Throughout history, man has extoled the virtues of moderation.

According to the Oxford Reference, the Greek Poet, Hesiod recommended in 700 BC that we “Observe due measure, moderation is best in all things.”  Many years later Herman Melville eloquently noted in Billy Budd that “Yea and Nay, each have their say, but God, he takes the middle way.”  My erudite English teacher taught us that Herman was advising us to stay away from the extreme and follow a moderate path.  In his classic tune, “Straighten Up and Fly Right”, Nat King Cole suggests that you “Cool down, Poppa, don’t you blow your top”. 

I have always been impressed with man’s quest for moderation.  Even as a child I recognized that, because moderation was such a beneficial commodity, we should all strive to get as much of it as possible. 

My best friend in fourth grade lived on the edge of residential development in Ann Arbor.  He had a huge forest behind his house.  There was a lot of construction in the neighborhood.  So Jimmy and I decided to moderately build a tree house.  We fished scraps of lumber from the construction trash piles.  We combed the newly framed houses for bent and discarded nails.  After selecting a sturdy boxelder tree we went to work.  Phase one was a simple platform about ten feet above the ground.  This worked for the two of us on nice sunny Michigan days.  However, realizing that there are less than ten nice sunny days in Michigan each year, we expanded our moderate design.  We added a second floor with a plywood roof, and a third floor because a lot of friends were starting to hang out at the clubhouse.  With the wood roof, it was difficult to read comic books on rainy days.  So we scavenged tar paper and shingles from the trash piles and nailed a very functional roof to the tree house.  Moderation was really picking up steam.  Like all young boys in the fifties, we became huge Rin Tin Tin fans.  We decided that we could make the tree house look like Fort Apache if we surrounded it with a stockade of 20 foot tree logs.  Using Boy Scout hatchets we downed 80-100 trees.  We trimmed all of the branches and buried the logs in a circle around, what now became, a tree fort.  Talk about great moderation!  For years we patrolled the fort with BB guns.  The stockade proved to be excellent protection during chestnut fights that ensued every fall. 

Eventually, Jimmy and I outgrew the tree fort.  We simply quit using the facility but we never took it down.  Today, the three most significant historical sites in Ann Arbor are The Cobble Stone Farm, The Frank Lloyd Wright House on Pill Hill, and The Mike and Jimmy Tree Fort.  

My childhood penchant for substantial moderation stayed with me through adulthood.  In fact, my mantra has become “Moderation is great as long as you can get a lot of it.”   So I migrated to pastimes that had great opportunity for rampant moderation.  Golf and fishing for example.  Any real fisherman has sufficient tackle to switch from fresh water perch fishing to deep water black marlin fishing in minutes as conditions change.  Golf requires constant updating of equipment, physical conditioning, and swing technique.  Springing $1,000 for the new driver that was developed using the remnants of metal found in a crashed alien spacecraft is totally reasonable.

But, perhaps, the best example of leveraging extreme moderation in my life is barbecue.     

I fell in love with barbecue because I love to eat barbecue.  My wife and I spend football season in Ann Arbor Michigan and most of the remainder of our time in Jacksonville Florida.  World Class Barbecue is available but not abundant in Jacksonville.  In Ann Arbor Michigan, great barbecue is sparse.  So to ensure that we can enjoy spectacular fare whenever the urge strikes, I acquired the skill and tools to make excellent smoked meat, fowl and fish on demand.  This has been a pursuit that requires an incredible amount of moderation.     

Creating great barbecue can be simple.  Let’s assume we are preparing a feast of ribs, sausage and barbecue beans.  We go to the big box hardware store, buy a fifty dollar charcoal bullet smoker, a bag of hickory chunks and some charcoal.  We head to our favorite grocery store and pick up two racks of ribs, a commercial pork rub, some hickory flavored baked beans, a few pounds of Italian sausage in casings, and a brand name barbecue sauce.  Friday evening, we put the hickory chunks in a pail of water and season the ribs with the commercial pork rub.  On Saturday, we fire up the smoker, smoke the ribs for about seven hours, smoke the sausage for three hours and put the beans in the oven for an hour.  Certainly, more work than baking a pot roast but not very complex by barbecue standards.  Most importantly, we can enjoy a high quality barbecue feast of ribs, Italian sausage and baked beans.

High quality is nice but I want one of the finest barbecue meals ever prepared on planet earth.  Over the years, applying massive moderation, I have developed and documented procedures to nail spectacular barbecue every time I fire up the smoker.    

If you are truly committed to ultimate moderation, the process goes like this. 

On Thursday, you buy a pork shoulder and three racks of ribs.  You double grind the pork shoulder in your small commercial sausage grinder.  Using the Toledo meat scale that you purchased to make your own sausage, you measure the ground pork into 3 lb lots.  You pull out your custom made, 36 jar, spice rack and measure out the spices required for 3 lbs of Italian sausage and 3 lbs of Kielbasa.  After years of experimentation and tweaking, you have developed unique recipes for both types of sausage.  Two of the spices you use for the sausage, dehydrated orange peel and dehydrated red bell pepper, you manufactured using your small commercial dehydrator.  You form the bulk sausage into smokable rolls using a PVC tool invented by you and your barbecuing friends and you wrap the rolls in cheese cloth.  On Friday evening you soak some hickory chunks in one bucket and apple chunks in another.  You mix up a batch of your award winning pork rub.  You mix up a batch of injectable marinade.  Using the fine needle injection tool purloined by one of your physician friends from a hospital surgery unit, you inject the marinade into the meaty portion of the ribs between each bone.  You season the ribs with the award winning rub and put them in the fridge overnight.   You return to the cupboard and spice rack and mix up a batch of tomato based barbecue sauce and a batch of mustard based barbecue sauce.  Both recipes are proprietary and, again, developed by you after years of experimentation.  On Saturday, you fire up the large Weber smoker.  We could have used the small Weber smoker, Weber kettle or Traeger pellet smoker but we decide on the large Weber.  On Saturday you smoke the ribs for six hours and the sausage for three hours. You are careful to use exactly the precise amounts of hickory and apple wood to create the perfect smoke flavor.  The ideal portions were passed to Christopher Columbus by the Taino Indians when they feted the first visiting Europeans with Barbacoa after their arrival in the New World.  You whip up a batch of “Big Deal” barbecue beans.  You start with basic beans, add a half dozen spices, chopped ham, diced onion, and carefully measured Grand Marnier.  The beans must moderately be baked in a cast iron Dutch oven for an hour at 350 degrees.

It is important to understand that, in keeping with our drive to maximize moderation, I just smoked three racks of ribs and six pounds of sausage for my wife and me.  We certainly had enough for dinner on Saturday but what did we do with the extra fifteen pounds of smoked pork?  After dinner, we cut up the extra two racks of ribs into three bone servings and vacuumed sealed them with our small commercial vacuum sealer.  Similarly we broke the sausage into ¾ lb lots and vacuum sealed them.  The entire larder was then transferred to our freezer.   For the next six months we will pull individual servings of ribs and sausage from the freezer whenever the urge for World Class Barbecue strikes.    

I know you are thinking, is reconstituted barbecue from the freezer very tasty?  It is if it has been vacuum sealed and reconstituted using your small commercial Sous Vide machine.  In fact, you cannot tell the difference between fresh smoked barbecue and barbecue that has been brought back up to temperature in this fashion.

It is hard to imagine a process that employs more moderation than barbecue.  The net result of outrageous moderation is a dozen great barbecue meals.  How can life get better than that?                          

Over time, I have expanded my concept of excessive moderation to include collecting antique clocks and watches.  I still have more than 300 train cars and operating stations from my 1950’s Lionel Train layout.  I have expanded moderation techniques to include all aspects of Tailgating for Michigan football games.

So I am a fanatical practitioner of moderation.  No doubt, Nat, Herman and Hesiod were spot on.   “Observe due measure, moderation is best in all things.”     

