Mark Steel's Blog, page 2
June 29, 2015
My obsession with Laser Therapy is not new 6-29-15Five y...
My obsession with Laser Therapy is not new 6-29-15
Five years ago, my rapidly aging dog was getting up very slowly and limping badly. Sasha was a 93 pound Samoyed...which is essentially a Siberian sled dog. Samoyeds are recognized by the American Kennel Club and often place very high at national events. They are considered a working class dog. In Siberia they pull stuff and herd reindeer and with their soft, odorless fur climb into bed with their owners on bitterly cold nights. When it is "only" zero outside, just one dog hops in. At 20 below, two dogs go on warming duty. At 40 below or thereabouts, three dogs are necessary. Have you ever heard of the rock group Three Dog Night? Of course you have. Well this is the breed of dog they meant!
Sasha was not allowed in my bed in Michigan. I do not become chilled easily and had a hot woman on stand-by in case the furnace went out. In Sarasota, I still keep the hot woman around but only for other nefarious purposes.
By now I'm sure that you have looked up Samoyeds and have seen that their weight averages about 70 pounds. How is it that Sasha weighed 93 pounds at the vet? She was only an inch or so taller than average. First of all, this breed does not need to eat very much to stay alive. They have a weird metabolism that serves them well on the Iditarod. They can sleep all day long in a snow bank on about a cup of dog food per day. In Florida, Sasha's caloric needs were minimal. But she LOVED people food! AND she was an expert in the as-yet-unrecognized AKC mooching category. I am not saying we fed her Hungry Man TV dinners along with her dog food...but when she was alive we did not have anywhere near the leftovers to refrigerate that we do now.
One would think that a dog that prefers sleeping in a snowbank all day would never develop tendonitis or become arthritic in Florida, but eventually Sasha did.
A wise pet loving client referred me to a veterinarian with a cold therapy laser. The treatment on the worst two limbs took seven minutes. The vet charged me $30. Sasha limped in and practically trotted out! I was dumbfounded but giddy with delight. A month later, the other two limbs were causing problems. We returned to the same vet and received another seven minutes. But this time the receptionist asked me for $60! I was dumbfounded yet again but for different reasons. I asked to see the vet again and she rather condescendingly explained that Sasha was a large dog and cost more. I asked if we could measure the circumference of Sasha's knee and ankle and those of the beagle in the waiting room, but the vet declined. When I am being screwed over by someone I hire, it is my nature to fire them and do it myself. So that is exactly what I did. I imported a beautiful laser from Europe, watched dozens of videos, and treated my dog the next time she needed it.
I had a chronically sore elbow from lifting very heavy weights in middle age. I watched a dozen more videos and treated it. The soreness was much better the next day, and completely gone in two more! The same thing happened when I treated a sore shoulder that I had dislocated 20 years ago...only this time it took TWO treatments to take care of it. Now I am lifting weights that should be FAR too heavy for a man rapidly approaching 60.
Sherri was a 45 year old lady who worked out at my studio. She was very pleasant and it was with great sadness that she told me she was going to have to stop attending and quit her computer job due to carpal tunnel syndrome and the awful pain in both wrists. I watched still more videos and read a treatise written by a therapy laser engineer that he submitted to Harvard for review. After some cajoling, Sherri let me treat one of her wrists with my laser. Two days later, she came back to the gym, BEGGING me to treat the other one! She kept her job and her workouts intact with no surgery and did not miss a single day of work!
Many videos and courses and certifications later, I am now a Cold Laser Therapy Specialist who has performed over a thousand treatments successfully. I have changed the lives of many people and kept my own physique in fine tune. This is the link to my new Cold Laser Therapy site. To return to the home page of marksteelbooks.com click here.
Five years ago, my rapidly aging dog was getting up very slowly and limping badly. Sasha was a 93 pound Samoyed...which is essentially a Siberian sled dog. Samoyeds are recognized by the American Kennel Club and often place very high at national events. They are considered a working class dog. In Siberia they pull stuff and herd reindeer and with their soft, odorless fur climb into bed with their owners on bitterly cold nights. When it is "only" zero outside, just one dog hops in. At 20 below, two dogs go on warming duty. At 40 below or thereabouts, three dogs are necessary. Have you ever heard of the rock group Three Dog Night? Of course you have. Well this is the breed of dog they meant!
Sasha was not allowed in my bed in Michigan. I do not become chilled easily and had a hot woman on stand-by in case the furnace went out. In Sarasota, I still keep the hot woman around but only for other nefarious purposes.
By now I'm sure that you have looked up Samoyeds and have seen that their weight averages about 70 pounds. How is it that Sasha weighed 93 pounds at the vet? She was only an inch or so taller than average. First of all, this breed does not need to eat very much to stay alive. They have a weird metabolism that serves them well on the Iditarod. They can sleep all day long in a snow bank on about a cup of dog food per day. In Florida, Sasha's caloric needs were minimal. But she LOVED people food! AND she was an expert in the as-yet-unrecognized AKC mooching category. I am not saying we fed her Hungry Man TV dinners along with her dog food...but when she was alive we did not have anywhere near the leftovers to refrigerate that we do now.
One would think that a dog that prefers sleeping in a snowbank all day would never develop tendonitis or become arthritic in Florida, but eventually Sasha did.
A wise pet loving client referred me to a veterinarian with a cold therapy laser. The treatment on the worst two limbs took seven minutes. The vet charged me $30. Sasha limped in and practically trotted out! I was dumbfounded but giddy with delight. A month later, the other two limbs were causing problems. We returned to the same vet and received another seven minutes. But this time the receptionist asked me for $60! I was dumbfounded yet again but for different reasons. I asked to see the vet again and she rather condescendingly explained that Sasha was a large dog and cost more. I asked if we could measure the circumference of Sasha's knee and ankle and those of the beagle in the waiting room, but the vet declined. When I am being screwed over by someone I hire, it is my nature to fire them and do it myself. So that is exactly what I did. I imported a beautiful laser from Europe, watched dozens of videos, and treated my dog the next time she needed it.
I had a chronically sore elbow from lifting very heavy weights in middle age. I watched a dozen more videos and treated it. The soreness was much better the next day, and completely gone in two more! The same thing happened when I treated a sore shoulder that I had dislocated 20 years ago...only this time it took TWO treatments to take care of it. Now I am lifting weights that should be FAR too heavy for a man rapidly approaching 60.
Sherri was a 45 year old lady who worked out at my studio. She was very pleasant and it was with great sadness that she told me she was going to have to stop attending and quit her computer job due to carpal tunnel syndrome and the awful pain in both wrists. I watched still more videos and read a treatise written by a therapy laser engineer that he submitted to Harvard for review. After some cajoling, Sherri let me treat one of her wrists with my laser. Two days later, she came back to the gym, BEGGING me to treat the other one! She kept her job and her workouts intact with no surgery and did not miss a single day of work!
