Drop the Volley Ball -- Assume the Position

Corporate espionage and the coordination of security personnel and resources are a major investment every international company must make. “The post 9/11 world we find ourselves in, is a scary place”, said Tim Tallulah. “I feel pressures that no other person can possibly imagine”, he continued. Tallulah has the awesome responsibility of overseeing the machine like security arm of a vital organization. No, he is not in communications, nor is he in the chemical or airline industry. Tim Tallulah is the head of security for Fun Time Sporting Goods of Redondo Beach, California. Most of the volleyball equipment made in the world is manufactured in one of Fun Time’s plants. “Our folks are like children”, Tallulah said, “They have to be constantly watched. Using an international model, I put a uniform code of conduct into place. You see, all of our manufacturing plants are in what you might call third world nations. Workers live in barracks and buy from the company store. Fun Time Inc. controls everything. That makes life easy for us in management. Well sir, that model is starting to work right here in Redondo, thanks to yours truly. I mean our offices here in Redondo Beach are just like a Fun Time plant anywhere in the world except the floors are carpeted and not dirt.”

You know, from the moment you arrive at the reception desk -- security is serious business with this company.

“Well” he said, “Time to walk the facility and make eye contact with the general population”. I was getting more frightened by the minute. “Let’s go Animal”, he called out to his second in command. Animal stood up to reveal he was about 5’ 6” tall and weighed 300 pounds. Curiously, although strapped with a sidearm and sporting a badge the size of a medium pizza tray, Animal seemed to be missing a neck. The Cave Man and the Animal put on trench coats and Fedoras. “We never leave this office without wearing a trench coat and hat”, Animal confided. I foolishly thought there was more than one building, thereby necessitating the outerwear. “Nope”, Cave Man told me, “Just this building but this is our symbol of authority here. Got to keep the workforce on their heels.”  I said that was amazing. “No big deal”, said Animal, “In the South American factories we wear helmets” With that they slipped a hood over my head, escorted me to the back door, where I was thrown off the loading dock and bid adieu. This was definitely a seldom seen part of the Fortune 500, due, in large part, I guess, to the hood.

"The envelope ---- Please!"

Don't Stand on Ceremony .... Stomp on IT

THIS MEANS YOU!!!!

One thing you have to say for the Los Angeles law enforcement community, they are thorough. I was recently going through the checkout line at a local Los Angeles supermarket and I spotted a stack of the most thoughtful, entertaining and informative flyers I have ever seen. It was all courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.

There are certain rules needed to have a happy and fulfilling life. I have always adhered to three basic rules my grandfather taught me and they have served me well. Never play cards with a guy named “Doc”, never eat at a place called “Moms” and never take advice from anyone with more problems than you. There are, of course, some other basic rules that should be followed. They involve not running with scissors, waiting an hour after eating to go swimming and not being a smartass with Mike Tyson. I thought these about covered it until that fateful day I was paying for my dog food and Saran Wrap and glanced down at the aforementioned flyer. There it was a hand holding a cocked automatic pistol and the words “The Los Angeles Police Department, The Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, Remind you DON’T SHOOT, Celebrate the Holidays Safely”. Good advice there. Immediately I felt a lessening in any urge I might have had to fire a weapon off into the air, which is, of course, a traditional way to commemorate the birth of this great republic. This was all the incentive, or should I say “disincentive” I needed. But the police and sheriffs weren’t through. Turning the flyer over we see we are cautioned to “Celebrate Safely”. There they were, in English and Spanish – guidelines for celebrating the Fourth of July:

 Shooting a gun into the air is a felony. You will spend up to one year in prison if you are caught.

This is far more than a mere warning. It seems on first blush to be about making a choice. That is refreshing. In this world where we have so few options, revelers are given the choice of shooting a gun in the air or not. Sure you can choose to squeeze that trigger, but it will cost you. It’ll be a felony, but, and here’s the fun part --- if you’re caught. I mean there’s wiggle room there. Also the penalty is “up to a year”. So, worst-case scenario, you go away for a year and you’re a felon. I’ve got to believe that is not much of a deterrent to an armed guy on the streets celebrating.

