Non Fiction Pt. 3

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It has been a difficult 8 years since I was forced to sell my old house in Cedar Rapids in 2014. A fall from grace? Consequences? A test of my resilience? All of the above are appropriate. The chaos of 2008 had been mitigated by a bailout from FEMA but that required keeping the business open for 3 more years to have the loan forgiven. I needed the money and we limped along working out of my basement for the next three years. Players came and went but the phone hustle was the same. We could never get results for them that were satisfying enough for the clients to want to do it again. So, they just got smoked. After all that money came and went there were no more shirts and ties or corporate speak in my future. Win, lose or draw I hold on to my own narrative. Ashton was a tough loss. It needed to end for a variety of reasons described in detail elsewhere.

I struggled to find a business model more legit than Navy Diver Challenge. It was cool and I am glad we did it. It was a financial flop, however. When I tried to use a home equity loan I found out the hard way the bank would not only not allow me to take equity out of my home they would not adjust the mortgage either. There was maybe $80,000 I could not touch. I was being bled dry of cash. I stopped paying the mortgage and contacted Iowa Legal to help out. These folks provide legal services to the poor. In the end, I lost. I was not able to force them to adjust the loan and had to sell the place. I walked with $17,000 in the end after a decade. I was 44 years old. I left Cedar Rapids for Iowa City. The kids were barely teens and living with their mom and step dad in Cedar Rapids. 

Things went from bad to worse with a couple run ins with the law. A misdemeanor harassment charge from the Dyersville bullshit and drunk driving charge right on top of that to be specific. Was I drinking too much? Yes. I accept responsibility for my actions. The only regrets about Dyersville are I didn’t know the specifics of the law, nor had the cash to pay for the great attorney. Had I known that they would have probably paid up. The ex cashed out an old life insurance policy I had purchased years ago and gave it to me for the lawyer’s fee. He slapped the Dyersville geeks around in discovery and it was no jail, no fine, misdemeanor. The subsequent night in jail, and bonus weekend, for the drunk driving was the low point. Surrounded by shitbags that all deserved to be there, like me. It was interesting but a low in life. No one was waiting for me on my release from jail and no one in St. Nick’s basement in Iowa City either where I had taken up residence. I went over to the Deadwood to hang out with the deadbeats in there and grab a beer. Misery loves company.

It was there I ran into Jeremy L. He was a kid that used to work for me on the phones a few years previously at Worldcom in Iowa City. He went into the Marine Corps and was deployed to Iraq. He said he came back and had a few issues with drinking and drugs and had been in and out of the VA rehab. Here he was at the Deadwood? I said nothing about the apparent relapse. Sounded like a step or two ahead of me. He told me he was working at the VA in Iowa City doing housekeeping at night for $17 an hour. He said it was a program for vets with drinking or drug problems. The VA evaluation didn’t say I had a drinking problem but my arrest did qualify me for the VA Compensated Work Therapy (CWT) program. In short, I worked briefly with Jeremy and a bunch of other vet deadbeats doing house keeping at from 4pm to 11pm 4-5 nights a week. One guy was drinking in the closet. Most were just negative and lazy. No bus route at 11pm and no drivers license with the suspension meant I was riding my bike in the dead of winter for months too.

I found out I was homeless sitting in one of my required weekly CWT meetings. To my surprise was a deadbeat I had smoked a joint with in the alley behind the Deadwood in the meeting. He went by the tag of Mystic. I saw him on the bus from time to time. He was a freakin’ burnout and dumb ass that convinced the other losers in the Dirtwood he was a tie dyed spiritual shaman. He was an old army vet living in the shittiest trailer park in Iowa City and probably couch surfing there. What a slap for my ego.  I had teased this guy on the bus with the kids quietly so he couldn’t hear  previously but now we were one. Also in the CWT meeting was another EOD guy. He was an Air Force guy and legit. I asked him some technical stuff and he definitely was an EOD guy. He was living in his truck and got picked up by the cops. Guy was a cool guy with a great sense of humor. A few days later he was gone without a word.  In the eyes of the government we were the same, homeless vets. 