According to Wikipedia, in 1546, John Heywood coined the phrase “All’s Well That Ends Well”.  Supposedly, William Shakespeare was a fan of Heywood and that may have resulted in the Bard drafting a play entitled “All’s Well That Ends Well” in 1623. 

So, we have great documentation that, for at least 476 years, mankind can equivocate about the manner in which something is accomplished as long as the outcome is worthwhile.  Perhaps, John and Bill were only referring to overcoming failures along the way in achieving something very positive.  Something like Alexander Graham Bell and Mr. Watson.  Al spills some acid on his leg and calls out “Mr. Watson, come here I want you.”  A serious accident results in the first successful telephonic transmission of the human voice.  All’s well that ends well. 

Or it may have a darker meaning.  As long as you achieve the goal, the method does not matter.  For example, Rosie Ruiz taking the subway to shortcut and win the New York Marathon.  All’s well that ends well.  Okay, it only ended well for Rosie very briefly.  When the CCTV video was reviewed it got pretty unwell.    

My guess is that the concept of the end justifying the means is as old as the human race.  One of the earliest historical examples is construction of the pyramids.  The Pharaohs thought nothing of enslaving an entire nation for fifty or sixty years if the end result was a nice gravesite on the Nile. All’s well that ends well.

I don’t have a lot of experience with “All’s Well That Ends Well” but I do have extensive experience with “All’s Well That Ends”.  In the “… Ends Well.” version, it is a triumph if the end result works as well or better than planned.  In the “… Ends.” Version, it is a success if the project is finally over. 

I have had hundreds of “All’s Well That Ends” experiences in my life.  They may be brief, two to three day projects or huge, multi year, efforts. However, they all have the same characteristics. 

We start them with the loftiest goals. We are positive and excited to bang out a worthwhile project.   

“This morning I am going to hang the beautiful foil wallpaper my wife selected on one dining room wall.  The results will be stunning!”

When we get into the effort, we find it is a lot more complex and time consuming than we initially expected.  

“I’ve hung wallpaper before.  It’s only one wall.  Why is this taking so long?!  Yikes, it is really hard to get the air bubbles out of this foil.”

We lose zeal. 

“I’ve got ten hours into this endeavor and it really looks bad.  None of the internet techniques for removing air bubbles seem to work.  This looks like the work of a three year old.  I wished I had never jumped into this project.

We just try to make the whole assignment go away. 

“Okay, we let the bubbles sit overnight.  They didn’t get any better.  I’m going to have to take this paper down and repaint the wall.  Another mere 12 hours of effort and it will look like I never started this fiasco.

All’s well that ends.

I believe most of my major endeavors on both a personal and business basis fall into the “All’s well that ends” category. 

Another great four phase “All’s well that ends” effort is downsizing.  In 2019 my wife Susan and I moved from a ranch in the country to a small house near the beach.  We transitioned from a 5,500 square foot ranch house with an additional 7,000 square feet of storage in the barn and RV shed to a 2,300 square foot home.

The lofty goals were to give as much as possible to the kids and grand kids.  Sell a lot of stuff with the ranch (the tractor and 30 horsepower zero turn Kubota were not going to be very helpful on the zero lot home at the beach).  Give away as much as possible and send the remnants to the junk yard.

The reality phase was very different.  Amazingly, none of our progeny wanted their grandmother’s 1933 Singer Sewing machine in the solid mahogany case with matching chair or much of anything else.  So the “pass along to the kids” effort did not get rid of much.  Second, you can’t just send everything off without looking at it. 

For some reason, probably because we were push overs that had an unconscionable amount of storage space, Sue and I became the repositories of all the family treasures for both of our families.  At least a hundred boxes of things ranging from pure junk to precious heirlooms.  You can’t blindly toss this stuff.  So we opened and examined all 147 boxes.  We found my grandparent’s wedding rings.  First communion pictures.  Wrist watches, pocket watches, costume jewelry, valuable jewelry.  The process took forever.  Stuff was sorted by definitely save, definitely toss, and maybe/maybe not.  Some things would definitely be distributed to various relatives (eg. first communion pictures).  Others, such as 1940’s photos of our parents drinking beer at fourth of July celebrations and team pictures of the 1935 State Basketball champs could not be tossed. 

I concluded that, when you downsize, you will touch everything you own at least 3 times.         

About 20% into the evaluation process, I lost all of my zeal.  However, we had sold the farm.  The contract required occupancy by the buyer in four short weeks.  So Sue and I drove through sorting everything we owned and stored for our families sixteen hours a day. 

We needed to shift all the things we wanted to keep to the beach house but the beach house was already full of stuff.  So we had to downsize the beach house before we could move the residual downsized stuff from the ranch into the beach house.  The effort was beyond ridiculous. 

For example, I had three rather complete sets of tools.  A big set from the ranch, a nice set at the beach house, and a third set from the lake house we sold a few years ago.  I wisely moved the lake house tools into RV shed and never got around to sorting them out.  So I moved all of the tools into the beach house garage.  I loaded the fridge with diet Dr. Pepper.  I hooked up my Ipod with nine hours of rhythm and blues to a remote speaker in the corner of the garage.  Setting on a folding chair in the middle of the garage I sorted all the tools in keep or toss piles. Finally, I organized the keep pile for easy access.  This took an entire day.  I even blew through all nine hours Motown and Ray Charles.

Sue and I were both feeling very “All’s well that endsish” at this point.  Ultimately, we never really finished the project.  We delayed completion by stuffing unsorted treasures into two storage lockers.  Five years later we are down to one large storage locker but it is fair to say that the downsizing project is still in progress.

“All’s well that ends” but this one is not dead yet.

As noted, I have had hundreds of similar experiences.  Some very long.  Subsequent renovation of the beach house puts the downsizing project in short pants.  Some happen every year such as filing the Federal Tax Return.  Some short, like making barbecue for 50 people at a block party. 

All of them seem to have the same four components.

Makes we wonder if others have had the same experience.  I believe the reason that we don’t have Unicorns today is that Noah ran out of gas.  “Okay, I built the boat following the exact cubit measurements.  I captured two of all kinds of animals.  It’s really starting to rain.  I don’t have it in me to go hunting Unicorns.”

All’s well that ends.        

There are a few things in life that have very clear warning signs.  We should read the signs and avoid these activities.

For example, buying gold and silver from the people who advertise on TV.  I can’t watch five minutes of commercial TV without listening to a commodities guru tell me how incredibly lucrative buying gold and silver will be.  These have to be the dumbest people in the world.  They know that the returns on these commodities will be astronomical but they want to sell all of their gold and silver to me.  Why would anyone sell something that is going to triple in value next year?   Shouldn’t they be advertising that they want to buy all of my gold and silver?  This really puzzles me.  I’m not a commodity expert but I am skeptical that silver will return to its all time high and gold will be $3,000 an ounce later this year.

We should avoid robot calls or phone solicitations from anyone.  I never intentionally answer a robot call.  95 times out of 100, if I don’t have a number in my contact list, I let the call go to voice mail. Very few robot calls make it that far. However, occasionally one shows up with a Mt. Airy area code and exchange indicator. Aunt Flossie lives in Mt Airy.  She is not in great health.  Maybe her neighbor is calling me for some assistance.  So I answer and the debacle begins. 

“Mr. Sinelli, you may not know when you are going to die but you can be certain that you are going to die.  Like most Americans you probably have not prepared for this event and you are about to put all of your loved ones in a very bad spot.  Today, however, is your lucky day.  I can provide you with burial insurance that will lift this impending burden from the shoulders of your dear family members.”  I respond “Are you a licensed insurance agent?”  The caller says “Yes, I am licensed in the State of Florida.”  I say “Don’t you have this a little backward?  You know that I am going to die and you are going to bet $10,000 of Acme American Fiduciary Life and Casualty’s money that I am going to live.”  “Well, it’s insurance.”  “No, it’s a bet.  I bet $50 a month that I am going to die and you bet $10,000 that I won’t.  I think that is a little macabre. I also find betting on my mortality very depressing.   Not only are you making a bad bet for Acme, the stress you are creating for me may be accelerating my demise.  We should end this conversation right now.”  Click.   

