Guest Post: That’s Our House Now

Today’s guest post is a bit of fiction-loosely-based-on-real-events from RG reader John Curry. It may not be appropriate for all ages — jb

“Motherf…” Joe muttered when the fan blade hit his head as he stumbled to his bedroom in the attic he and his dad rented from their boss. “The one thing from home I didn’t miss when I was in that GD sandbox.” He sat down on his bed and chugged a Nalgene of water so he wouldn’t be hungover in the morning. Joe’s dad had joked with him before he left the house earlier that night. “Don’t be trying to puss out of work tomorrow morning because your head hurts. I’ve seen you leave at the ass crack of dawn Saturday morning to try and fix some chick’s car playing Captain Save-A-Hoe.” Joe could work harder hungover than most men could work sober. That hard work led him from side jobs and summer work to help with bills when he was a teenager — to Afghanistan after he graduated and didn’t really have a better plan.

When he got his DD214, he still didn’t really have a plan. Going back to work fixing tractors for his dad’s boss, a man he always knew as “Mr. Owen”, seemed like the most reasonable thing. Joe’s uncle had researched their family history; they’d been farming around here since white people had found the land, but a family weakness for the bottle had taken them from owning land to working on other people’s land generations before Joe was swimming in his dad’s nutsack. “A man ain’t ever worth a damn unless he’s got a piece of land to call his own,” Dad always used to say, in between labored breaths. Decades of cowboy killers and 7018 fumes had made his lungs work about as well as the liquor made his liver work.

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Sales—Is It For You?

Not that long ago, when my dear brother was announcing my ascension into the rarefied air of corporate executives, somebody commented that he or she would appreciate some perspective on the sales profession. Our commenter said, “I just don’t know if I’d do a good job at sales or like sales.”

I have been in sales in one form or another since I was 13 years old. In a tale that I’m pretty sure has been told here or somewhere else, Jack and I ran a mail order BMX shop out of our mother’s home for much, much longer than anybody had a right to—especially when those two someones are 19 and 13, respectively. It’s one of those things that made a lot of sense at the time, but seems downright impossible now that it actually happened.

Our mom would answer our home phone with the name of our shop when I was in school, write down whatever somebody requested, and then she would send a page to my Motorola Gold Flex with the details of the order. I would come home and then call the various distributor networks and place the order. Somehow, none of our customers thought this was weird. And we actually even made a little money!

Unfortunately, we had made an arrangement with a local bike shop to share some of the financial burden, and the owner was an unscrupulous Brooklynite who had somehow made it to Hilliard, Ohio. I don’t remember exactly all of what happened, but the long and the short of it was that our partnership was discontinued, and thus, so was our mail order shop.

That small taste of money and the thrill of the hunt led me to working at a musical instrument store after school in high school, and then another one when I was in college. I’ve been in some form of a sales role ever since, whether it was in front line sales, sales management, sales coaching and training, sales leadership, leading a national sales force, and now, as the VP of Sales for the largest privately held media company in the world.

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This Week’s Klockau Lust Object: 1973 Chrysler New Yorker Brougham

Here we go again! Another Brougham Era Brougham, with gargantuan size, room, gas-sucking 440 CID powerplant hitched to a creamy smooth TorqueFlite automatic, and exceedingly plush interior you can sleep eight people in! This week’s find is being sold by my friend Anthony Rose, who sells vintage Broughamage, and not so vintage Broughamage, like a pristine 1993 Sedan de Ville in Taupe with matching interior and factory alloys and whitewalls recently sold to a happy local motorist. Continue Reading →

Formula 1 Before the Beautiful People

Note: Another guest submission by Patrick King. -TK
Now that the Big Three road and street races in this part of Florida are behind us my attention turns to media coverage and in-person access at Formula One events in the current year compared to days past. This weekend, F1 TV Pro will present me with six hours of on-track activity from Italy, plus endless commentary before and after each practice/qualifying/sprint session and the race itself, in stereo though my Klipsch speakers – unbroken by commercials – for a prorated cost of $2.83. To show my appreciation, here’s the official name of the Grand Prix formerly known as Imola:

FORMULA 1 ROLEX GRAN PREMIO DEL MADE IN ITALY E DELL’EMILIA-ROMAGNA 2022

My interest in Formula One has waxed and waned since the early sixties, spiking at milestones like Frankenheimer’s “Grand Prix” and camping at Watkins Glen to watch Jackie Stewart run away from the field in 1970 only to be felled by a broken oil line in his first race with the new Tyrrell 001, allowing an unknown youngster named Emerson Fittipaldi to win his first Grand Prix. Later, the Canadian Grand Prix became my home F1 race, Montreal being less than a five hour drive from Boston.

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