The guy in charge of the CWT program was an old Marine. He got discharged in the 70’s and ended up in the parks sleeping on benches. Lost the wife, the kids, the house and the whole nine yards. Not into booze or drugs just a few bad beats and the apartment turned into the car and eventually the streets for him. He got involved with the VA CWT program decades earlier and now ran it locally. He was a very positive guy. He explained the US Government’s definition of a homeless vet is If you do not have a mortgage or rental agreement in your name you are homeless, simple. Call it temporary or transitional, just don’t call it out too loud. It is embarrassing and difficult for someone to navigate a crisis like this and, fortunately, this story has a nice ending. But how about some truth telling first?

These were low moments. There was nothing left of my ego when the ex wife and her new husband were driving the kids back and forth every other weekend for my visit so they could stay in the basement with me and go wherever the bus would take us. This was tough to swallow. I knew my ex ran her mouth, “Oh yeah, look at your big shot dad now living in a basement, riding his bike in the winter, doesn’t pay child support and can’t even come get his own kids for the weekend. What a loser.” The kids would leak what she would say. It bothered me to say the least. In my head, I could hear the entire stadium stand up in their seats and applaud my failure. I deserved it. It was pay back for all the stunts pulled with Ashton Danbury. I was pretty close to pulling the rip cord at this point to be honest. 

There really was no one to turn to except inward. There were thousands of people following me on social media at the time and only a couple really knew what was going on behind the curtain. No one really knew what to say to me to be honest. Most were surprised by my crash but I also learned most people don’t give a rip about your life. Some like to see you squirm. Most just like to be around people who are successful. It makes them feel better about themselves. When they see homeless people they view them as failures and degenerates who are better served somewhere else. Me? I think most, not all, homeless are just failures and degenerates. There is no fixing most of them and the world is better off without them. Better to put them down humanely than carry on with failed social policy. Best of luck in the next life I guess. 

What turned it around for me was the help of the government, some friends and the ability to parlay sequences and events into the next. I got my drivers license back after my suspension.  I found a homeless vet grant that paid the first three months of rent so I moved out of a basement and into my own cheap apartment back in Cedar Rapids. The rent was $750. I picked up a $10 per hour job cooking and buffed up my resume. I put the resume out on the internet while a former business partner from the insurance and financial days put together a new internet business model. His name was Jan and he was a bright young guy with a successful wife in the pharmaceutical industry. Times had changed for them as he was now bankrupt, having to divorce his wife to protect her 401k, and losing the house. $600k gone. He was a bright guy and a computer whiz from a wealthy family. In the end, after a couple years the business never took off and I wasted a ton of time. He was one of those guys who is always nice but the talk and the walk are not necessarily the same. He couldn’t tell me he had another job and had no intention of completing the project. No hard feelings. Had to cut him loose and work on cash flow.

I got a bite on a marketing job that was fantastic in the beginning. They paid me $50,000 per year and all the bills remaining were squashed. I met a new woman on the  internet and eventually moved in with her after a few months. While living with her I enrolled in culinary school through the VA vocational and rehabilitation program. This triggered a $750 a month stipend. I also worked in a great kitchen while in school, the former Popoli Ristorante in Cedar Rapids. The big break came when the VA determined my disability rating after all of these years was much lower than it should have been. I was re-rated and my claim from 40% was increased to 100%. This means about $3,150 a month tax free for the rest of my life. This also means all health benefits and $1,200 a month for each child in tuition assistance. There is no money down requirement on a VA home loan and the new rating means there is no property tax on my residence either.

Shortly after COVID-19 struck the girlfriend and I split up. I was recruited as a chief cook by the Seafarers International Union. This, unfortunately, did not work out but the pay checks qualified me through mortgage underwriting of the new home I just purchased in my hometown of West Des Moines. This home is even nicer than the one I lost years ago. However, I am done sailing now and have accepted another cooking position locally. I have a new girlfriend and after a few months, so far so good. She lives with me. I have seen many homeless people and I do talk with them from time to time and take their pictures. The truth is I was just a step away not too long ago. Never forgotten.