Many videos and courses and certifications later, I am now a Cold Laser Therapy Specialist who has performed over a thousand treatments successfully. I have changed the lives of many people and kept my own physique in fine tune. This is the link to my new Cold Laser Therapy site. To return to the home page of marksteelbooks.com click here.
My obsession with Laser Therapy is not new 6-29-15F...
My obsession with Laser Therapy is not new 6-29-15
Five years ago, my rapidly aging dog was getting up very slowly and limping badly. Sasha was a 93 pound Samoyed...which is essentially a Siberian sled dog. Samoyeds are recognized by the American Kennel Club and often place very high at national events. They are considered a working class dog. In Siberia they pull stuff and herd reindeer and with their soft, odorless fur climb into bed with their owners on bitterly cold nights. When it is "only" zero outside, just one dog hops in. At 20 below, two dogs go on warming duty. At 40 below or thereabouts, three dogs are necessary. Have you ever heard of the rock group Three Dog Night? Of course you have. Well this is the breed of dog they meant!
Sasha was not allowed in my bed in Michigan. I do not become chilled easily and had a hot woman on stand-by in case the furnace went out. In Sarasota, I still keep the hot woman around but only for other nefarious purposes.
By now I'm sure that you have looked up Samoyeds and have seen that their weight averages about 70 pounds. How is it that Sasha weighed 93 pounds at the vet? She was only an inch or so taller than average. First of all, this breed does not need to eat very much to stay alive. They have a weird metabolism that serves them well on the Iditarod. They can sleep all day long in a snow bank on about a cup of dog food per day. In Florida, Sasha's caloric needs were minimal. But she LOVED people food! AND she was an expert in the as-yet-unrecognized AKC mooching category. I am not saying we fed her Hungry Man TV dinners along with her dog food...but when she was alive we did not have anywhere near the leftovers to refrigerate that we do now.
One would think that a dog that prefers sleeping in a snowbank all day would never develop tendonitis or become arthritic in Florida, but eventually Sasha did.
A wise pet loving client referred me to a veterinarian with a cold therapy laser. The treatment on the worst two limbs took seven minutes. The vet charged me $30. Sasha limped in and practically trotted out! I was dumbfounded but giddy with delight. A month later, the other two limbs were causing problems. We returned to the same vet and received another seven minutes. But this time the receptionist asked me for $60! I was dumbfounded yet again but for different reasons. I asked to see the vet again and she rather condescendingly explained that Sasha was a large dog and cost more. I asked if we could measure the circumference of Sasha's knee and ankle and those of the beagle in the waiting room, but the vet declined. When I am being screwed over by someone I hire, it is my nature to fire them and do it myself. So that is exactly what I did. I imported a beautiful laser from Europe, watched dozens of videos, and treated my dog the next time she needed it.
I had a chronically sore elbow from lifting very heavy weights in middle age. I watched a dozen more videos and treated it. The soreness was much better the next day, and completely gone in two more! The same thing happened when I treated a sore shoulder that I had dislocated 20 years ago...only this time it took TWO treatments to take care of it. Now I am lifting weights that should be FAR too heavy for a man rapidly approaching 60.
Sherri was a 45 year old lady who worked out at my studio. She was very pleasant and it was with great sadness that she told me she was going to have to stop attending and quit her computer job due to carpal tunnel syndrome and the awful pain in both wrists. I watched still more videos and read a treatise written by a therapy laser engineer that he submitted to Harvard for review. After some cajoling, Sherri let me treat one of her wrists with my laser. Two days later, she came back to the gym, BEGGING me to treat the other one! She kept her job and her workouts intact with no surgery and did not miss a single day of work!
Many videos and courses and certifications later, I am now a Cold Laser Therapy Specialist who has performed over a thousand treatments successfully. I have changed the lives of many people and kept my own physique in fine tune. This is the link to my new Cold Laser Therapy site. To return to the home page of marksteelbooks.com click here.
Five years ago, my rapidly aging dog was getting up very slowly and limping badly. Sasha was a 93 pound Samoyed...which is essentially a Siberian sled dog. Samoyeds are recognized by the American Kennel Club and often place very high at national events. They are considered a working class dog. In Siberia they pull stuff and herd reindeer and with their soft, odorless fur climb into bed with their owners on bitterly cold nights. When it is "only" zero outside, just one dog hops in. At 20 below, two dogs go on warming duty. At 40 below or thereabouts, three dogs are necessary. Have you ever heard of the rock group Three Dog Night? Of course you have. Well this is the breed of dog they meant!
Sasha was not allowed in my bed in Michigan. I do not become chilled easily and had a hot woman on stand-by in case the furnace went out. In Sarasota, I still keep the hot woman around but only for other nefarious purposes.
By now I'm sure that you have looked up Samoyeds and have seen that their weight averages about 70 pounds. How is it that Sasha weighed 93 pounds at the vet? She was only an inch or so taller than average. First of all, this breed does not need to eat very much to stay alive. They have a weird metabolism that serves them well on the Iditarod. They can sleep all day long in a snow bank on about a cup of dog food per day. In Florida, Sasha's caloric needs were minimal. But she LOVED people food! AND she was an expert in the as-yet-unrecognized AKC mooching category. I am not saying we fed her Hungry Man TV dinners along with her dog food...but when she was alive we did not have anywhere near the leftovers to refrigerate that we do now.
One would think that a dog that prefers sleeping in a snowbank all day would never develop tendonitis or become arthritic in Florida, but eventually Sasha did.
A wise pet loving client referred me to a veterinarian with a cold therapy laser. The treatment on the worst two limbs took seven minutes. The vet charged me $30. Sasha limped in and practically trotted out! I was dumbfounded but giddy with delight. A month later, the other two limbs were causing problems. We returned to the same vet and received another seven minutes. But this time the receptionist asked me for $60! I was dumbfounded yet again but for different reasons. I asked to see the vet again and she rather condescendingly explained that Sasha was a large dog and cost more. I asked if we could measure the circumference of Sasha's knee and ankle and those of the beagle in the waiting room, but the vet declined. When I am being screwed over by someone I hire, it is my nature to fire them and do it myself. So that is exactly what I did. I imported a beautiful laser from Europe, watched dozens of videos, and treated my dog the next time she needed it.
I had a chronically sore elbow from lifting very heavy weights in middle age. I watched a dozen more videos and treated it. The soreness was much better the next day, and completely gone in two more! The same thing happened when I treated a sore shoulder that I had dislocated 20 years ago...only this time it took TWO treatments to take care of it. Now I am lifting weights that should be FAR too heavy for a man rapidly approaching 60.
