680's El Camino's northeastern roots are easily recognizable as he greets staffers in passing. Captain Swerve Emory, he notorious for the distinctive, airborne, play by play of Atlanta's traffic always has an extra NASCAR ticket or two. O'mighty Williams, a man who makes his living by talking fishing and all things outdoors, often stops by my cubicle to talk weightlifting.
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The Epiphany
a flicker of light
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For as long as I can remember, I've received mysterious insight at critical junctures; the revelations would often come to me unexpectedly while I was alone in my thoughts. As the lone green horn on DubyaSB's staff, I didn't know up from down, and yet; there I was, sitting on a flight to Tampa wondering how I ended up there. I knew exactly where I was going, though. The big wigs at DubyaSB had shipped me off to a week-long sales workshop on their nickel; the focus there would be how to increase sales revenue by talking fast, smiling, and pretending to know everything.
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As I sat there, looking out over the wing, I tried to imagine what lie in store for me in Tampa. I envisioned a handful of khaki clad thirtysomethings stuffed into a hotel conference room with a catered lunch. The seminar warden would let us out for tobacco and toilet breaks a few times each day. As a dumbbell addict, who hates being cooped up indoors, I'd never survive a week of sitting in a room and stuffing face. I'd lifted weights since my sophomore year in high school, and had never missed three consecutive days since.
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My anxiety peaked after my flight landed. During the taxi ride, I scanned the streets between the airport and the hotel hoping to find a gym without any luck. The next morning, just before sunrise, I walked out the hotel lobby, and started to run.
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As I sat there, looking out over the wing, I tried to imagine what lie in store for me in Tampa. I envisioned a handful of khaki clad thirtysomethings stuffed into a hotel conference room with a catered lunch. The seminar warden would let us out for tobacco and toilet breaks a few times each day. As a dumbbell addict, who hates being cooped up indoors, I'd never survive a week of sitting in a room and stuffing face. I'd lifted weights since my sophomore year in high school, and had never missed three consecutive days since.
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My anxiety peaked after my flight landed. During the taxi ride, I scanned the streets between the airport and the hotel hoping to find a gym without any luck. The next morning, just before sunrise, I walked out the hotel lobby, and started to run.
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After struggling through a circuitous thirty minute course through a Tampa neighborhood, I sighted my hotel in the distance; to me, it was an oasis. Immediately, my brain hung the phone up on my legs; hearing a dial tone, my legs assumed the communication with my brain was over so they stopped moving.
After struggling through a circuitous thirty minute course through a Tampa neighborhood, I sighted my hotel in the distance; to me, it was an oasis. Immediately, my brain hung the phone up on my legs; hearing a dial tone, my legs assumed the communication with my brain was over so they stopped moving.
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Actually, I didn't run the whole thirty minutes; I "struggled" for thirty minutes. The elapsed time, according to my watch, from the first step I took until I saw my hotel again and surrendered was thirty minutes. In total, on and off, I probably jogged about six blocks. Yeah, the stretching, the push-ups, and the bottled water drinking were all included in the elapsed running time but that's beside the point. If you care to take anything from this tale, remember, it's all about the struggle.
Actually, I didn't run the whole thirty minutes; I "struggled" for thirty minutes. The elapsed time, according to my watch, from the first step I took until I saw my hotel again and surrendered was thirty minutes. In total, on and off, I probably jogged about six blocks. Yeah, the stretching, the push-ups, and the bottled water drinking were all included in the elapsed running time but that's beside the point. If you care to take anything from this tale, remember, it's all about the struggle.
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| Trying is victory |
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After experiencing my very first "struggler's high" from running I was hooked; in addition to the morning runs I started running up and down the hotel stairwells during seminar breaks. When I returned from the breaks sweating and breathing heavily the other workshop attendees suspected I was some kind of addict.
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By my third morning in Tampa I'd found my groove and had begun to look for new running routes.
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| Tampa, Florida (1995) The conspicuous residence of the late George Steinbrenner. |
I was highly motivated because I was out of my comfort zone being so far away from my regular gym in Atlanta. Those days, I always trained in one place because I was stubborn and set in my ways; I even used the same barbell all the time.
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The hotel I was staying in had a 1960's era Jack La Lane universal weight machine but I was underwhelmed at the prospect of using it. Besides, everybody knows the weights in Georgia are heavier than those in Florida.
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The hotel I was staying in had a 1960's era Jack La Lane universal weight machine but I was underwhelmed at the prospect of using it. Besides, everybody knows the weights in Georgia are heavier than those in Florida.
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By the time I returned to Atlanta I was hooked on my new outdoor training regimen. Henceforth, the great outdoors, and everything in it, would supplement my weight training; stadiums, mountains, and playground equipment became my new tools, and the best part was I could train most anywhere. Having adapted a new train anytime, anyplace mentality I soon found myself stretching on street corners and doing push-ups in parking lots.
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Naturally, those who happened by observed with mixed curiosity, which, interestingly, had the unexpected effect of causing me to double down in my commitment. Unwilling to give up my newfound portability, I adjusted my mentality from being somewhat conscientious of other's perceptions to a more robust level of not giving a s#@t; that subtle shift has made all the difference.
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| .Starbuck's restroom - Atlanta (1996) the runner's changing room of choice
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| Still at it - Hiroshima, Japan (2020) still running, lifting weights, and doing push-ups on street corners. AB Junior is watching from the stroller. |
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A jog flight through enemy airspace...
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..Dawn 04:30 Fort Smith, Arkansas
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It was day two of a three day cross country drive flight from Southeastern Virginia to Los Angeles and I was out for a pre dawn jog patrol in a small town on the border of Oklahoma and Arkansas. I was on the return leg of a forty-five minute loop that started at my hotel. It was one of those neighborhoods where every house had a dog.
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For the uninformed, Meter Readers and Mail Carriers are considered sworn enemies of Doberman Pinschers worldwide; as such, neither are recognized as being protected under the Geneva Convention. This was the state of relations at the time of my accidental intrusion into Doberman airspace.
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For the uninformed, Meter Readers and Mail Carriers are considered sworn enemies of Doberman Pinschers worldwide; as such, neither are recognized as being protected under the Geneva Convention. This was the state of relations at the time of my accidental intrusion into Doberman airspace.
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| Hostile territory |
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Dobermans awaiting their orders
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I was jogging in the middle of a dimly lit street with little visibility beyond the curb on either side when, suddenly, I detected barks coming at me from behind. It seemed, the local canines had been tracking me and were attempting to triangulate my position. As I picked up the pace the frequency of the incoming barks increased.
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Suddenly, woof tracers flashed past me from five o'clock low. I shoved the throttle forward and craned my neck to identify the bogey. Judging from the pointed ears and the abbreviated tail I determined it was a Doberman and, based on speed and growl, he was no rookie. The big canine was closing on me fast and appeared to have already acquired tone.
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I'd been briefed on Doberman capabilities and tactics but hadn't expected to encounter one in this theater. Perhaps, it was a rogue hound, or maybe he'd mistakenly identified me as a slower Oklahoma Meter Reader since we have similar heat signatures. I was in a tough spot but had the tactical advantages of altitude and speed. Though low on fuel I had no choice but to outrun him. I hit the adrenaline, nosed over, and went to full afterburner. After ten seconds of acceleration and evasive maneuvers I lost visual contact with the canine; then, as a precaution, I deployed cat flares and banked for home.
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. ...a predawn encounter in Fort Smith, Arkansas.
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