“Mr. Sinelli, are you aware that your automobile warranty is about to expire?”  “No, I wasn’t aware of that potential catastrophe.  What car are we talking about?” Caller, “Your current vehicle.”  Me, “The 2015 F 150?”  Caller, “Yeah that’s it.”  Me, “I had no idea that I still had a maintenance policy on the truck.  I sold it two years ago when I moved to the beach.  Now, I don’t even own a car. Several years ago, in a conscious effort to save the planet, I bought a golf cart and that is what I use for all of my transportation needs. Rarely, I will engage public transportation but I never drive a private vehicle other than the golf cart. I keep pretty good records.  Let’s see, I sold the F 150 seven hundred and two days ago.  My five year maintenance warranty premium was $976 dollars, using the monthly proration refund formula authorized by the State of Florida Insurance Commissioner, you owe me $412.  When can I expect the check?”  Caller, “I’m not sure. By the way, would you like a warranty policy on that golf cart?”  Click.       

“Mr. Sinelli, you own a lot of real estate and we want to buy some of it.  Do you want to sell the lot in Putnam County?”  “No, I am anticipating another great depression and I plan on farming that lot.  Are you looking at the plat?  I am going to put the travel trailer in the northeast corner.  The chicken coup is going in the southeast corner.  With three acres I can support a large vegetable garden, three or four pigs and a milk/beef cow.  When the bottom falls out next year don’t stop by.  I will be defending the place, vigorously, against the short sighted people who never prepared for the crash.”  Click.    

My wife Susan offers this great insight.  We were driving the back roads in Georgia enroute to a client in Columbus.  We passed a single wide on a small lot with a sign in front that said “Fortune Teller”.   She said, “I don’t think I would take advice from that person. If they are adept at predicting the future, you would think that they would be living in a more upscale home.  I want to see that sign in front of the 1,000 acre ranch, with the 7,500 square foot house”.  Nothing wrong with living in a single wide but an expert oracle should be able to demonstrate a little more success.  If Elon Musk doesn’t elect to sell his Fortune Telling skills, I’m going to take my advice for the future from the lady who just picked nine straight winners at the horse track and drove there in her Maserati. 

Similar logic applies to the “Get Rich Quick Books”.  If you really know how to make $5 million in the real estate market using other peoples’ money, why would you tell others how to do it?  You could ring up $20 million a year.  Why invite a few thousand people to compete with you for $100,000 in royalties? 

So every day we see a lot of signs that warn us about something or give us sage advice.

I saw an interesting sign in the men’s room of my favorite Bistro.  It says “Employees must wash hands.  If no employees present, please wash your own hands.”

So I am taking my car to the repair shop when the “Check Engine” light comes on.  I am not going to feed the Bears.  I will be cautious about the bridge freezing before the road surface, even in July.  I am going to wash my hands.  I will wear a mask when it is required. I will turn off my cell phone.  I will not get in the express check out lane if I have more than eight items. I will beware of the dog, the snakes, the alligators, free range cattle, buffalo, mosquitos, low flying aircraft, wild hogs, and rabid raccoons.  I am not going to spit into the wind.

In essence, I am going to take my mother’s sage advice.  When the little voice says “Don’t do this!”  I am going to listen to the little voice.  

We just purchased a new automobile.  For our family, that is a notable event.  We tend to find a vehicle that we like and keep it for a long time.  Depending upon our changing transportation needs, we have owned a diverse array of vehicles.  We drove conversion vans when we toted our daughter’s forensic team around the country, one ton pick ups when we lived on a 30 acre ranch, sports cars just for fun, big SUVs and small SUVs.  After we sold the farm and moved back to the city we have a small SUV and a 2005 Mustang GT Convertible.  Who knows how long I will drive the Mustang.  18 years may seem like a long time for some people but I had a 1973 Cougar Convertible for 42 years.

Our 2011 small SUV died.  It owed us nothing.  We drove it for 190,000 miles and really enjoyed the automobile.  So we bought the new version of the same car.  We hope this will be a great car as well but something has changed dramatically in the last thirteen years.  Automobile technology.               

The additional technology that comes with the new model is staggering.  Ninety percent of the Owner’s Manual is directed to Smart Car features.  The manual is bigger than the most recent version of the Encyclopedia Britannica and much more poorly organized.  So I spent the first six hours of ownership pouring through the manual to determine which of the 3,473 technology features I intended to use. 

What peaked my interest?  Seat and mirror adjustments, climate control, auto bright light control, road contouring headlight tracking, red light time remaining sensor, back up camera settings, seat massage settings, altitude warning levels, fast food preferences, music choices, navigation preferences, driver assist options, parking assist, trailer back up assist, stuck in the snow assist, fog and dust storm assist, and 17 state toll lane access, to name a few. 

A spectacular feature that overrides all of the others is facial recognition capability.   A high tech digital camera recognizes the unique facial features of the person seated in the driver’s seat.  When it positively identifies the driver, it adjusts all of the Smart Car settings to the selections that unique driver has chosen in the Settings Menu. 

The car is equipped with a Siri like Avatar called Gracie.  I made 25 or 30 selections from the Smart Car Menu’s and asked Gracie to activate the facial recognition software.  Gracie responded that she was turning on facial recognition and from now on she would refer to this unique driver as “George”.  When facial recognition was complete, Gracie commented  “Why George, you are really quite attractive!  Do you smoke cigars?  Why don’t you let me select the ashtray setting instead of the coin holder option for that small compartment in the console?” 

So Gracie and I began careening through life as new found Smart Car operators.  Every day, after facial recognition, Gracie would warmly welcome me to the auto.  “Good morning George!  How about a fast trip to McDonald’s for a large black coffee?”  After a few weeks, I was making my way to Atlanta.  Gracie interrupts a classic rhythm and blues tune, (Ray Charles singing Old Man River) on the Sirius Classic Soul station, with the following suggestion.  “George, I have noticed that you keep your hands at 10 O’Clock and 2 O’Clock on the steering wheel.  Clearly, you were paying attention in that 1963 Driver’s Ed class.   Why don’t you move them to 11 and 1 and we can get there an hour earlier?”

Gremlins started to creep in to the Smart Car driving experience. I found a parallel parking space in front of a Merchant that I wanted to visit.  I pulled just past the open space and asked “Gracie, will you please park the car?” 

“Oh George, I don’t like this parking space.  It’s a little tight for me and the license plate of the car in front of you shows that it is owned by an Ohio State fan. I’ll find a better spot.”  She drives around for fifteen minutes and finds a nice angle parking space two miles from our original space.  “George, isn’t this better?”  I reply “Yes but it’s going to take me a while to get back with the four Pizzas I ordered.  We are running late and the four mile round trip on foot isn’t going to help keep them warm.”  “Well if you’re not happy with this one, I have another just a half mile farther out.  Besides, your current health biometrics and recent weight gain indicate that you really should walk at least that far if you plan on eating Pizza.”