If you are arrested for shooting a gun into the air, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

The fullest extent of the law in Los Angeles means plea bargain. So they knock down the felony to tail gating in a non-designated parking lot. Pay the $200 and promise not to do it again.

If a stray bullet from your gun should kill someone, you will be arrested and charged with murder.

Now how fair is this? Murder? You didn’t murder anyone. You fired a gun into the air; the bullet descended and attempted to occupy the same space as someone’s cranium. That isn’t murder. That’s just really, really bad luck. But don’t despair. Remember:

A)     If you are caught.

B)      The fullest extent of the law.

       I’m saying - I still kind of like your chances.

People involved in celebrating the holidays by shooting their guns do not realize the danger posed by their actions.

And that is why we have put together this bilingual flyer. Folks have no idea that firing a gun indiscriminately can lead to death or injury. Many of us just think it leads to noise, laughter and celebration. Actually, it leads to tragedy followed, in most cases, by a foot pursuit, and a plea bargain.

During an appearance on the Tonight Show, as he sat on the same panel with Dean Martin, Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra, George Gobel made the classic statement, “Did you ever get the feeling the whole world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?” I was recently invited to a party at the famous Sky Bar in Hollywood’s Mondrian Hotel. Everyone who is anyone goes to the Sky Bar. Rod Stewart, Leonardo DiCaprio, Sophia Loren and Courtney Love, to name a few, have been photographed in the open and inviting confines of this outdoor, poolside party venue. So I approached my night there with more than a little trepidation. I mean, here I am, a New York City street guy attempting to infiltrate the beautiful people of the left coast. I thought for sure I would be spotted as an interloper and shown the door.

On the night of the party, as I headed toward the Sky Bar, I was ready for my celebrity fix. Where were they? J-Lo, Tom Cruise, Mel Gibson, Holly Hunter, were all going to be there for sure. This was my chance to see how the other half lives. I met some friends at the pool and was informed that I had “…just missed Alan Rickman”, I was so disappointed. I could not have been more disappointed, unless, of course, I knew who Alan Rickman was. I was informed that Alan Rickman “…was Hans Gruber, the villain in Die Hard”. Now I had a genuine sense of loss. Then it happened. None other than Patrick Dempsey walked into the bar. Yes, Patrick Dempsey, who starred in There’s No Fish Food in Heaven, among other fine “straight to DVD” titles. But was he alone? Of course not, the Sky Bar is where celebrities congregate. Dempsey was with his personal trainer and hair stylist. Two guys, amazingly both named Sven. I was very encouraged. The night was just beginning, and already the celebrity roll call had begun.

I looked around, with my best paparazzi radar in gear looking for more celebs. In rapid order, I met several “famous” folks. I am not here to brag, but in the span of one hour I met: Lara Flynn Boyle’s gardener, Oliver Stone’s dentist’s cousin and the road manager of The Blue Man Group. This night was shaping up to be as special as I had hoped it would be.

The rest of the attendees, who fleshed out the crowd, seemed to be an incredibly well groomed, underdressed bunch of trust fund babies and wannabees. I met Anson Williams’ cousin Barney, who has trademarked the phrases, “buzzer beater” ®, “how ya’ doin” ®, “step away from the car” ®, and “game called on account of rain” ®. I chatted with him for a few minutes, and, as I later came to find out was lucky enough to avoid all his signature phrases during that time. As the night went on, and Barney mingled, several party guests were slapped with injunctions and trademark infringement charges. “Hey, it’s my livelihood”, he told them.