The Rolling Stones 2021 No Filter Tour was the reason for the visit to St. Louis. It is one of the few bands I had always wanted to see and am glad I did. The Rolling Stones first came to the United States in 1964. It was the same year The Beatles came to the US for the first time as well; The British Invasion. Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and Paul McCartney are among the wealthiest rock stars of all time. There are no bands that have had the longevity of The Rolling Stones. In 1964 Vietnam was just catching flame and my father was in the 10th grade. JFK was assassinated the previous year and Lyndon Johnson defeated Barry Goldwater in the 1964 US presidential election. The historic 1964 Civil Rights Act was to put an end to public discrimination. That was 57 years ago.
 

In 1964 the city of St. Louis was just beginning its descent from the Gateway to the West to Homicide Capital of America. Airplane travel had siphoned off much of the train travel that was so vital to St. Louis. San Francisco and New York by train for decades met in the middle; St. Louis. There is a popular stained glass window in the station that depicts this connection of these cities above the stairwell in the main hall as well as the mural behind the check in counter. Union Station is now a massive converted modern train themed hotel. $200 a night gets the modern room with an obstructed view of the flames shooting out of the massive Koi pond below. There is an aquarium and good sea food restaurant that sits beside the pond and below the giant Ferris wheel. The importance that trains had in the development of America and St. Louis is undeniable. Today Amtrak is all that is left of America’s passenger train service, unfortunately. While
Europe and Asia have high speed electric rail systems that float on electromagnetic rails we are derailing diesel fueled Amtrak trains annually it seems.  
 

Being the curious tourist that I am we drove around a bit in some areas in North St. Louis that met the definition of ghetto. These once upper middle class neighborhoods fell into disrepair decades ago as the population began to crash; white flight. From a bustling city of more than 800,000 in the 1950’s to roughly 300,000 today is a massive decline in population. The Union Station stopped passenger train service in 1978 and hotel renovation began in the 80’s. In two generations, however, the demographic percentage of white people has been cut in half from roughly 86% around the time of World War Two to 43% today. Much of that is due, in part, to St. Louis’ unique governmental configuration that has it not a part of St. Louis county but it’s own municipal entity. The white folks, and their money, have left for closely attached, but separate, St. Charles County that is economically booming. The structure of the government itself allowed black neighborhoods to starve from lack of a tax base and funding from the county. The cost of demolition was too much and vast swaths of north St. Louis were boarded up, abandoned and left to the elements. The faded but vacant former beauty of the now decrepit brick facades are still there. Unfortunately, most have become dangerous black neighborhoods not safe for white folks to be walking around at night long ago. This was personified for American media with the death of Michael brown in 2014 in the St. Louis municipality of Ferguson. A town that was 99% white in 1970 to one that is close to 90% black now. In St. Louis there were 20 shootings and 8 homicides the week before The Rolling Stones show. In 2016 there were 102 homicide suspects of which 7 were white and 95 were black according to Wikipedia. The obvious statistic is that 75% of black families are raised by single mothers. Three out of four black fathers do not raise their children is devastating. What are these guys doing? They are in jail, dead, in a gang, gave up or going nowhere fast from the looks of the north side of town.
 