A few months later, the facial recognition software started acting strangely.  I closed the door and Gracie said, “Well, welcome back Mary Lou Retton!  Are we headed to the Olympic training facility in Colorado Springs?  Navigation shows it to be 1,857 miles. Turn left at the second traffic light.”  The Smart Car then activated all of Mary Lou’s settings.  After removing the steering wheel from my spleen I was able to, manually, reset the seat adjustment in a few short minutes.  My limp only lasted a few days.  In addition to Mary Lou, I have been welcomed to the vehicle as Rasputin. The navigation system automatically routed me to the nearest ABC Liquor store and recommended several nice Russian Vodkas available at that location.  Surprisingly, the Mad Monk is a huge Sinatra fan.  His two top Sirius choices were the Sinatra channel and the Forties Junction.  The most interesting misidentification occurred when face recognition positively identified me as the fifth ranked international terrorist on the FBI’s most wanted list.  The algorithms automatically send a silent alarm to the Feds.  Surprising how quickly they can react in these circumstances.  Thirty five minutes later I was having very interesting discussions with eleven of the finest law enforcement professionals in the country.  I was amazed at how they could land Black Hawk helicopters in front of me and behind me on a narrow two lane road.     

I was listening to the Jazz station one day and the Dave Brubeck Quartet started playing “Take Five”.  A little bit of heaven.  Gracie interrupted with an interesting fact.  “George, did you know that Dave Brubeck has a full head of hair but his piano is a Baldwin?”  “You don’t say?”  I was tempted to fire up a cigar and try out the ashtray setting of the coin holder.

Eventually, I started turning off more and more Smart Car features.  The problem was that it was taking me longer and longer to get where I wanted to go.  I would end up at the Raw Bar instead of Walmart.  For a few weeks, Gracie was under the impression that I wanted navigation to take me through the scenic routes.  My 33 minute drive to Orange Park Florida routed me through the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina.  I know how to parallel park and back up a trailer.  I drove a Semi for three years in college.  I could certainly gauge which parking spots were accessible and which were not.  In addition, I was still having the sporadic miscues of facial recognition.  Surprisingly, Gracie never mistook me for George Clooney.

Gracie was not happy when I cut back on the selected features.  I got a letter from Geico saying that they had revoked my preferred driver status.  My small SUV had informed them that I regularly drive nine miles over the speed limit and don’t use many of the Driver Assist tools.  Gracie ratted me out and it was going to cost several hundred dollars each year in increased insurance premiums.

So I gravitated back to the 2005 Mustang.  Now there is a piece of equipment.  If you want to start the car, you have to insert a key and turn it.  You adjust the seat and mirrors.  You want to know the outside temperature?  Too bad.  This is a car not a weather station.  If you are cold, you select one of two vent settings and manually turn the hot and cold throttle to the comfort range you want.  If it is dark, you need to turn the lights on.  It doesn’t have an “auto” setting that turns them on when it is dark.  You have less than five comfort choices and you control each of them.  It can be done totally accurately in less than twenty seconds.  No voice control issues.  No “Gracie, set the heat to 73 degrees.”  “Okay George, I am getting directions to Sweet Peas.”  If you don’t know where you are going that’s your problem.  The Mustang will get you there quickly, with Panache, but the directions are your responsibility.  You want to go fast?  Hit the gas pedal and it will go as fast as you would ever care to go.  You get to control the music.  The car is equipped a high end sound system that includes a six disc cd player.  I may be the last person in Florida who has a thousand cd’s.  But I can listen to exactly what I want for more than five straight hours.    

The Mustang and I have a great relationship.  It is a car and I am a driver.  I’m not a slave to Ford’s technology.  I am not sitting in a portable social media pod.  I am driving from Point A to Point B and the Mustang will make sure I enjoy the trip.

There is a lot of talk about doing away with fossil fuel.  I hope that this does not occur any time soon.  I want to continue driving my 2005 Mustang GT Convertible every day until one of us has to quit.

My wife and I have spent the last two years on a six week renovation project.  We are nearly finished, in fact it appears that we only have eight weeks left. 

My wise and experienced friends told me that it would take twice as long and cost twice as much as the original estimate.  I am a heavily experienced project manager and a CPA.  So I believed that I could do much better than the twice for both timing and cost.  The projects I have experience managing are giant application software system implementations.  Projects that cost tens of millions of dollars and run for a year and a half.  Certainly, very different than house renovations but ventures that definitely require adroit project management. 

Cost wise, the home renovation project has performed fairly well.  Timing has been abysmal.      

We are really committed to finalizing renovation of this home because we plan on staying here until we become blithering idiots.  So we engaged a General Contractor to complete the project. Much of the work would be completed by his staff.  However, he augmented his team with a hand full of specialists (plumbers, HVAC professionals, tile people, painters, etc.).  

It did not take long to determine that the primary reason for the timing over run was delayed performance by the lead contractor and all of the subs. In the robust Florida economy, everyone seemed to be over committed.  All of the delivery dates started to slide.  A year into our six week project it was clear that timely delivery was not on any contractor’s radar screen. 

I tried the carrot.  “Hey do you guys and ladies like barbecue?  Next Wednesday, finish up the new siding and I’ll smoke a pork shoulder and some ribs.”  They arrived at my house at 4:15, put up two sheets of Hardy Board and spent three hours eating barbecue.

I appealed to the heart strings.  “You know having the demolition half done for five weeks is wreaking havoc with my asthma.  Can we get through this phase, soon?”  The Contractor says, “I know what you mean about the dust.  If I didn’t take three days a week to get off shore on my fishing boat, I couldn’t breathe.  A few more weeks and the demo will be history.”

I tried the stick.  “Oscar, I have been talking to my lawyer about the delivery delays.  He thinks there is a major problem with a six week project pushing two years without completion.”  The Contractor replies: “I know what he means, what a pain!  I’ve got twelve projects in the same boat.  That’s why I never put “time is of the essence” in any of my legal documents.”                  

So with eight weeks left on our six week project, I decided to get a Contractor’s license and finish the job.

What do I know about residential construction?  Nothing.  But I’m not going to do any of the work.  The subcontractors will.  All I have to do is find the right men and women to do different elements of the project.

You have to pass a test to qualify for a Contractor’s license for the state of Florida so I enrolled in a school for Contractors to prepare for the exam.

Here are some of the highlights of the Curriculum for General Contractors:

Choosing the Ideal Client

The optimal residential construction client is both wealthy and gullible.  It is challenging to find a non thinking individual who is well healed but the search is well worth it.  As the project unfolds, it will be very helpful to have someone who will believe the myriad of thin excuses you may have for non performance or delays. 

“No we can’t complete the wall because I can’t get the required Schlagger toggle bolts.  They are all produced in China and none are being shipped to the US because of the trade war initiated by our government. My supplier thinks that this will change in a few weeks and I really don’t want to take a chance on the less desirable alternative from Brazil.  Thanks to this political upheaval, the price for these beauties is going up.  Can you cut me a check for another $500?”    

Creating a Decades Long Backlog of Business

The reasons for creating a massive backlog are fairly obvious. 

First, the financial benefits are overwhelming.  Your policy upon signing an agreement must be to collect half of the fees up front.  Ostensibly, this is to pay for materials.  Since we have selected the optimal client described above, there should be no problem getting these funds.   So upon signing, you receive half the revenue and more than all of the profits for your entire project and you haven’t spent a dollar.  This is better than Charles Ponzi’s postage stamp gambit.  A solid business practice for any successful Contractor is to continually have a five year backlog of projects under contract.

Second, the accelerated cash flow will allow you to proactively acquire a lot of needed equipment and other assets.  These substantial deposits may be used to purchase miter saws, cordless drills, a second home in the mountains, a motor home (which can be creatively written off as a mobile office for tax purposes) or a first class boat.  Since you live in Florida, you should consider extensive investment in your personal residence.  In a few years, when the bubble bursts, your home cannot be taken in a bankruptcy action.  Ideally, you should plan on having a fully paid for residence with a value of at least $5 million.       

Third, locking in a large backlog of work will help ensure that you can keep your staff and sub-contractors busy for years.    

It should be very clear that none of the contracts you sign have any provisions that are time sensitive.  You may verbally explain that we should finish this up in three weeks but you will maximize the time value of money and compound interest by stretching the project out for a year.  Explain to your client that so many of the variables are outside of the Contractor’s control that you can never commit to an absolute delivery date for anything.  This is the key to raking in the proceeds of the five year backlog and avoiding annoying lawsuits for untimely performance.