The first obvious thing about the Sky Bar was that there is no cover charge. Drinks are an average of $18 each. So as you look around this open air meet market you notice that a good many people, probably seven out of every ten are not drinking at all. Bartenders back in my old neighborhood would tell people that “…if you want to take up space in this joint --- decorate the mahogany”. In other words, put some cash on the bar. Be drinking or be gone. The Sky Bar has a disproportionate number of deadbeats in attendance. They were silky haired, with alabaster skin and bright eyes under manicured eyebrows. The women were stunning too.

I sat poolside sipping my $18 diet Pepsi, watching the show. It was like watching  “Almost Celebrity Un-Censored”. They laughed, hugged, whispered and gave sidelong glances to see who was looking at them. It was like a strange “Brad-Britney-Ben-Christina-Colin-Paris” impersonator party. I am sure there were loads of people with “projects in the works”. I know for a fact that Lara Flynn Boyle’s gardner had pitched a game show idea to Merv Griffen. “Merv ain’t got back to me yet”, he said, “That’s a good sign”. Trying to be helpful, I suggested that maybe “…his people could call Merv’s people”. “There’s an idea”, he said, with a glint in his eye.

Sven and Sven moved through the crowd saying their goodbyes. It turns out that Patrick “booked about an hour ago”. No one ever leaves the Sky Bar; the only way to get out is to book. Booking was so popular that Barney actually has filed for the trademark. Please keep that in mind the next time you book™

From this to the Highland fling - now that's diversification.

July/04

I was walking through the Del Amo Mall in Los Angeles, window-shopping and people watching. I love watching people interact with their environment and their fellow humans. There are so many stories unfolding. As I walked past the entrance to the mall’s Mervyn’s anchor store, I saw him. He was a rather ordinary looking person, if you didn’t count the kilt and the clipboard.

He walked up to me and said he’d like to ask me a few questions. My people watching skills in sensory overload and more questions formulating in my mind to ask him than he could possibly have for me, I agreed.

We stepped into the food court and sat down at a table across from the “My Favorite Muffin” coffee shop. “Well”, he said, “My name is Jack Gillespie and I do surveys here in the mall for Consumer Poll, an independent market research firm. We’d like to get information about your buying habits and your likes and dislikes concerning advertising and products”. Jack said all that in an easy flowing, unscripted way that let me know it was absolutely painstakingly rehearsed. Jack then proceeded to ask me my preferences between Coke and Diet Coke, Burger King and McDonald’s as well as broadcast and cable news shows. I answered all his questions and then it was my turn to ask some.

“What’s the deal with the kilt?” I began. Jack informed me that he was an instructor at the Ellen Kaye School of Dance in Lomita. This day he was actually one of a select group known as “The Ellen Kaye Dancers” and they were performing a “Dances around the World” show at the theatre in the mall. “I had no time to change”, he told me, and “So I just decided to do this job in costume.” Strangely, it all made sense. I asked Jack how long he’d been a dance instructor. He told me that dancing was "…an avocation" that he came upon after retiring from his regular job. It brought some money his way. I had to ask what his “regular job” had been and the conversation took an interesting turn.

Jack pulled a card from his knapsack, there are, after all, no pockets in kilts, which identified him as the “President of Gillespie Brothers Trucking”. The company logo was a kid pulling a wagon with the Empire State Building in it. “Have you ever actually moved a building?” I asked. “Just once”, he replied. “We moved the home of the Torrance Boys and Girls’ Club three blocks to a new location. It was amazing; Cecil B. DeMille in his wildest dreams could not have conjured up this one. We had to have phone lines removed, we had to go six blocks out of our way to make the proper turns. It was unreal.” I couldn’t help but notice that a discernable glint came into his eye as he recounted this “nightmare” experience.