Sherri was a 45 year old lady who worked out at my studio. She was very pleasant and it was with great sadness that she told me she was going to have to stop attending and quit her computer job due to carpal tunnel syndrome and the awful pain in both wrists. I watched still more videos and read a treatise written by a therapy laser engineer that he submitted to Harvard for review. After some cajoling, Sherri let me treat one of her wrists with my laser. Two days later, she came back to the gym, BEGGING me to treat the other one! She kept her job and her workouts intact with no surgery and did not miss a single day of work!
Many videos and courses and certifications later, I am now a Cold Laser Therapy Specialist who has performed over a thousand treatments successfully. I have changed the lives of many people and kept my own physique in fine tune. This is the link to my new Cold Laser Therapy site. To return to the home page of marksteelbooks.com click here.
May 27, 2015
A Michigan Police Story in Chesterfield Township 5-27-15 ...
A Michigan Police Story in Chesterfield Township 5-27-15
In spite of the title, this could be a story about police anywhere. For the record, I am Caucasian, and so were the cops in this post.
Six years ago, the girlfriend had a workout studio in Chesterfield Township, Michigan. I worked there part time as a trainer, and spent the rest of my time shipping books and taking cases as a private investigator. The studio was on a main road called Gratiot, in a terrific location just south of an intersection. During rush hour, traffic would back up at the intersection somewhat, and people would stare at the studio from their car windows. Guilt would eventually set in weeks or months later, and they would find their way into the narrow parking lot in front of the studio.
Adjoining the studio was a small party store (in Florida they are just called liquor stores.)
The new owner was a chain smoker of Middle Eastern descent, and too late discovered that he paid too much for his establishment from the retiring owner.
The workout studio showed promise for a while, but then the Great Recession hit and people worried about staying employed and alive more than getting fit. Business began to drop off. Business was bad for the party store as well, but he nevertheless took about 5 deliveries per day from beer trucks, soda trucks, and various snack vendors. The duration of these deliveries could last from 15 to 40 minutes. There was extensive parking in the rear of our little complex, but Saddam didn't trust the vendors to come through his back door. He claimed they would steal. Instead, the trucks often pulled lengthwise across our two businesses, blocking any possible clients from arriving or leaving. Whenever I was present, I encouraged these truck drivers to move immediately...sometimes loudly. I am not a small person, and most of them heeded my suggestions.
One fine day, a Coca-Cola beverage truck pulled in lengthwise across the two businesses. I was spotting a client on an exercise and by the time I was finished the driver was tugging on a roll-up door. I asked him nicely to move immediately. He placed several cases of soda on a cart and PROMISED he would only be one minute. I had heard that one often and told him so. I went back to my client. Fifteen minutes later, the truck was still blocking the entire parking strip. I flung open the door of the party store where the driver was lounging against the counter. I told him to move...explaining that his minute was up a long time ago. He whined something about still having to collect a check. I ramped up the volume while shouting "MOVE NOW!" I walked out to the offending truck and using only the palms of my hands began banging on the aluminum rollup doors of the trailer. Aluminum dents more easily than steel, and the reverberation of my actions was audible from inside the party store and several blocks away. The truck driver heard the commotion and did what any manly Teamster would do. He waited until I went back into the studio, snuck into the truck, and called the police from a safe distance. They must have talked to him for some time, because the patrol car did not appear at the studio for nearly half an hour. Two sergeants got out. You are no doubt aware that some cops go from burly to fat during their employment. And some were never burly and just go from wimpy to fat. One sergeant fit my first description, and the second fit my second. They had both gone very soft. Without their guns, batons, mace, bullet proof vests, handcuffs and radios they couldn't have apprehended a 10 year old girl. In fact, it looked like the only exercise these donut connoisseurs got was from lugging all their crap around when they weren't sitting in the squad car. I sat peacefully in a chair while a client walked on a treadmill. The sergeants spent a futile five minutes trying to get me to cop to a disorderly conduct admission, knowing that if they didn't witness it they were hosed. In four words, I copped to asking the truck driver to leave. From there, they only received yes or no answers from me. The first rule of dealing with cops...for any race...is to never testify against yourself. They strutted, they blustered, they harumpphed, and then tried to question my client. If she had seen anything she could be of no assistance at the moment due to a bad case of sudden onset amnesia. They hooked their thumbs in their belt loops and accused me of lying. In a pathetic attempt at good cop/bad cop, one blurted out the tired old line "Just tell us what happened so we can leave." Oh...we'll all leave of course...to the station for fingerprinting. I wanted to ask them if I looked too poor to own a television set...did they think I never watched an episode of Law and Order, CSI, or Perry Mason where the first mistake every perp makes is when he testifies against himself? I just shrugged my shoulders. They took one last stab at a collar. They asked to see my identification. Wordlessly, I complied. They jotted a few numbers down. After they left, they could run my ID all afternoon, but they wouldn't be back. There were no wants or warrants. The chubby cop who tried to play good cop said there must be something to the truck drivers story because he admitted to blocking in the studio parking lot. The other fat sergeant looked daggers at him and then quickly looked back to me...but it was too late! I caught it! They had read the truck driver the riot act! He wouldn't be blocking anymore. Fat sergeant blathered on about how lying to the police was in itself a crime. I refused to take the bait. He only received another shrug of my shoulders after his diatribe. Obviously frustrated, they both waddled out. I wanted to wish the both of them good luck with their angioplasties, but didn't even wave good-bye. To return to the Home Page click here.
In spite of the title, this could be a story about police anywhere. For the record, I am Caucasian, and so were the cops in this post.
Six years ago, the girlfriend had a workout studio in Chesterfield Township, Michigan. I worked there part time as a trainer, and spent the rest of my time shipping books and taking cases as a private investigator. The studio was on a main road called Gratiot, in a terrific location just south of an intersection. During rush hour, traffic would back up at the intersection somewhat, and people would stare at the studio from their car windows. Guilt would eventually set in weeks or months later, and they would find their way into the narrow parking lot in front of the studio.
Adjoining the studio was a small party store (in Florida they are just called liquor stores.)
The new owner was a chain smoker of Middle Eastern descent, and too late discovered that he paid too much for his establishment from the retiring owner.
The workout studio showed promise for a while, but then the Great Recession hit and people worried about staying employed and alive more than getting fit. Business began to drop off. Business was bad for the party store as well, but he nevertheless took about 5 deliveries per day from beer trucks, soda trucks, and various snack vendors. The duration of these deliveries could last from 15 to 40 minutes. There was extensive parking in the rear of our little complex, but Saddam didn't trust the vendors to come through his back door. He claimed they would steal. Instead, the trucks often pulled lengthwise across our two businesses, blocking any possible clients from arriving or leaving. Whenever I was present, I encouraged these truck drivers to move immediately...sometimes loudly. I am not a small person, and most of them heeded my suggestions.