Scheduling Your Work

Perhaps the most critical responsibility for a Contractor is scheduling the activities of your staff and subcontractors.  None of your clients know that you have promised eleven customers service tomorrow and that you only have three assistants. 

Adroit communication with your customers is very important.  Always tell them in advance the day when you will be arriving at their home.  However, be vague in defining the time that your staff will arrive.  Never use an actual time, such as “We will be there at 8:30.”  You can say we will be there in the morning or even first thing in the morning.  At ten o’clock call the customer and tell them that there was a problem at home depot and your guys should be there soon.  At three, send one of your workers over with sand paper and a caulk gun.  Have him or her patch up some nail holes and leave for a critical problem with another job.  The assistant can hit four or five different customers with the same process in one afternoon.  You will have fulfilled your promise to be there Monday.  Over time your customers will be trained to expect this kind of performance from you.      

Monday evening, text all eleven customers to tell them you will be there first thing in the morning or right after lunch.  On Tuesday, run through the same cycle.  

Eventually, you will have to be productive for all eleven clients.  By staying in constant communication, you can see where you need to prioritize resources as the level of dissatisfaction with untimely performance grows or wanes with each customer.  

Excuses

When there is a problem with timing, cost, or outcomes there is a need for a really solid explanation of what has gone awry.  “The dog ate my project plan” isn’t going to cut it.       

The best excuses are logically solid and very difficult to verify or refute.  It also helps to be creative and incorporate current events that might impact a construction project.  If you have researched and selected the ideal client, you will find that they may actually believe the tripe they are being fed by the mainstream media.  Having a problem related to this news is perfectly logical and believable to these people.  For example, this was a great excuse for 2021.

“Two of my carpenters were vaccinated for Covid last week.  They really had adverse reactions.  We hope that it is just a side effect of the body creating antibodies but we are concerned that there are flaws in the vaccine that may change their DNA and impact their ability to wield a hammer for many months.  We certainly don’t want to send anyone to your house who may compromise you or your family.  I’m trying to bridge the gap but it will be tough sledding for a while.”

Perfect.  This will change the client’s expectations of delivery for many months with no negative impact on you or your company.    

After attending classes, I feel qualified to replace all the Contractors on the great 21^st century renovation project.  So I call my General Contractor and tell him that his services are no longer needed.  Please create a final bill.  To pay the final invoice, I will judiciously follow the performance standards he established for the project.  He can expect my payment in thirty one short months. 

I don’t know how long it will take to complete the renovation. I do know that I can do it a lot faster than my previous General Contractor.  I have the advantage of actually wanting to finish the project.

I am astounded at how poorly I ran my consulting practice for 40 years.  We never collected fees “up front”.  Services were only billed after we provided the service.  We didn’t over sell engagements.  We only signed contracts for business that we could address with competent staff.  We hit almost every timeline and almost every budget for 40 years.  We stayed busy even during economic downturns and never filed bankruptcy to avoid refunding prepaid fees.  

What were we thinking??!!

Let’s imagine that there is a small world consisting of sixty people.  All sixty of these people have industrialized processes that sustain and improve their lives.  Industry makes food, shelter and clothing.  It enriches their lives with leisure and entertainment.  Unfortunately, there are   some undesirable bi-products of the industrial process.  The air and water near the people who manufacture stuff suffers.     

Another bi-product of industrialization is a volatile and dangerous gas called Cabluigen.  If Cabluigen reaches a specific level it will definitely explode killing all sixty of the small world’s inhabitants.  The good news is that Cabluigen will degrade at a very constant rate.  So if the small world citizens extract the gas and store it in a large container, they will not have any difficulties as long as they do not add Cabluigen to the container faster than it naturally disappears.       

The shift to industrialization was not made equally by all sixty citizens. Two or three of the inhabitants moved headlong into manufacturing.  The others who were late to the party were intent on making up for lost time.  Surprisingly, this offered great opportunity to all sixty citizens.  The fifteen or twenty who were suffering with air and water pollution could close their factories.  They could still get cheap stuff by letting the gung ho newcomers make everything in their corner of the world.  Smog and water pollution would abate for the initial producers when they shut the factories in their countries but they could still reap the benefits of good cheap products by purchasing them from their neighbors.  

For years, the sixty inhabitants have been more focused on improving their lifestyles without much concern for Cabluigen levels.  Industrialization and Cabluigen production was not at all proportional to the natural rate of Cabluigen decay.  The citizens with factories created much more Cabluigen than the other citizens.  In fact, one of the sixty inhabitants produces 28% of the world’s Cabluigen and the top five producers create 62% of the gas.    

For several years Cabluigen, has been added to the tank faster than the degradation rate.  A concerned citizen, Dr. Seymour Perrill, decided to scientifically analyze the rising Cabluigen levels.  Dr. Perrill’s findings were shocking and depressing.  He determined that if the sixty citizens of the world did not reduce the production of Cabluigen to the rate of natural degradation in the next ten years, the world would explode shortly thereafter terminating all life on the planet.

Very simply, if the sixty residents did not solve the problem in the next ten years, no one could prevent the end of the world from happening.

Needless to say this was very unwelcome news to the occupants of small world.  Their reactions were all self serving.  No one wanted to forego the pleasures of industrialization.  Some attacked the messenger.  Surely, Dr. Perrill has miscalculated.  I can’t see giving up my private jet because of these crack pot calculations.  The largest producer of Cabluigen pointed out that he was late in utilizing technology so he did not intend to reduce his industrialization until he had enjoyed as much of the benefits as others who preceded him. 

Fifteen or twenty citizens decided that they could solve the problem by dropping their production of Cabluigen to zero.  They believed that each person should voluntarily join them.  However, the late industrializers made a valid point and it did not seem fair to ask them to live by the same standards.  More importantly, none of the sixty citizens wanted to give up the benefits of cheap lifestyle improvements by forcing the citizen most responsible for manufacturing them to change their manufacturing methods.

The problem was that the tank holding Cabluigen did not care where it came from.  When it exceeds capacity, for any reason, it is going to explode.  Fifteen people cutting back production to zero while not addressing the primary polluter is like killing off harmful black mold in the prison’s gas chamber. 

So a quarter of the planet’s population changed their behavior.  They were colder in the winter and hotter in the summer.  They still had a plethora of manufactured goods but the pollution of making these things was in someone else’s backyard.   All fifteen achieved their goal of zero Cabluigen production, largely by sending production of their stuff to other countries.  The biggest polluters promised to change their ways but they never altered anything.  Cheap stuff could only be manufactured with low energy costs.  All of the low energy sources threw off a lot of Cabluigen. Dr. Seymour Perrill did annual studies and reports indicating that science behind the initial ten year calculation had not changed. 

Nine years, eleven months, and twenty nine days after the initial study (ironically, it was the month of February and a leap year), Dr. Perrill set up a lawn chair and a plastic table in his front yard.  He arranged a large tumbler of gin, a small snifter of vermouth and a jar of blue cheese stuffed olives on the table.  Halfway through the third martini, KABLOOEY, the world exploded and all sixty occupants died.  

As so many people have told me, the world is really a changed place.  The value system I was taught by my parents is as archaic as a beer can opener. 

With today’s social media and technology you do not move your economics forward by improving your skills and enhancing your value to a profitable enterprise.  In the olden days, the employer recognized your increased contribution by giving you more responsibility and more money.  There was nothing charitable or morally upstanding about the employer’s actions.  They wanted to keep the people, who really had positive impact on the bottom line, happy. Rewarding high performers was the best wat to ensure long term profitability for the enterprise.  Midway through your career you were creating more compensation than you needed.  By saving and investing the excess you put yourself in a position to retire and live happily ever after.