“Most of my trucking career was pretty mundane”, he told me, “Except for my first two jobs”. It seems that Jack’s first foray into trucking involved delivering shoes to retail stores in Los Angeles. On one stop, his first morning on the job, Jack was walking into the Payless Shoe Store on Hawthorne Boulevard, with a carton of Converse sneakers on his shoulder. He looked up from dropping the carton on the floor just in time to see two guys each grab a carton of shoes from the back of his open truck and start running down the street with them. Gillespie was in hot pursuit. Right before they reached the corner, they threw the cartons into the middle of the street. Jack picked up the cartons and headed back to his truck, feeling good, knowing he had won. However, he arrived back at an empty truck. Accomplices of the two men he was chasing cleaned out the rest of the cartons while the chase went on up the street. He immediately called the police. “How long ago did this take place?” the responding officer asked.

Jack told him it had been about half an hour. “Half an hour?” the cop bellowed, “Son those shoes are walking the streets of Lawndale as we speak.” For weeks after that, the dispatcher who assigned jobs to Jack would always walk around his desk to “…see what shoes he was wearing”.

His second memorable job involved working for Jade Trucking, making deliveries for Macy’s. He grabbed the keys and manifests and headed to the truck assigned him. When he was out on the road, he thought he would take time during the morning to attend to some personal matters. After all, he had checked the paperwork and all the deliveries could be done within four hours. He stopped for breakfast, got a haircut and did some Christmas shopping. He arrived at the first delivery about one in the afternoon, a short six hours after pulling out of the warehouse yard. He went into the back of his truck to get the package he was to deliver. As he hunted for it, a woman walked up and said, “Are you from Macy’s? Your office has been calling here for you since nine this morning”. It turned out that Jack had taken the wrong truck. All his deliveries were still at the warehouse, along with another driver who had the paperwork with him for the truck Jack was driving now.

He arrived back at Macy’s and talked to no one. He dropped the keys on the warehouse manager’s desk, and walked out. That was the day Jack decided to go into business for himself. He figured if he couldn’t trust himself, who could? That began Gillespie Brothers. “Hey great talkin’ with ya’”, he said.

Then he headed through the food court to a stage set up next to the Relax the Back Store. In a thrice Jack was engulfed in a Highland fling and I was off to Radio Shack. That evening I got a call from Jack’s supervisor at Consumer Poll. She was verifying the data he got, making sure that I in fact existed. I told her how much I enjoyed meeting with Jack. She was surprised. “He’s really fascinating”, I said, “with lots of great stories”. “I wouldn’t know”, she replied, “I’m really not interested in personal information”. With that sentenced she summed up the problem with all pollsters. The human factor is not a factor. Compile the data, submit the numbers and get paid. It’s no wonder Jack was in such a rush to get started dancing.

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June/04

What I call the subtitle, and others call the sell line, of this website is “Read “Al” About It”. I thought that was kind of catchy. It summed up what I hoped the reaction of the average reader would be. Most people, honestly, haven’t even mentioned it. That sums up my marketing skills. However, one reader, introduced to Al Segundo.Com through the Hot Wheels Collectors.Com site, wrote to tell me they thought it was “cute”. Cute? I hate cute. Clever, inventive, call it anything but cute.

When I was growing up in New York, WNEW radio had a feature during the winter, where a reporter named “Rocky” Rockefeller (even as a youth I suspected that wasn’t his real name) would give the snow conditions of the resorts north of the city. “When it comes to the slopes”, “Rocky” would say, “I call ‘em as I ski ‘em!” I always wished someone would do the giant slalom down Rocky’s face every time I heard that. In our old neighborhood there was a bakery on the corner of my block. The back of the delivery truck read, “Our driver is courteous – but our rolls are fresh” – now that is funny and inventive. To call it cute is to devalue it and to make the company’s motives suspect. Deagan’s Plumbing, on the next block featured a sign that said, “When you need a plumber bad, you want him good.” Not great grammar there, but awfully clever.