One fine day, a Coca-Cola beverage truck pulled in lengthwise across the two businesses. I was spotting a client on an exercise and by the time I was finished the driver was tugging on a roll-up door. I asked him nicely to move immediately. He placed several cases of soda on a cart and PROMISED he would only be one minute. I had heard that one often and told him so. I went back to my client. Fifteen minutes later, the truck was still blocking the entire parking strip. I flung open the door of the party store where the driver was lounging against the counter. I told him to move...explaining that his minute was up a long time ago. He whined something about still having to collect a check. I ramped up the volume while shouting "MOVE NOW!" I walked out to the offending truck and using only the palms of my hands began banging on the aluminum rollup doors of the trailer. Aluminum dents more easily than steel, and the reverberation of my actions was audible from inside the party store and several blocks away. The truck driver heard the commotion and did what any manly Teamster would do. He waited until I went back into the studio, snuck into the truck, and called the police from a safe distance. They must have talked to him for some time, because the patrol car did not appear at the studio for nearly half an hour. Two sergeants got out. You are no doubt aware that some cops go from burly to fat during their employment. And some were never burly and just go from wimpy to fat. One sergeant fit my first description, and the second fit my second. They had both gone very soft. Without their guns, batons, mace, bullet proof vests, handcuffs and radios they couldn't have apprehended a 10 year old girl. In fact, it looked like the only exercise these donut connoisseurs got was from lugging all their crap around when they weren't sitting in the squad car. I sat peacefully in a chair while a client walked on a treadmill. The sergeants spent a futile five minutes trying to get me to cop to a disorderly conduct admission, knowing that if they didn't witness it they were hosed. In four words, I copped to asking the truck driver to leave. From there, they only received yes or no answers from me. The first rule of dealing with cops...for any race...is to never testify against yourself. They strutted, they blustered, they harumpphed, and then tried to question my client. If she had seen anything she could be of no assistance at the moment due to a bad case of sudden onset amnesia. They hooked their thumbs in their belt loops and accused me of lying. In a pathetic attempt at good cop/bad cop, one blurted out the tired old line "Just tell us what happened so we can leave." Oh...we'll all leave of course...to the station for fingerprinting. I wanted to ask them if I looked too poor to own a television set...did they think I never watched an episode of Law and Order, CSI, or Perry Mason where the first mistake every perp makes is when he testifies against himself? I just shrugged my shoulders. They took one last stab at a collar. They asked to see my identification. Wordlessly, I complied. They jotted a few numbers down. After they left, they could run my ID all afternoon, but they wouldn't be back. There were no wants or warrants. The chubby cop who tried to play good cop said there must be something to the truck drivers story because he admitted to blocking in the studio parking lot. The other fat sergeant looked daggers at him and then quickly looked back to me...but it was too late! I caught it! They had read the truck driver the riot act! He wouldn't be blocking anymore. Fat sergeant blathered on about how lying to the police was in itself a crime. I refused to take the bait. He only received another shrug of my shoulders after his diatribe. Obviously frustrated, they both waddled out. I wanted to wish the both of them good luck with their angioplasties, but didn't even wave good-bye. To return to the Home Page click here.
A Michigan Police Story in Chesterfield Township 5-27-15&...
A Michigan Police Story in Chesterfield Township 5-27-15
In spite of the title, this could be a story about police anywhere. For the record, I am Caucasian, and so were the cops in this post.
Six years ago, the girlfriend had a workout studio in Chesterfield Township, Michigan. I worked there part time as a trainer, and spent the rest of my time shipping books and taking cases as a private investigator. The studio was on a main road called Gratiot, in a terrific location just south of an intersection. During rush hour, traffic would back up at the intersection somewhat, and people would stare at the studio from their car windows. Guilt would eventually set in weeks or months later, and they would find their way into the narrow parking lot in front of the studio.
Adjoining the studio was a small party store (in Florida they are just called liquor stores.)
The new owner was a chain smoker of Middle Eastern descent, and too late discovered that he paid too much for his establishment from the retiring owner.
The workout studio showed promise for a while, but then the Great Recession hit and people worried about staying employed and alive more than getting fit. Business began to drop off. Business was bad for the party store as well, but he nevertheless took about 5 deliveries per day from beer trucks, soda trucks, and various snack vendors. The duration of these deliveries could last from 15 to 40 minutes. There was extensive parking in the rear of our little complex, but Saddam didn't trust the vendors to come through his back door. He claimed they would steal. Instead, the trucks often pulled lengthwise across our two businesses, blocking any possible clients from arriving or leaving. Whenever I was present, I encouraged these truck drivers to move immediately...sometimes loudly. I am not a small person, and most of them heeded my suggestions.
One fine day, a Coca-Cola beverage truck pulled in lengthwise across the two businesses. I was spotting a client on an exercise and by the time I was finished the driver was tugging on a roll-up door. I asked him nicely to move immediately. He placed several cases of soda on a cart and PROMISED he would only be one minute. I had heard that one often and told him so. I went back to my client. Fifteen minutes later, the truck was still blocking the entire parking strip. I flung open the door of the party store where the driver was lounging against the counter. I told him to move...explaining that his minute was up a long time ago. He whined something about still having to collect a check. I ramped up the volume while shouting "MOVE NOW!" I walked out to the offending truck and using only the palms of my hands began banging on the aluminum rollup doors of the trailer. Aluminum dents more easily than steel, and the reverberation of my actions was audible from inside the party store and several blocks away. The truck driver heard the commotion and did what any manly Teamster would do. He waited until I went back into the studio, snuck into the truck, and called the police from a safe distance. They must have talked to him for some time, because the patrol car did not appear at the studio for nearly half an hour. Two sergeants got out. You are no doubt aware that some cops go from burly to fat during their employment. And some were never burly and just go from wimpy to fat. One sergeant fit my first description, and the second fit my second. They had both gone very soft. Without their guns, batons, mace, bullet proof vests, handcuffs and radios they couldn't have apprehended a 10 year old girl. In fact, it looked like the only exercise these donut connoisseurs got was from lugging all their crap around when they weren't sitting in the squad car. I sat peacefully in a chair while a client walked on a treadmill. The sergeants spent a futile five minutes trying to get me to cop to a disorderly conduct admission, knowing that if they didn't witness it they were hosed. In four words, I copped to asking the truck driver to leave. From there, they only received yes or no answers from me. The first rule of dealing with cops...for any race...is to never testify against yourself. They strutted, they blustered, they harumpphed, and then tried to question my client. If she had seen anything she could be of no assistance at the moment due to a bad case of sudden onset amnesia. They hooked their thumbs in their belt loops and accused me of lying. In a pathetic attempt at good cop/bad cop, one blurted out the tired old line "Just tell us what happened so we can leave." Oh...we'll all leave of course...to the station for fingerprinting. I wanted to ask them if I looked too poor to own a television set...did they think I never watched an episode of Law and Order, CSI, or Perry Mason where the first mistake every perp makes is when he testifies against himself? I just shrugged my shoulders. They took one last stab at a collar. They asked to see my identification. Wordlessly, I complied. They jotted a few numbers down. After they left, they could run my ID all afternoon, but they wouldn't be back. There were no wants or warrants. The chubby cop who tried to play good cop said there must be something to the truck drivers story because he admitted to blocking in the studio parking lot. The other fat sergeant looked daggers at him and then quickly looked back to me...but it was too late! I caught it! They had read the truck driver the riot act! He wouldn't be blocking anymore. Fat sergeant blathered on about how lying to the police was in itself a crime. I refused to take the bait. He only received another shrug of my shoulders after his diatribe. Obviously frustrated, they both waddled out. I wanted to wish the both of them good luck with their angioplasties, but didn't even wave good-bye. To return to the Home Page click here.