A ridiculous business model in 2024.

I started modernizing my pursuit of wealth ten years ago.   Driving around the city, I was very impressed with people who created revenue simply by holding up signs at busy intersections with long delayed traffic lights.  So I hand painted a number of signs and went to work.  Some were pretty effective.  “Will work for fried chicken!”, “The Bentley needs tires”, and “My Karma ran over my Dogma” were money makers.  “Need help funding my 401k” was a dud.  Apparently, no one in America wants to fund any retirement accounts, anywhere.

So the key to real wealth was tapping in to Americans’ penchant to donate to causes that they deem to be “most worthy”.  Determining what Americans deem as “most worthy” is an art form.  Often the values are counter intuitive.  For example, in the 1990’s, a young mother was sadly attacked and killed by a mountain lion in California.  The park service tracked and euthanized the mountain lion.  Later they discovered that the lioness had a litter of three cubs.  A charity was created to help care for the mother’s children.  It received donations of $20,000.  Completely independently, a charity was established for the lion cubs.  It received $160,000 in donations. So if you are going to be financially successful, you must really understand the values of potential donors.       

Before the internet changed our lives, soliciting charitable contributions was a complicated effort.  It was labor intensive and expensive.  You had to establish a valid charity from a legal and tax perspective.  You had to identify prospective donors.  You had to develop effective solicitation techniques.  You had to put the touch on the donors and ultimately collect funds.  90% of the donations actually had to be disbursed for the explicit purpose of the charity. There were legal and tax filings, mailing list or phone solicitation research and execution, credit card receipt formats, mail and check receipt formats, etcetera.  The solicitations had to be rock solid because most of the potential donors you would contact would be both sane and sober.  You needed to be sufficiently convincing in your appeal to motivate rational people to write a check.     

Thankfully, as the internet and financial transaction processing evolved, a world of opportunities has opened for the tech savvy entrepreneur. 

I have eliminated nearly all of the complexities of generating contributions with the “Come Fund Me” application.  I go to the App, put in the reason I am in need of funding and nearly everything else is managed by the web site.  For example, last February I set up a “Come Fund Me” page to help me overcome my depression.  Tom Brady’s retirement was such a shock and trauma that it prevented me from working.  In fact, my mental state was such that I may never be able to resume my lucrative career as a truck driver.  I carefully posted the “Come Fund Me” application in Bistros located in Tampa, Boston and Ann Arbor at 1:00 AM.  Within a week, the sensitive patrons provided more than $97,000 to help restore my mental health.  This is so effective because it is so easy for the donors to make the pledge.  “Come Fund Me” accepts real money, credit cards, crypto currencies, the yuan, rubles, you name it.  At 1:00 AM many of the patrons are sloshed and they really align with my plight.  They may have just paid a few hundred bucks for a lap dance, why not give the poor Brady fan a sawbuck.  They push a button or two and bingo, I have a contribution.       

Three weeks ago I posted that I was careening toward bankruptcy because of the high cost of diesel fuel.  I needed to trade my 1988 – F350 diesel for a sensible Tesla but I had no funds.  So far I have tallied up $47,500 of the money required for the new electric vehicle.

I generated $8,500 to fund addiction counseling to help me conquer my life long addiction to fried chicken.

I even garnered $1,113 to help me recover the cost of losing too many golf balls on the 17^th hole at TPC Sawgrass.

Suffice to say “Come Fund Me” has changed my life.

What’s next?

I may need help converting my home to a totally green environment.  Solar panels and a couple of windmills.  The thought of Donald Trump becoming President has certainly rekindled my depression.  The thought of Joe Biden remaining President has certainly rekindled my depression.  The interest rate on my variable rate mortgage just doubled.  I don’t know how I can survive the 18% inflation that has been thrust upon us since 2021.

Watch the news.  Truly, the possibilities are endless. 

Thanks to the ease of accessing sympathetic and often inebriated contributors and the ease of completing the entire transaction, “Come Fund Me” is likely to be my full time occupation for a very long time.    

Many people make seemingly small decisions early in life that have a profound effect on the rest of their lives.  In fifth or sixth grade we are all seeking to establish our identities.  Our daughter fell in love with grade school dramatics.  The passion continued through high school and through a theater degree at Northwestern.  She loves acting and she is very good at it.  It all started in fifth grade.  In sixth grade our son signed up for Space Camp and it lit a fire for pursuing science that culminated in a PhD in Archeology.  He is now a professor at the University of Central Florida, teaching his favorite subject.   

I too had a seminal experience in sixth grade.  I rearranged my school schedule to maximize my exposure to the wisdom of Soupy Sales. 

Southeastern Michigan was blessed with daily performances of Soupy.  He started as a host of a lunch time cartoon show for kids.  He was so popular and versatile that he simultaneously hosted an evening program, Soups On, to compete with the 11 PM News.  The night time program featured great Jazz and adult oriented Soupy Sales humor.  Eventually, the Lunch with Soupy program migrated to Breakfast with Soupy.   

I quickly became a full member of Soupy’s exclusive “Bird Bath Club”.  All participants were known as “Bird Baths”.  Eventually, the number of cartoons diminished and were replaced by great personalities that would have a positive impact on children.  Willie the worm, “the sickest worm in all of Detroit”, would announce birthdays for fellow “Bird Baths” between sneeze attacks.  Pookie the lion would come to the window and sing Little Richard’s “Tutti Fruitti” or Oscar Brown, Jr.’s “But I Was Cool”.   Soupy had two dogs, White Fang and Black Tooth.  They spoke dog to Soupy and he would translate their communication for the “Bird Baths”.  It seemed like every two minutes someone would hit Soupy in the face with a cream pie.  The pie shots always sounded like ricocheting bullets.   

Soupy was a font of valuable information.  He would dial in the radio searching for a weather report.  The announcer said, “Oh, Oh! We’re in for a bad spell of weather.  W-e-t-h-o-r”.  Soupy was a dance instructor.  He taught us all to do the Soupy Shuffle. He gave health advice “Be true to your teeth and they won’t be false to you” or “Don’t scratch those chicken pocks or you will grow up looking like a golf ball”.  He was an investment advisor.  He pointed out that he once bought 7 Up when it was six.  Every day he had a chalk board with today’s Words of Wisdom.  “George Washington may be the father of our country but Faygo is the pop”.  “Show me an explosion in French bakery and I’ll show you a Napoleon blown apart”.

It was certainly clear to me that Soupy Sales was a very important educational resource.  Unfortunately, when I entered six grade, Breakfast with Soupy ended at 8:30 and classes started at St. Thomas at 8:30.  I only lived a mile from school but I could not possibly watch the half hour television program and get to school on time.

As I sat in my first period math class, I noticed that a couple of students arrived a half to three quarters hours late every day.  Sister Lucentia never reacted and never reported them as LATE.  I asked one of the late arrivers why they were never on time and why they did not get suspended.  They indicated that they were on the late bus.  It seems that one bus had such a long route each day that it could not possibly arrive on time.  If you rode the late bus you were never considered TARDY.  It also occurred to me that, if I stayed at home and had breakfast with Soupy, I would get to school about the same time as the late bus.  Perhaps Sister would assume that I also arrived on the late bus. I would miss three quarters of my math class but I would get all of the valuable lessons Soupy offered.  

This certainly seemed worth a shot.  The next day, I poured a bowl of cornflakes at 8:00, watched Soupy and rode my bike to school.  I wandered in to math ten minutes before it ended.  Turned in my homework and picked up this evenings assignment.  Not a peep from Sister Lucentia.  If she had asked why I was late, I would have replied that I had no excuse.  But she did not ask.  On the other end, my mother never asked when I was supposed to start school. A perfect situation.  I was prepared to ride this horse as long as he could trot.      