 In this day of instant gratification, we seem to have abandoned creativity for the snapshot approach to marketing. In Los Angeles there is a Chinese restaurant called “Wok Like a Man”. I can only imagine a Chinese restaurant being opened by Giant outfielder Bobby Bonds, called “The Intentional Wok”.  Within a two-block radius in Santa Monica there are the following establishments: a beauty salon called “Curl Up and Dye”, a dog groomer called “Just Be-Paws”, a dental clinic called “Bright Now”, and, lastly, two coffee shops, one called “Sacred Grounds” and the other “Thanks-A-Latte”. What else can we expect from a world where people communicate with bumper stickers and tee shirts.

It’s one thing when the local pizza parlor or beauty salon gets cute, but it is quite another when people whose stock and trade is supposed to be creativity parade cuteness. My friend Mulligan works for a Fortune 500 company in Los Angeles. The people in Mulligan’s company who write copy have adopted the motto “Fresh Copy Brewed Daily”. If it’s true, and it is, that the coming attractions for any movie contain the best scenes in that movie, I would think the same thing has to apply here. If you are the creative arm of the organization, your tag line should be creative. “Can you believe that”, Mulligan said, “that line is silly to the point of being embarrassing”. He added, “I deal with them directly every day and, believe me, their motto should be “…Fresh Copy Brewed Daily – but Delivered Monthly” or perhaps, “We Brew Our Copy Daily – Hope You Like It Cold.” “There are meetings about when and where to have meetings. Then there are meetings to decide the refreshments for the meetings. You might say they are confab-ulous”. "In the end", he told me, "their copy (brewed daily) looks like it was generated in an English for the foreign born classroom. I have to believe they are being paid by the word". 

I am not operating under the delusion that we will ever see the end of “rock-toberfest”, “sale-athons” or “buy-owner”. These things will persist because it is the matter of communication by the lowest common denominator. H.L. Mencken said, “No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.” This sort of marketing “new speak” is a solid endorsement of his observation.

======================================

May/04

Last week I was stopped at a red light on the corner of Hawthorne Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway in Los Angeles. Suddenly, I was made aware of the fact that a group of women, all apparently in their twenties, were trying to get my attention. They were giggling and waving. Frankly, I was somewhat embarrassed. Although I was, I must admit, more than a little flattered I fought the impulse to acknowledge them. I glanced away from them to the car next to me to see if that driver had noticed how impressed these ladies were with me. That driver was Kevin Bacon. It took me a moment, a very short moment, to realize that it was likely he was the one who they were waving at. Kevin was nowhere near as cool as I was, however. He waved back to them and smiled broadly. I guess he just doesn’t know how to be cool and aloof.

I have always had embarrassing brushes with greatness. When I was in my mid-twenties I was having a few beers in Rusty Staub’s Restaurant on 3^rd Avenue in New York City. I looked across the dining room and noticed a man and woman having dinner. I recognized him as a contractor from my neighborhood in Queens. In fact, he used to come into a restaurant I worked in for lunch. I observed to the rest of the guys with me what a small world this was. The guy saw me looking toward him and nodded in acknowledgement. When he came up to the bar to pay his bill, he said, “How are you tonight?” I told him I was fine and that I guess we’d be seeing each other later in the week. “Uh, yes, I guess so”, he answered, grabbing his wife by the hand and heading toward the exit. The bartender asked, “Where do you know him from?” I told him that I knew him from my neighborhood. “I don’t think so”, he said, “That’s Charlie Jones the football announcer.” I had seen Charlie Jones so often in my living room, doing AFL and NFL games that I thought I knew him. How embarrassing, he must have run clear down 3rd into Greenwich Village to get away from me.