In spite of the title, this could be a story about police anywhere. For the record, I am Caucasian, and so were the cops in this post.
Six years ago, the girlfriend had a workout studio in Chesterfield Township, Michigan. I worked there part time as a trainer, and spent the rest of my time shipping books and taking cases as a private investigator. The studio was on a main road called Gratiot, in a terrific location just south of an intersection. During rush hour, traffic would back up at the intersection somewhat, and people would stare at the studio from their car windows. Guilt would eventually set in weeks or months later, and they would find their way into the narrow parking lot in front of the studio.
Adjoining the studio was a small party store (in Florida they are just called liquor stores.)
The new owner was a chain smoker of Middle Eastern descent, and too late discovered that he paid too much for his establishment from the retiring owner.
The workout studio showed promise for a while, but then the Great Recession hit and people worried about staying employed and alive more than getting fit. Business began to drop off. Business was bad for the party store as well, but he nevertheless took about 5 deliveries per day from beer trucks, soda trucks, and various snack vendors. The duration of these deliveries could last from 15 to 40 minutes. There was extensive parking in the rear of our little complex, but Saddam didn't trust the vendors to come through his back door. He claimed they would steal. Instead, the trucks often pulled lengthwise across our two businesses, blocking any possible clients from arriving or leaving. Whenever I was present, I encouraged these truck drivers to move immediately...sometimes loudly. I am not a small person, and most of them heeded my suggestions.
One fine day, a Coca-Cola beverage truck pulled in lengthwise across the two businesses. I was spotting a client on an exercise and by the time I was finished the driver was tugging on a roll-up door. I asked him nicely to move immediately. He placed several cases of soda on a cart and PROMISED he would only be one minute. I had heard that one often and told him so. I went back to my client. Fifteen minutes later, the truck was still blocking the entire parking strip. I flung open the door of the party store where the driver was lounging against the counter. I told him to move...explaining that his minute was up a long time ago. He whined something about still having to collect a check. I ramped up the volume while shouting "MOVE NOW!" I walked out to the offending truck and using only the palms of my hands began banging on the aluminum rollup doors of the trailer. Aluminum dents more easily than steel, and the reverberation of my actions was audible from inside the party store and several blocks away. The truck driver heard the commotion and did what any manly Teamster would do. He waited until I went back into the studio, snuck into the truck, and called the police from a safe distance. They must have talked to him for some time, because the patrol car did not appear at the studio for nearly half an hour. Two sergeants got out. You are no doubt aware that some cops go from burly to fat during their employment. And some were never burly and just go from wimpy to fat. One sergeant fit my first description, and the second fit my second. They had both gone very soft. Without their guns, batons, mace, bullet proof vests, handcuffs and radios they couldn't have apprehended a 10 year old girl. In fact, it looked like the only exercise these donut connoisseurs got was from lugging all their crap around when they weren't sitting in the squad car. I sat peacefully in a chair while a client walked on a treadmill. The sergeants spent a futile five minutes trying to get me to cop to a disorderly conduct admission, knowing that if they didn't witness it they were hosed. In four words, I copped to asking the truck driver to leave. From there, they only received yes or no answers from me. The first rule of dealing with cops...for any race...is to never testify against yourself. They strutted, they blustered, they harumpphed, and then tried to question my client. If she had seen anything she could be of no assistance at the moment due to a bad case of sudden onset amnesia. They hooked their thumbs in their belt loops and accused me of lying. In a pathetic attempt at good cop/bad cop, one blurted out the tired old line "Just tell us what happened so we can leave." Oh...we'll all leave of course...to the station for fingerprinting. I wanted to ask them if I looked too poor to own a television set...did they think I never watched an episode of Law and Order, CSI, or Perry Mason where the first mistake every perp makes is when he testifies against himself? I just shrugged my shoulders. They took one last stab at a collar. They asked to see my identification. Wordlessly, I complied. They jotted a few numbers down. After they left, they could run my ID all afternoon, but they wouldn't be back. There were no wants or warrants. The chubby cop who tried to play good cop said there must be something to the truck drivers story because he admitted to blocking in the studio parking lot. The other fat sergeant looked daggers at him and then quickly looked back to me...but it was too late! I caught it! They had read the truck driver the riot act! He wouldn't be blocking anymore. Fat sergeant blathered on about how lying to the police was in itself a crime. I refused to take the bait. He only received another shrug of my shoulders after his diatribe. Obviously frustrated, they both waddled out. I wanted to wish the both of them good luck with their angioplasties, but didn't even wave good-bye. To return to the Home Page click here.
April 12, 2015
My Doberman saved my life this week 4-12-15Nikki is my 8...
My Doberman saved my life this week 4-12-15
Nikki is my 87 pound Doberman puppy. She loves to walk. In all actuality she prefers to run, but will settle for a walk... provided it is a minimum of 8 miles. I do not like to walk for 8 miles at a stretch however, so we usually compromise on a distance of 2 miles or less. We use a chrome "choke" collar and a 20 foot retractable leash. Nikki can accelerate to at least half of her top speed within 20 feet. If I am lost in my thoughts and my dog decides to lunge at a squirrel, rabbit, or cat I may experience an incredibly unpleasant "tug" on my arm as she reaches the outer limit of the leash and de-accelerates suddenly. The "tug" is somewhat akin to having your arm grabbed by a toothless great white shark. The force would dislocate a human's shoulder every forth occurrence or so. Of course years of workouts have taken me to a super-human status, although it is still startling when she arrives at the end of her lunge nonetheless. But Nikki did not save my life this week by lunging. She saved it merely by being with me. We were nearing the end of one of our marathon walks when we passed by a small car dealership in my neighborhood. Front and center stood a beautiful dark blue and chrome Triumph 1200cc road bike. It has been exactly 30 years since I sold my last Triumph 650 Bonneville. My old one was fast. The engine on this motorcycle was nearly twice as big. Due to some financial successes I have been feeling more well-to-do than usual. The open road beckoned. Waves of nostalgia poured over me. I still have my motorcycle license (I mooch a bike two or three times a year.) An eager salesman was rushing out to greet me. I looked down at Nikki...she didn't look ready to balance herself on a motorcycle during a test ride today. I waved at the approaching salesman, stepped away from the bike, and we continued on our way. And that is how my Doberman saved my life. Sarasota is a terrific town, but the age of the average driver is about 94 years, six months. A motorcyclist dies every week. The most common explanation at every vehicular accident is "I'm sorry sonny, I didn't see you." To return to the home page, click here.