Driving through some of these dilapidated areas of St. Louis I saw a world that does not exist in Iowa. I doubt The Rolling Stones would be touring these neighborhoods. Of the cars and people I saw out and about just after sunrise none of them were white. Best not to spend a lot of time driving around the hood in an SUV with Iowa license plates on it. We needed some gas and pulled in to a convenience store. The black crack head that got kicked out of the store approached and asked for change. I just shook my head and he moved on to the next person getting gas. Across the street there were several people sprawled out in a homeless camp of sorts in front of a defunct African themed business on the corner. There is no hope for these people. They may as well be living in bombed out villages of Syria or Afghanistan There is no employer or community that wants these folks. There are no job skills, no money, no education , mental illness, addictions and behavioral issues that are simply insurmountable by the tens of thousands. No employer can afford to come to these specific zip codes with the cost of the insurance on the building alone cost prohibitive. Simply, the insurance companies know the chance of you getting robbed and looted is high so the premium for the coverage offered, if it is offered, is ridiculous. So, the employer sets up shop elsewhere where the crime is lower and the demographics are economically better, St. Charles County. The problem is no one wants to say this. With Barnes Jewish and the elite Washington University still in town there is no shortage of local health care talent and academic scholars who have examined the problem. Odd, they seem rather quiet on the solution. The solution is quite simple; bulldoze the ghetto. St. Louis is no different than many other ghettos across America in that step one to reclaiming the neighborhood is to raze the vacant and abandoned properties and turn them into green spaces. Only when this step is taken will there be any chance or revitalization.
 

We enjoyed zipping around St. Louis on the Bird electric scooters. It really made the downtown more enjoyable zipping around at 18 mph. A cop told us you are not supposed to be on the sidewalks with the scooters but they don’t enforce it. The sidewalks in St. Louis are big so it is a great way to see the city. It would be harder or impossible to ride the electric scooters on city streets and sidewalks that are more congested. However, it would be a great way to commute if you lived and worked down town. The downtown is pretty clean and not a lot of homeless, graffiti or garbage around. Crime stats tell a different story though. We were everywhere our scooters would take us for an hour or two and saw much of the town. We did not go up on the famous Arch or the Ferris wheel. I took the helicopter ride with my son the last time in town and that was pretty cool. The architecture of St. Louis is anonymous without the Arch. We went to IKEA, not in the hood, which is always fun and a sign there are a bunch of yuppies living somewhere close. We could have seen a Cardinals baseball game or Blues hockey game but opted to hang out around the hotel for a couple days and check out some bars and restaurants. We had Paddy’s BBQ and Pi Pizza. Both over-rated but fairly priced. Unfortunately, St. Louis banked all of its future on the trains and not the waterline. The St. Louis waterline along the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri is a yawn and north of the city. It is more of a geographic fact and than a tourist destination. The river traffic is barges up and down the muddy Mississippi River. On the other side of the river is East St. Louis, Illinois. Another of America’s black ghettos that shares the same name. In short, after three days we saw most everything St. Louis had to offer. However, like the Stones, I probably won’t be coming back. We came, we saw and left while the getting was good. 

I remember a phone call with a prospect years ago in the boiler room days. The guy was an insurance and financial planner from out of state and in need of some help with his marketing. He was a perfect prospect. Therace is only one thing better in sales than making a sale; the next one. The move is simply death by Kool Aid, their own. This guy chugged it by the gallon. It was years ago but the call went something like this.
 