Another football related celebrity sighting ended in embarrassment for me in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I was walking through the Saw Grass Mall, when I spotted former NFL quarterback Earl Morrill. He and two of his kids were doing some last minute Christmas shopping. “Hi Earl”, I began bravely. I am not much of a groupie, so I find it awkward to approach people in these situations. Earl, however was a journeyman, and I felt that he was approachable. He was an every man type athlete. One could imagine him carrying a lunch box to practice. When I said hello to him I also shook his hand. I told him how I had seen him play many times, and he was the first Super Bowl quarterback whose hand I got to shake. Then Earl said something strange. “What are you a Bears fan?”, he asked. Somewhat puzzled I told him that the Giants were my team, in fact, I had seen him play many times in New York. It was then Earl’s turn to be puzzled. “OK then, have a great Christmas”, he said, gathering his kids and heading hastily toward the food court.

I left the mall and headed to my car. When I went to open the door, I saw it. It was my reflection in the driver’s side window. It was me in a Chicago Bears jersey. The jersey was a gift from guys I worked with at Bell&Howell. They were all Chicago guys and it bothered them that I rooted for the Cubs but not the Bears. This Steve McMichael jersey was their way of trying to convert me. Was there any wonder that Earl Morrill was confused? I always hoped it didn’t ruin his holiday.

My most amazing and, it turned out, most embarrassing, brush with greatness was also sports based. I was sitting in Daly’s Dandelion, a bar on 63^rd street in Manhattan. The conversation got around to whom we thought the Yankees were going to acquire to get a solid designated hitter on their roster. I said that I thought Rusty Staub was the right choice. He already had a good following among New York fans; he was a solid hitter and a great team player. The conversation grew adversarial, when another guy at the bar informed me that, “No way will the Yankees go after Staub. They are going to get Jim Spencer from the Angels. He is as good and smart a hitter as Staub and a gold glove fielder.” I told the guy he was crazy and obviously knew nothing about baseball. He then introduced himself to me as the former Cleveland Indians All Star third baseman, and present New York Yankees General Manager, Al Rosen. Two days later Spencer was a Yankee. To this day I like to believe that I somehow expedited that acquisition. If I had told Rosen that I knew Spencer was going to the Yankees, perhaps he would have gotten Staub. It’s all part of baseball lore now. At least it is when I think about it.

 ================================================================

March/04

Amid rumors of a corporate takeover, Stan Wendelewski took medical leave for a triple bypass operation. He was hopeful that a surgeon at UCLA could undo years of Camel cigarettes, Wild Turkey bourbon and sirloin steaks. The surgeon worked his magic and Stan felt better than he had in years. The man who could barely make it down the produce aisle at Ralph’s was now capable of thirty minutes on the treadmill, followed by an equal amount of time on the stationary bicycle. Four times a week he added in a weight routine.

Three months after the operation Stan was ready to return to work. He was well aware that Demure Woman of Hammond, Indiana had acquired the company he worked for, Newman Styles, a women’s fashion house. Stan had been filled in by members of his staff as to the comings and goings of the “Demure crowd” as they had been referred to. Stan headed up a six person auditing department. At least he thought he did, until he returned to work that Monday morning.

He walked into his office to find it occupied by a tall young man with a pink shirt and pearl white tie. The young man looked up and said, “May I help you?” “Uh, yes”, Stan answered, “This is my office.” Incredulously, the guy in the pink shirt said,  “Reeeeeleeeee?” The guy with the white tie then told Stan to “Wait here.” He left and returned in about five minutes with two guys who looked like John Gotti and Alan Alda. Alan Alda started, “Hi, I’m Jim Bates, Director of Corporate Staffing for Demure Woman.” Wendelewski thought, “Christ, “Director of Corporate Staffing” that is roughly akin to being an Admiral in the Swiss Navy.” Bates went on, “This is John D’Errico our COO. We appear to have a bit of a dicey situation here. What is it you used to do with Newman?” Stan took a deep breath and said, “You see those six people? They used to report to me.” D’Errico’s eyes darted back and forth as Stan spoke. Finally he said, “Stan, it is Stan right?” Wendelewski nodded, “Come with me Stan.” Wendelewski followed D’Errico to a cubicle across the room from his former office.