Nikki is my 87 pound Doberman puppy. She loves to walk. In all actuality she prefers to run, but will settle for a walk... provided it is a minimum of 8 miles. I do not like to walk for 8 miles at a stretch however, so we usually compromise on a distance of 2 miles or less. We use a chrome "choke" collar and a 20 foot retractable leash. Nikki can accelerate to at least half of her top speed within 20 feet. If I am lost in my thoughts and my dog decides to lunge at a squirrel, rabbit, or cat I may experience an incredibly unpleasant "tug" on my arm as she reaches the outer limit of the leash and de-accelerates suddenly. The "tug" is somewhat akin to having your arm grabbed by a toothless great white shark. The force would dislocate a human's shoulder every forth occurrence or so. Of course years of workouts have taken me to a super-human status, although it is still startling when she arrives at the end of her lunge nonetheless. But Nikki did not save my life this week by lunging. She saved it merely by being with me. We were nearing the end of one of our marathon walks when we passed by a small car dealership in my neighborhood. Front and center stood a beautiful dark blue and chrome Triumph 1200cc road bike. It has been exactly 30 years since I sold my last Triumph 650 Bonneville. My old one was fast. The engine on this motorcycle was nearly twice as big. Due to some financial successes I have been feeling more well-to-do than usual. The open road beckoned. Waves of nostalgia poured over me. I still have my motorcycle license (I mooch a bike two or three times a year.) An eager salesman was rushing out to greet me. I looked down at Nikki...she didn't look ready to balance herself on a motorcycle during a test ride today. I waved at the approaching salesman, stepped away from the bike, and we continued on our way. And that is how my Doberman saved my life. Sarasota is a terrific town, but the age of the average driver is about 94 years, six months. A motorcyclist dies every week. The most common explanation at every vehicular accident is "I'm sorry sonny, I didn't see you." To return to the home page, click here.
My Doberman saved my life this week 4-12-15Nikki is...
My Doberman saved my life this week 4-12-15
Nikki is my 87 pound Doberman puppy. She loves to walk. In all actuality she prefers to run, but will settle for a walk... provided it is a minimum of 8 miles. I do not like to walk for 8 miles at a stretch however, so we usually compromise on a distance of 2 miles or less. We use a chrome "choke" collar and a 20 foot retractable leash. Nikki can accelerate to at least half of her top speed within 20 feet. If I am lost in my thoughts and my dog decides to lunge at a squirrel, rabbit, or cat I may experience an incredibly unpleasant "tug" on my arm as she reaches the outer limit of the leash and de-accelerates suddenly. The "tug" is somewhat akin to having your arm grabbed by a toothless great white shark. The force would dislocate a human's shoulder every forth occurrence or so. Of course years of workouts have taken me to a super-human status, although it is still startling when she arrives at the end of her lunge nonetheless. But Nikki did not save my life this week by lunging. She saved it merely by being with me. We were nearing the end of one of our marathon walks when we passed by a small car dealership in my neighborhood. Front and center stood a beautiful dark blue and chrome Triumph 1200cc road bike. It has been exactly 30 years since I sold my last Triumph 650 Bonneville. My old one was fast. The engine on this motorcycle was nearly twice as big. Due to some financial successes I have been feeling more well-to-do than usual. The open road beckoned. Waves of nostalgia poured over me. I still have my motorcycle license (I mooch a bike two or three times a year.) An eager salesman was rushing out to greet me. I looked down at Nikki...she didn't look ready to balance herself on a motorcycle during a test ride today. I waved at the approaching salesman, stepped away from the bike, and we continued on our way. And that is how my Doberman saved my life. Sarasota is a terrific town, but the age of the average driver is about 94 years, six months. A motorcyclist dies every week. The most common explanation at every vehicular accident is "I'm sorry sonny, I didn't see you." To return to the home page, click here.
Nikki is my 87 pound Doberman puppy. She loves to walk. In all actuality she prefers to run, but will settle for a walk... provided it is a minimum of 8 miles. I do not like to walk for 8 miles at a stretch however, so we usually compromise on a distance of 2 miles or less. We use a chrome "choke" collar and a 20 foot retractable leash. Nikki can accelerate to at least half of her top speed within 20 feet. If I am lost in my thoughts and my dog decides to lunge at a squirrel, rabbit, or cat I may experience an incredibly unpleasant "tug" on my arm as she reaches the outer limit of the leash and de-accelerates suddenly. The "tug" is somewhat akin to having your arm grabbed by a toothless great white shark. The force would dislocate a human's shoulder every forth occurrence or so. Of course years of workouts have taken me to a super-human status, although it is still startling when she arrives at the end of her lunge nonetheless. But Nikki did not save my life this week by lunging. She saved it merely by being with me. We were nearing the end of one of our marathon walks when we passed by a small car dealership in my neighborhood. Front and center stood a beautiful dark blue and chrome Triumph 1200cc road bike. It has been exactly 30 years since I sold my last Triumph 650 Bonneville. My old one was fast. The engine on this motorcycle was nearly twice as big. Due to some financial successes I have been feeling more well-to-do than usual. The open road beckoned. Waves of nostalgia poured over me. I still have my motorcycle license (I mooch a bike two or three times a year.) An eager salesman was rushing out to greet me. I looked down at Nikki...she didn't look ready to balance herself on a motorcycle during a test ride today. I waved at the approaching salesman, stepped away from the bike, and we continued on our way. And that is how my Doberman saved my life. Sarasota is a terrific town, but the age of the average driver is about 94 years, six months. A motorcyclist dies every week. The most common explanation at every vehicular accident is "I'm sorry sonny, I didn't see you." To return to the home page, click here.
March 21, 2015
Art Van and the Free Perks Scam 3-21-15It has been over t...