US: “What we do is try and create activity for agent. In short, we goal our reps at two appointments per day on most campaigns. These have to be verified by the supervisor of the team too. It depends on the region and time of day we are calling but that is usually pretty close. If we get two appointments per day we are talking about 10 per week. If you multiply that performance times four weeks you get roughly 40 appointments. If you close about 25% of those can you make $3,000? That is the price of the service?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Are you serious?”
US: “Well, some people do close sales at a higher rate than others.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I close almost half of everyone I sit down with.”
US: “Wow, you must be pretty good.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I am a closer.”
US:“Sounds like it. Can you tell me a little bit about your ideal client?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Yeah, they all have money. They need someone to tell them what to do with it. I have a niche market. They also live close to my office. I like my appointments in my office.”
US: “Sounds like you know exactly what you are doing. Are these businesses you are looking for or are these individuals?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “It doesn’t matter. As long as they have money and are willing to sit down with me.”
US: “Nice. That keeps it pretty simple.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “ People know me. People that are successful like to do business with people that are already successful. It makes them feel confident in their decisions.”
US: “Indeed. You truly need to know that person and look at it from their perspective to get the best results.”
Mr. BIG DEAL:“ I have been doing it for years. I built this entire business on my own. I have been to our company’s President’s Club, The Circle of Excellence and Million Dollar Agent winner so many times I cant even count anymore.”
US: “When you are good, you are good. How many appointments do you need every day?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Wow, you can do it like that? Really? Shit, if that is the case I can use two every day. I mean, add that in with the appointments I have with my other clients and that should keep me pretty busy.”
US:“Do you prefer evening or day appointments?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I prefer them during the day. No evening appointments.”
US:“Are you willing to take a live call if we have someone that has a question about their money?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “A live person on the phone that you just called?”
US: “This would be someone who has a question about their money, usually it is questions about retirement, insurance or inheritance type stuff. Usually, if they have a question like that they just want to know if you can do it and if you can answer something simple.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Hell yeah, I can answer their question. That shit there is gold in this business. The first person to answer their question gets the appointment.”
US: “OK. You might be a good prospect after all. What we do is give you the leads and the telemarketing support for your campaign. We assign a supervisor and team to your campaign. You get a conference call with your team to go over your leads, you scripting and any personal touches you would like on your campaign. If you are doing seminars, workshops or speaking engagements we can also send out the RSVP to prospects who responded positively to the event. Do you prefer to speak to larger audiences or do you do most of your work one on one?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I can do a seminar. We did one last year that was average. It was kind of expensive for what we got.”
US: “Remember the name of the outfit?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “No. Somewhere out of California I think.”
US: “The venue is completely up to you. Wherever you prefer is fine. Are the appointments for you or your team?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Well, there are a couple guys in the office that might also be interested in something like this.”
US: “If there are we do offer discounts on multiple campaigns. There are a lot of campaigns that are either insurance, financial or mortgage running out of the same office but for different guys. We allow you to split the campaigns up. There is also the 3 for 2 pronotion this month regardless of the duration of the camping if you purchase two you will get a third one for free. Obviously, it cost more up front but is less expensive overall with the free campaign.”
Mr. BIG DEAL “If I get someone else in the office to do this with me I can keep the free month for myself, right?”
US: “Of course, sir. The account of record on this end is tagged to you. The campaign would be at your discretion.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “This is interesting. If I close one sale a day that is five a week and twenty a month. That is insane. Do you have any idea how much money I can generate off this?”
US: “We run all kinds fo campaigns in the industry. I know some of those guys make a lot of money. I should have got into your industry instead of this one.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Yeah, success isn’t easy and a lot of people don’t understand that.”
US:“Hey, if money were so simple we would all be rich.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “That is exactly right.”
US: “How many appointments are you needing and when do you need them? Next year, next month, tomorrow?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Wow, you fucking guys roll like that? I have never heard of you guys.”
US: “I am on our website right now. We also do a lot of email and telemarketing advertising like this call actually. Are you near a computer I can walk you through our websites so you can see some of the pricing in formation.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Yeah, let’s get to the cost already. I am on your web page now”