As it turns out, that horse galloped from September 8, 1958 to June 10, 1959.  That’s right.  I never got nailed.  In my 76 years on the planet that was the longest run of anti institutional behavior that I ever achieved. No discussions with my parents.  No discussions with the nuns.  Olly Olly all Home Free!  

As with my children, the whole experience made a big impact on my life.  I muddled through math but I also enjoyed episode after episode of the wisdom on Soupy Sales.  I can handle the quantitative stuff.  I have been a CPA and a systems design specialist.  However, my first reaction to most things in life has always been comedic. 

As Controller of a public company, I found that one of our subsidiaries was in dire straits.  I analyzed the problem and set up an emergency meeting with the CFO and President. The President noted that the sub was losing $10,000 a day.  He asked if there was anything positive about this situation.  My immediate reaction and response to him was “Well, it isn’t leap year.”  Fortunately, the President must have also been a “Bird Bath” when he was young.  He laughed heartily and didn’t fire me.    

It is exciting to see Ann Arborites reinvigorating the old neighborhoods on the West side of the city.  My formative years from Grade School through Twelfth Grade were spent in a house my grandfather built on Miner Street.  I can’t imagine that there could have been a better place for me to get started in life.

Let me take you back to 1957 and tell you what it was like to live in that great neighborhood. 

My dad worked for Michigan Bell and my mom had her hands full organizing the household for two “grown ups” and four kids.  My two older sisters plowed the way.  They led mom and dad through the initial perils of parenting.  Being five years younger I mostly cruised under child rearing radar.  My parents thought “Mikey is a breeze compared to Jo and Barb.” 

How could two sweet young ladies be a parenting challenge?  When I was seven years old Lucretia and Mad Madam Mim warned me not to disturb their paper dolls.  “You will regret it!”  Naturally, I ran amok with all of the dolls and associated paper clothing options.  For some reason my grandfather had a fetish for laundry chutes.  The house on Miner Street had a three foot square laundry chute that was a straight drop, three stories into the basement.  Virtually kicking and screaming they tossed me into the chute on the top floor.  It was a very quick trip to the basement.  Fortunately, the incident occurred one day before laundry day and I landed pretty softly.  My mother plucked me out of the bin and the siblings were grounded for a month. 

So, being third in the birth order, I was given a lot of latitude.  On a summer day I would pop out of bed and make my own breakfast.  For me that was either a bowl of cereal or cocoa and toast.  I was now free to pursue all of the entertainment opportunities the West Side offered. This morning it would be baseball.  Every morning, a group of kids would meet up at Hunt Park and organize a marathon baseball game.  I put on my Tigers Cap, stuffed a baseball in my pocket and retrieved the Al Kaline signature Louisville Slugger from the corner of my bedroom.  It was amazing that Al and I had the same taste in bats.  We liked a thin handle for a better wrist snap and large barrel that was a little more forgiving when you made contact with the ball.  Al’s bat was 34 inches long.  Mine was 29.  Other than that, they were identical.  I dragged my bike off the front porch.  I threaded my glove on the handle bars and straddled the bat across the handle bar between the grips.  Off to Hunt Park. 

Hunt Park offered two backstops facing each other from opposite corners of the park and a pitcher’s mound for each diamond.  There was no precut infield but the base paths were heavily grooved by hours of play from the sandlot teams. Anyone was welcome to play.  Girls, boys, anyone between seven and eleven years old.  We named two captains and went through a ritual with a bat, slightly more complex than the theory of relativity, to determine who would get the first pick from the dozen players.  Sides chosen, we played ball.

We had formal rules and informal rules. 

Formal rules were: “Pitcher’s Box is out. No Walking. No catcher (we did not have the requisite equipment). If we had less than five players a side, right field is closed.  Anything hit to right was an automatic strike.” 

Informal rules were you did not take advantage of the weaker players.  Everyone was allowed to play and the skilled players would not over power the neophytes.  When a seven year old came to bat you pitched the ball softly and underhanded.  You might throw a cross body block on an eleven year old when you were trying to score but no one ran over a seven year old. Nothing I ever did later in life emphasized a sense of fair play more than sand lot baseball at Hunt Park.   

The games lasted for hours.  Twenty or thirty innings.  All of us developed and honed our baseball skills much more on the sandlot than we did in official little league play.

After baseball we had lunch.  We randomly raided different households in the neighborhood.  Standard fare was PB&J’s or bologna sandwiches.  Occasionally, I would feast on a fried bologna sandwich.  Usually one of the mom’s organized lunch for the horde.

Following lunch we might decide to race our dirt bag soap box derby cars down Daniel Street.  Five or six of us made race cars out of spare wagon parts, two by four axles, and two by six chassis.  We steered with ropes tied to the front axles. No brakes. Daniel Street was perfect.  There was a very steep hill starting at Sunset Street but toward the end of Hunt Park there was an upslope so we all coasted to a stop.  Clear vision, no side streets, little traffic.  Spring Street on the other hand was totally down hill, three stop streets, heavy traffic, lots of trees.  Our test run down Spring resulted in one broken arm and lots of scrapes and bruises.  After five or six runs on the Daniel Track, someone was awarded the Barney Oldfield trophy and we moved on.

The Westside was a working class neighborhood and dinner time was pretty standard.  I had to be home at five and cleaned up for dinner forty five minutes later.  Dinner was served to the whole family at 6:00 every weekday.  We took turns at the dishes and then we went out to play with kids on the block.  Could be anything.  Touch football in the street.  Frisbee tag.  Hide and seek.  Whiffle ball.  Maybe a low profile card game on the front porch.  The old adage that we had to be home when the street lights came on is a little misdirected.  The real rule was we don’t want you home until the street lights come on.    

The West Side was rife with parks.  Hunt Park offered excellent sandlot, football, and basketball facilities.  In the winter, there was a great open hill that was ideal for sledding.  West Park was only three blocks from my house and it provided even greater recreational opportunities.  West had a fully maintained little league baseball field and a spectacular full size baseball diamond complete with dugouts.  Ann Arbor sported a semi pro baseball team, the Ann Arbor Travelers.  They played every weekend during the summer.  All the home games were at West Park. For four years, I was their batboy. West Park offered a wading pool to cool off on 90 degree days.  In a corner of the park there is a band shell for community music performances of all types.  In the winter, the baseball diamond was flooded and served as a public ice skating rink.  This was a big outdoor skating rink.  No hockey allowed.  My sister Barb had visions of becoming the next Sonya Henning so she spent many days and nights perfecting her figure eights at West Park.  The rink was lighted and there was a heated portable shed to warm you up on cold windy days.  We played “crack the whip”.  The person at the end of the whip achieved speeds near the sound barrier.  He or she was usually launched completely off the rink and over the surrounding snow bank.

Another great feature of the Old West Side was the proliferation of mom and pop stores. There were three stores within three blocks of our house and four more within six blocks. They were really needed for the mid fifties lifestyles.  Most families only had one automobile.  That vehicle went to work with the working parent.  At our house, when mom needed sugar, noodles, a can of soup or even a pack of Camels, she sent me a block and half south to Tom’s Miner Street Grocery.  This was always a great opportunity for me.  There was a two cent deposit on long neck bottles in Michigan.  Doesn’t sound like much.  But in 1957 a full size Snickers candy bar was a nickel.  A Faygo Crème Soda was a dime.  So for three pop bottles, I could get a Snickers and a piece of Double Bubble chewing gum.    For some reason we could always find a few beer bottles or pop bottles laying around the neighborhood.  If I had two salted away, I just needed to find one more on my way to Tom’s and the Snickers was mine.

Out of necessity, we all became capitalists.  The family budgets were tight.  Very rarely did discretionary income trickle down to the kids.  No problem.  With a little creativity we could be feasting on Snickers and Rock and Rye for a week.  I had a few lawn mowing and snow shoveling customers.  We all had our eyes open for long neck beer and pop bottles. 