“What we’d like to do is have you act as a liaison, if you will, between these six people and Billy White.” Billy White was, it turned out, the ten pin in the pink shirt. So, Stan moved to his new cubicle, and there he sat for several days, doing little, which is exactly what was asked of him. Every time he attempted to engage Billy White in conversation or tried to get information about the status of the department he was waved away like a drunk trying to crash a wedding. He sat in his cubicle, surfed the net, went to lunch and then went home. Every day he’d make it known to the new people in power that he was available if they needed him, and they never seemed to.

Finally, one day, as Stan was checking out CareerBuilder.Com, an announcement came over the office loud speaker. “Everyone please pack up all your work and head to the amphitheatre.” The amphitheatre was a seldom-used room with about a two hundred-person capacity. It was a good idea back in the golden days of Newman, when buyers and department store executives shuffled through like tourists. Now it was a sad place used largely for storage. As Stan walked in with the rest of the employees, he noticed that the movie screen was in place. Upon entering each person was handed a large tub of popcorn, a large soda and a baseball cap, with the Demure Woman logo on it.

Everyone settled into their seats and the screen lit up with the movie “Hoosiers”. It was like some people’s definition of hell. These mid-westerners had come to town with their superior attitudes, stale popcorn and staler movie. Halfway through the film, the house lights came up and Swiss Navy Admiral Bates was in the spotlight. He went on and on about how “…this movie proved that a group of people, no matter how diminished their number could persevere if their hearts were pure and their spirits strong.” “Christ”, Stan thought, “They are getting ready to cut most of these popcorn munching, baseball cap wearing sheep, who are sitting here listening to this Judas goat in a Botany 500 suit.”

Stan ate his popcorn, bemoaned his fate and absolutely refused to put on his baseball cap for the group picture. That was a real problem, considering Stan’s shaved head. He would appear in the picture like a defiant punctuation mark. Bates rambled on about Demure Woman and how the latest success oriented company-wide program, “The Success Express” was headed into “…Productivity Station on Leadership Street.” It was a self indulgent, metaphoric orgy. Stan was well aware that “…some knives in the drawer are sharper than others”. But, he was also aware that “Admiral Bates” was more spoon than knife, and a plastic spoon at that. Thank God, eventually Bates stopped talking, the house lights dimmed and Gene Hackman led his out manned group of Indiana mouth-breathers to victory.

The next morning, Wendelewski walked into D’Errico’s office and said he wanted to talk. “I am not doing you any good here. I don’t fit into your plans. We should make a deal.” Stan said. D’Errico abruptly said, “We don’t make “deals”. If you want to leave, you should just leave”. Stan took a deep breath and said, “OK then, I’ll stay. Thanks for your time.” He left the office and headed back to his cubicle. As he arrived the phone was ringing. It was Bates and D’Errico on speakerphone they said they “...needed to talk” to him. Stan said he was “busy at the moment”. He’d be there in about ten minutes. He used that time to sip his coffee and smile to himself.

When he arrived back at D’Errico’s office, he was offered six months’ salary to go away. This was a considerable saving to the company when compared to Stan’s severance package, which would amount to about two years salary.

Stan smiled and said, “How about we cut to the chase. I want a year and a half''s salary, and I want my medical coverage to stay in place.” D’Errico and Bates conferenced for a moment and then declared that to be “fair”. Stan thought to himself, “Fair? I'll say it's fair. You guys won’t even be in business two years from now”. He was right too.

Stan took his Demure money and accepted a position with the Chevron Oil Company. Demure filed Chapter 11 two months after he left and closed its doors completely four months after that. The high point of his Chevron career to date, he says, was six months ago. It was the day he interviewed Jim Bates and Billy White for jobs on the same day. "Unfortunately", Stan said with a wink, "neither one had the skill sets Chevron was looking for." "Karma is a wonderful thing. Don't you agree?", he said to me that day.