Art Van and the Free Perks Scam 3-21-15
It has been over ten years since I worked for my old buddy Art Van the cheap furniture billionaire. He had more angles than a diamond cutter. The man came up with scams daily...sometimes hourly. One of his favorites was the Ol' Free Carpeting and Remodeling scam. Allow me to explain how it worked. The trick with this one was to chisel money from the contractors that worked on his stores AND hide income from the Internal Revenue Service at the same time. Let us say, for instance, that a carpeting contractor coveted the carpeting contract for Art's 31 huge furniture stores. The carpet in each store suffers a moderate amount of wear, especially from the constant "50-75% off sales that aren't really sales because they are based on a suggested retail price that no one on the planet ever pays." It is enough business to keep a contractor and his crew perpetually busy. More than one contractor sees dollar signs during the bidding process. First, Art's people figure out who is the lowest bidder. One cannot blame them there. After they are awarded the contract and re-carpet a store or two the hook is set. Art approaches them and tells them what a "fine, fine job they are doing" and how he "truly, truly hopes they are the winning bidder again when the contract comes up for renewal." Then he asks them for a small favor. There is a small room at his/his daughter's/his son's home that needs some new carpet and he was wondering if he could get the contractor to look it over. The contractor is flattered and shatters the sound barrier getting to the location in question. The work is performed rapidly and perfectly....but no money is ever offered. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. After all, it was a "favor". But then the favors become larger...a living room and a hallway, a bedroom or two--and soon a whole house. A precedent has been set. It has become too late to discuss a bill by now--the date of the contract's renewal is far too near. It is the same with the contractors that perform tile work...and the carpenters...and painters. Do these business owners inwardly resent giving away materials and their labor and that of their employees? Of course they do. I fell pray just once to Art's scam when I was asked to move a large multi-station weight machine to his son Gary's basement in the middle of a hot, hot summer. Gary MUST have noticed it there after I was done. It was huge and weighed a TON. His wife saw me go in and out of the home 231 times. She did not offer me a cold beverage on that 96 degree day, but MUST have heard the water running in the laundry tub as I tried to suck in enough to stave off heatstroke. But no money was offered, not from Art, and certainly not from his son. Does the IRS consider all of these "freebies" from browbeaten contractors to be income? Of COURSE it does. I wonder if Art has stolen a million dollars this way yet? To go back to the home page
Click here.
It has been over ten years since I worked for my old buddy Art Van the cheap furniture billionaire. He had more angles than a diamond cutter. The man came up with scams daily...sometimes hourly. One of his favorites was the Ol' Free Carpeting and Remodeling scam. Allow me to explain how it worked. The trick with this one was to chisel money from the contractors that worked on his stores AND hide income from the Internal Revenue Service at the same time. Let us say, for instance, that a carpeting contractor coveted the carpeting contract for Art's 31 huge furniture stores. The carpet in each store suffers a moderate amount of wear, especially from the constant "50-75% off sales that aren't really sales because they are based on a suggested retail price that no one on the planet ever pays." It is enough business to keep a contractor and his crew perpetually busy. More than one contractor sees dollar signs during the bidding process. First, Art's people figure out who is the lowest bidder. One cannot blame them there. After they are awarded the contract and re-carpet a store or two the hook is set. Art approaches them and tells them what a "fine, fine job they are doing" and how he "truly, truly hopes they are the winning bidder again when the contract comes up for renewal." Then he asks them for a small favor. There is a small room at his/his daughter's/his son's home that needs some new carpet and he was wondering if he could get the contractor to look it over. The contractor is flattered and shatters the sound barrier getting to the location in question. The work is performed rapidly and perfectly....but no money is ever offered. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. After all, it was a "favor". But then the favors become larger...a living room and a hallway, a bedroom or two--and soon a whole house. A precedent has been set. It has become too late to discuss a bill by now--the date of the contract's renewal is far too near. It is the same with the contractors that perform tile work...and the carpenters...and painters. Do these business owners inwardly resent giving away materials and their labor and that of their employees? Of course they do. I fell pray just once to Art's scam when I was asked to move a large multi-station weight machine to his son Gary's basement in the middle of a hot, hot summer. Gary MUST have noticed it there after I was done. It was huge and weighed a TON. His wife saw me go in and out of the home 231 times. She did not offer me a cold beverage on that 96 degree day, but MUST have heard the water running in the laundry tub as I tried to suck in enough to stave off heatstroke. But no money was offered, not from Art, and certainly not from his son. Does the IRS consider all of these "freebies" from browbeaten contractors to be income? Of COURSE it does. I wonder if Art has stolen a million dollars this way yet? To go back to the home page
Click here.
February 27, 2015
Flip This House--The Art Van Way 2-27-15My old frie...
Flip This House--The Art Van Way 2-27-15
My old friend (he used to call me that) Art Van is most assuredly the WORST house flipper of all time. You will recall the saying "It takes money to make money?" It also takes money to lose money if you are Art. He purchased his penthouse at the Excelsior in Boca Raton in 2004 for $4,688,754.00 He spent another fortune in upgrades. Mr. Slick then sold the condo nine years later for a whopping $3,470,000.00!!! Ouch. Buy high, sell low, that's the secret! Then my old buddy took the money from THAT sale...plus a bunch of the profits from that cheap furniture he sells in the Detroit area and rolled it into a penthouse at Boca Beach Club Penthouse Phase I. Purchase price? $5,861,500. I can almost hear the place depreciating already. The astute reader realizes by now that my old buddy Art LOSES about a million dollars a year on his homes! When one factors in utilities, maintenance, furnishings, redecorating, condo fees, taxes, household help, real estate agent commissions, etc. the net loss is much higher of course. His offspring all receive $250,000 a year from an irrevocable trust fund, otherwise my suggestion to them would be to put Pops in a nice trailer park before he manages to squander their entire inheritance. To return to home page, click here.
My old friend (he used to call me that) Art Van is most assuredly the WORST house flipper of all time. You will recall the saying "It takes money to make money?" It also takes money to lose money if you are Art. He purchased his penthouse at the Excelsior in Boca Raton in 2004 for $4,688,754.00 He spent another fortune in upgrades. Mr. Slick then sold the condo nine years later for a whopping $3,470,000.00!!! Ouch. Buy high, sell low, that's the secret! Then my old buddy took the money from THAT sale...plus a bunch of the profits from that cheap furniture he sells in the Detroit area and rolled it into a penthouse at Boca Beach Club Penthouse Phase I. Purchase price? $5,861,500. I can almost hear the place depreciating already. The astute reader realizes by now that my old buddy Art LOSES about a million dollars a year on his homes! When one factors in utilities, maintenance, furnishings, redecorating, condo fees, taxes, household help, real estate agent commissions, etc. the net loss is much higher of course. His offspring all receive $250,000 a year from an irrevocable trust fund, otherwise my suggestion to them would be to put Pops in a nice trailer park before he manages to squander their entire inheritance. To return to home page, click here.