Two of my more creative enterprises were in the recycling industry and the wholesale bait and tackle business.  Every month or so, I would drag the wagon out of the basement and tour the neighborhood asking for old newspapers and magazines.  Most of our neighbors saved these.  In fact they saved almost everything.  These people had survived the depression and you never knew when you might need to wrap fish or line the bottom of the birdcage.  When the piles got really big, they were happy to have me carry off the excess. I would take the papers home and bale them up with twine.  When I had stowed enough to fill the trunk and back seat of our 55 Mercury, my dad and I would load up the car and drive them to Lansky’s junkyard on Main Street.  Lansky paid me bulk pound prices for the paper.  I raked in three or four dollars a carload.  I bought my first Argus camera with paper proceeds. 

One of my friend’s father was an avid fisherman.  He determined that the perfect bait for big Bluegills was wild black crickets.  He offered to pay us the exorbitant sum of a penny per cricket for as many as we could deliver. During the day the crickets would hide under boards and rocks in the fields around the West Side.  Jimmy and I would hunt crickets alone but it was better to team up.  These guys were actually pretty fast and when you flipped the boards they started to move.  So one guy flipped and the other pounced.  More than once we flipped a board and were about to pounce when we found the den was occupied by a large spider, a snake or field mice.  Occupational hazards.  Jimmy and I always split the proceeds and we netted at least a dollar a month during the summer.                         

Growing up on the Westside, at an early age, we learned that you could always make money.  You could find a need, satisfy the need and support your lifestyle (usually Snickers and Faygo).  We never worried about having the opportunity to make enough money.  That perspective stayed with me my entire life and I learned it at age nine on Miner Street. 

I was very fortunate to grow up on the Old West Side of Ann Arbor.  We had a lot of fun.  My parents instilled solid values in their four children.  The need for equal opportunity and fair competition.  The benefits of self reliance and acquiring skills that were needed in the community.  These values were reinforced by our peers on the Old West Side.  I remember these lessons as I pass through life.  Most importantly, I never touch anyone’s paper dolls.    

I am finding that it takes a lot more time to draft correspondence these days.  A few years ago, I could rifle off a well thought out letter in less than ten minutes.  It now takes a least a half hour.  At first I thought, this is a sure sign of aging.  The grey matter is just not as responsive as it once was.   

So I started charting what I spend my time on in the writing process. 

Last week, I received an email from my electric company stating that my invoice was past due and accordingly they are charging me a late fee of $19 dollars.  It took me 8 seconds to comprehend that DT, Inc. is a monthly Auto Pay that creates an ACH withdrawal automatically from my checking account.  Only 8 seconds to frame the problem.  Not much time wasted there.  I don’t pay the bill, the electric company, DT, Inc., does and they didn’t pay this one.  They should send me $19 for non-performance of the auto pay feature.  So I started the letter with one of my favorite expletives “Balderdash”.  As I was moving to my next thought, I noticed that the word processing software changed this great expression to “Your balls are smashed!”  So I went back and changed the computer generated correction again to “Balderdash”.  I also decided not to use “Poppycock” in my next sentence fearing the auto correct response might really get me in trouble. 

In my next line, I noted that “DT, Inc.’s Auto Pay software is running amok”.  When I reread the sentence it had been changed to “The delirious tremor episodes of Otto Payne are in the mud.”  I back track and fix the ridiculous auto correction revision.  I now have a minute tied up in the first two sentences.  One of them is only one word.  I drafted the second one in four seconds but it took another 20 seconds to fix auto correct. 

Several things are becoming clear.  My brain seems to be firing on all cylinders and manually re-correcting auto correct is sucking up all my time.  In addition, if I don’t simplify my language so that it doesn’t trigger auto correct, it will take me a long time to draft this correspondence. 

If I do all the things the Immaculate Heart of Mary sisters taught me in eighth grade to draft a crisp, interesting correspondence, it may take an hour to write a simple letter.  Eight minutes to write it and 52 minutes to fix auto correct. 

So I won’t use very short sentences, like “Balderdash”, for emphasis.  I quash colorful descriptions, like “running amok”.  If I have a word that auto correct likes, I will keep using it.  The nuns said I should keep the reader interested by varying the terms I use for the same item.  E.g. cash, money, dollars, payment, remittance, currency, legal tender, moolah, scratch, dough, samollians, bread, greenbacks, bananas, long green, dead presidents, Benjamins, coin of the realm, and mana from Uncle Sam.  For the electric company letter I will only use “cash”. Auto correct likes “cash”.    

At this point, I am wondering what the auto correct criteria are for editing correspondence.  The algorithms have to use some assumptions about the reading level of the recipients.  In the United States, this is pretty low.  54% of adults read at or below the fifth grade reading level.  Our government has actually lowered that standard.  Because of the education debacle with Covid, fifth graders are no longer reading at the same level they did before Covid.  That’s right, fifth graders cannot read at the fifth grade level.  So the Fed’s lowered the standard and the 2018 third grade reading level is closer to the 2024 fifth grade reading level.

My word processing provider believes that they are helping me by editing my correspondence to something that a 2018 third grader will easily understand.  If I am ever going to finish this letter to the electric company, I need to further simplify my writing.  So I try to complete the correspondence with one syllable words.  “I think the goof up in the bill is your fault.  I saw my bank charge and you took cash to pay the March bill last week.  Give me back the late fee and fix your IT.”  Almost made it past auto correct.  It changed IT to “ants”.      

Here are three versions of the same letter.  The first version is in the form that I normally use for my correspondence.  It took 15 minutes to draft because I constantly had to override auto correct.  The second is the version of my original writing without revising any of the changes made by auto correct.  This only required 5 minutes of writing time.

The third version is the adjustment I made to my writing style to minimize auto correct edits.  This required 10 minutes to draft.

My response:

Dear Customer Service Representative,

I recently received a notification that my March payment was not received in a timely fashion by DT, Inc.  Balderdash!  DT Inc.’s Auto Payment software is running amok.  At your request, I signed up for Auto Pay.  DT Inc. triggers an ACH disbursement from my bank account.  A fast review of my bank account showed that you extracted a timely payment on April 10.  You should credit me $19 for the erroneous late fee and you should pay me $19 for having to address your mistake.  If the late payment has an effect on my credit rating, the next correspondence will come from my attorney.

Sincerely,

Michael Jay Sinelli        

My response as edited by Auto Correct:

Dear Custard Cone Server,

I recently received a notice that my march to Pensacola was not completed because of a delirious tremor episode.  Your balls are smashed!  The delirious tremor episodes of Otto Payne are in the mud.  At your direction, I signed up for Otto Payne.  A delirious tremor episode shot a classic hound at the river bank.  A fast review of my river bank showed that you extracted a timely pickerel on April 10.  You owe me $19 for the erroneous lake fee and you should send me $19 for mailing your prime steak.  If the lake cash has an impact on my car racing, the next letter you receive will come from my Aunt Tierney.  

Sin Surely,

Michael Jay Sinelli 

The response that was most in line with the auto correction algorithm:

Dear helper,

You sent a note that said I did not pay you on time. I did pay you on time. You took cash from my bank for a March bill on April 10.  You told me to sign up for auto pay.  I did.  In your bill you add $19 for a late charge. This was your goof up, not mine.  Send me the $19 cash for the goof up and $19 more for me to fix your goof up.  If your goof up makes me look bad, I am going to tell on you.   

I really mean it,

Michael Jay Sinelli

Not bad, only three multi syllable words and it passed all of the edits directed to third graders.   

What a great benefit auto correct provides.  I actually drafted the same correspondence with a quill pen 30% faster than using my word processing system.  That includes the time required to photograph the document and upload it to my computer.  Unfortunately, no one under 62 years of age can read cursive.

Ah well, the IHM sisters told me that easy reading is hard writing.  Thanks to the assistance of word processing software, it is getting a lot harder.