February 11, 2015
Where does Art Van live now and what did he pay...
Where does Art Van live now and what did he pay? 2-12-15
The loyal reader will recall that I used to be a bodyguard for a Detroit billionaire. Bodyguard rather glamorizes what I did. I drove Art around when he was drunk, listened to him question his mistresses feelings for him, listened to his mistress question his feelings for her, acted as the ships captain for his Detroit yacht, lied to his family about his whereabouts (Let's take a deep breath here) drove his family on special occasions in limos I procured, drove Art and his business and religious associates, took the mistress to clandestine meetings at Detroit and Birmingham and Dearborn area hotels, (another deep breath) ate dinner with Art or the mistress or Art and the mistress, flew on the corporate jet to Boca Raton, drove them around Boca and Lauderdale, and watched them play a LOT of tennis. Of course there was the occasional secret rendezvous at the Grosse Pointe Mansion when the wife wasn't home. I'm not proud of it but my job entailed sneaking the mistress in. This is the same mansion where one of Art's employees once tried to kill him and the wife. Art also made many bad decisions regarding revisiting some of his old Detroit hangouts (i.e. bars) so I did perform legitimate and frequent bodyguard functions. For this reason I always carried a large handgun and a smaller one as a backup. Did Art sell the mansion because of bad memories? Of course not. He simply did not live there anymore and had not for many years. His wife stayed on but moved out some time ago as well. Art had it built for roughly 11.9 million dollars. He owned it for about 16 years. He sold it for 3.75 million. Some simple math reveals that he lost about a half million a year for every year that he owned it. Ouch. To be continued... To go back to home page click here.
The loyal reader will recall that I used to be a bodyguard for a Detroit billionaire. Bodyguard rather glamorizes what I did. I drove Art around when he was drunk, listened to him question his mistresses feelings for him, listened to his mistress question his feelings for her, acted as the ships captain for his Detroit yacht, lied to his family about his whereabouts (Let's take a deep breath here) drove his family on special occasions in limos I procured, drove Art and his business and religious associates, took the mistress to clandestine meetings at Detroit and Birmingham and Dearborn area hotels, (another deep breath) ate dinner with Art or the mistress or Art and the mistress, flew on the corporate jet to Boca Raton, drove them around Boca and Lauderdale, and watched them play a LOT of tennis. Of course there was the occasional secret rendezvous at the Grosse Pointe Mansion when the wife wasn't home. I'm not proud of it but my job entailed sneaking the mistress in. This is the same mansion where one of Art's employees once tried to kill him and the wife. Art also made many bad decisions regarding revisiting some of his old Detroit hangouts (i.e. bars) so I did perform legitimate and frequent bodyguard functions. For this reason I always carried a large handgun and a smaller one as a backup. Did Art sell the mansion because of bad memories? Of course not. He simply did not live there anymore and had not for many years. His wife stayed on but moved out some time ago as well. Art had it built for roughly 11.9 million dollars. He owned it for about 16 years. He sold it for 3.75 million. Some simple math reveals that he lost about a half million a year for every year that he owned it. Ouch. To be continued... To go back to home page click here.
January 28, 2015
Breaking up with a Cheerleader 1-28-15Were...
Breaking up with a Cheerleader 1-28-15
Were you ever hesitant to let someone get too close...and I am referring to telling them everything about yourself...the good, the bad, and the even worse? When I was a teenager, I was afraid of telling girls how I really felt. In our high school, there was a stigma to getting dumped by a girl. Your friends might speculate as to the cause, and their imaginations were always far worse than the real reason. One day I was walking to class and on the spur of the moment decided to inoculate myself against ever being dumped again. I would cement my reputation as the guy who did the breaking up, NOT as the guy who got dumped.
Cheryl Halliday was tall, blond and oh so cute. She was not aware of my existence. She had a slim, athletic physique...which perfectly suited the captain of the cheerleading squad. I attended a very large high school, and this was a VERY coveted position amongst all of the "popular" girls. It meant respect...deference from all of the teachers...and a parting of the crowd of sorts as she walked between classes through the hallways with her "entourage" of pretty little co-cheerleaders.
As this unattainable vision floated into view, I timed it perfectly. Without warning, I jumped in front of Cheryl and her friends and in a loud, clear voice told her "Cheryl, it's over! You didn't call again last night and that's the last straw! We are through! It's done, BABY, and you can NEVER have me back!"
Cheryl looked very puzzled. Her friends glanced at her and then back at me, a thousand questions flashing across their faces. I walked away and then turned on my heel to finish my task. "What we had was special! By tonight YOU will realize you're NEVER gonna have that with any other guy! And STOP pretending you don't know what I'm talking about!"
I felt great! I had just broken up with the most popular girl in the school. I had delivered a pre-emptive strike long before the term was even invented. I broke up with Cheryl once more later in the school year, and so did my friend Glenn, and to her credit she was able to act equally surprised each time. To return to the Home Page, click here.
Were you ever hesitant to let someone get too close...and I am referring to telling them everything about yourself...the good, the bad, and the even worse? When I was a teenager, I was afraid of telling girls how I really felt. In our high school, there was a stigma to getting dumped by a girl. Your friends might speculate as to the cause, and their imaginations were always far worse than the real reason. One day I was walking to class and on the spur of the moment decided to inoculate myself against ever being dumped again. I would cement my reputation as the guy who did the breaking up, NOT as the guy who got dumped.
Cheryl Halliday was tall, blond and oh so cute. She was not aware of my existence. She had a slim, athletic physique...which perfectly suited the captain of the cheerleading squad. I attended a very large high school, and this was a VERY coveted position amongst all of the "popular" girls. It meant respect...deference from all of the teachers...and a parting of the crowd of sorts as she walked between classes through the hallways with her "entourage" of pretty little co-cheerleaders.
As this unattainable vision floated into view, I timed it perfectly. Without warning, I jumped in front of Cheryl and her friends and in a loud, clear voice told her "Cheryl, it's over! You didn't call again last night and that's the last straw! We are through! It's done, BABY, and you can NEVER have me back!"
Cheryl looked very puzzled. Her friends glanced at her and then back at me, a thousand questions flashing across their faces. I walked away and then turned on my heel to finish my task. "What we had was special! By tonight YOU will realize you're NEVER gonna have that with any other guy! And STOP pretending you don't know what I'm talking about!"
I felt great! I had just broken up with the most popular girl in the school. I had delivered a pre-emptive strike long before the term was even invented. I broke up with Cheryl once more later in the school year, and so did my friend Glenn, and to her credit she was able to act equally surprised each time. To return to the Home Page, click here.