US: “Wonderful. If you click on our pricing page you can see we have the various campaigns; the basic, standard and deluxe. there really is no difference in the campaigns it is more of a duration piece. The basic is one day. The standard is one week and the deluxe is one month. The longer the campaign runs the more leads we are going to need to call. These leads will be yours to keep. You can choose the demographics of the ideal prospects you are looking for in your area and we deliver those to you at no additional charge and they are yours to keep. This is the campaign data we will be using for the outbound portion of your campaign. At the conclusion of the campaign you can do whatever you want with the data or we can call on it again if you so desire.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I want appointments not a bunch of names.”
US: “Correct sir. We have a boxed product format in which you get the leads and the telemarketing support for the customized campaign. Most people just want the appointments but if you want to call them, mail them, or invite them on your own you are more than welcome to do so.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “$3,000 a month? Wow, that is expensive.”
US: “If you just buy the one month that is correct. However, if you got a buddy to buy a month you would get a free one. I know some guys also use it as a quarterly marketing campaign. $6,000 over the course of three months is pretty reasonable. If you are getting two appointments a day that is a lot of potential appointments. Is that for this quarter or next?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I am gonna talk to another guy here in the office. Your timing might be pretty good. We got some new guys that could use some appointments too.”
US: “I can send you over the promo code for the freebie and my contact information. The promotional hours are filled on a first come first serve basis if it something you are interested in. Right now we are running about a week behind on schedule. What we do is send out an invoice with the specifics of your campaign. You have 5 business days to have your funds sent in to reserve the hours that are on the invoice. We do allow you to use our FedEx account to expedite the payment at no charge to to you. Once our billing department receives your funds I will get a notification to assign your campaign to a supervisor and the data team will begin compiling your data. You will have your data even before the campaign begins so you can cull or vet the data for names that may be people you do not want us to contact, current clients, etc..Let your supervisor know what names you would like ommitted and those will be deleted before the data is loaded.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Don’t you guys take a credit card?”
US: “Unfortunately, we do not. All the hours are booked via an invoice. I think some people do have checks that are associated with their credit card they can use if you are trying to build up points or something.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “No, it is the consumer protection aspect. If this is a scam you can get your money back if you use a credit card. If you pay with a check you might as well have paid cash.”
US: “Yeah, I think I used that on a hotel room one time in Vegas with my card.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Are there any guarantees with this? What if get nothing out of this?”
US: “One, there are no guarantees in any marketing. I don’t care what anyone tells you. Not on TV, the internet, the newspaper, billboards or other. However, I always tell people if we call all the people in the area that you personally want contacted with a message that is scripted by you and no one is interested? Time to find a new job. However, if all we are doing is amplifying your already successful message then there should be a steady stream of people coming in the office pretty soon.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I know. I am just saying $6k is a lot of money to spend on telemarketing.”
US: “It is. However, one thing about telemarketing the other forms of marketing do not have is the interactive piece where we can probe our prospects, answer basic questions and most importantly transfer that call live or set that appointment right there and send off the confirmation.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “It is true. You gotta be a freakin’ beast on the phone in this industry or you will get your ass kicked. You know how many fucking guys I have seen come and go in this business already? A shit ton. None of them left because they made too much money either. They all went bust. They didn’t fail because they didn’t try hard. They didn’t fail because they couldn’t pass the freakin’ exams either. They failed because they ran out of fucking people to talk to. All the brains in the world doesn’t mean shit if you are talking to an empty goddamn chair. Some of these fucking guys today?”
US: “You sound like you can swing the bat.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I aim for the goddamn fence.”
US: “That is great. Sir, I am going to send you out the invoice for the deluxe package with the 3 for 2 promotion on it. It will have all your campaign specifics on it and available date for the campaign. If you change your mind and do not want to do it the invoice will expire on its own in five business days. If you decide you do want to do it simply sign the invoice and send in the check. Most people use our FedEx but you do not need to. Once the funds are received someone from our data team will reach out to you on specifics and get that sent over so you may preview it before the conference call with your supervisor and team.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Send it over. We will take it a look at it and your website. Do you have any references of anyone else who has used this service I can maybe call to check you guys out.”
US: “Sure. We understand people want to do their due diligence. We can give you a name it just cant be someone in your state or industry.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Why is that?”
US: “Well, there are some restrictions on marketing in the financial industry. Some people have said you can’t use a service like ours and some people say you can. Some say it needs approval. That is not our call. We also know most just want to at least talk to someone who does use the service and not the Human Resources lady at your home office. Let me see what were got here. They will be someone in your industry but just maybe not exactly what you do. If they don’t answer your call or return it with a day or two call me back and I will try and get you another one to call. You got a pen and paper? Here’s a guy that has been onboard for awhile it looks like, Bernie Schmeckler. I’ll send over his contact info. Ask him whatever you want but we just ask that you are professional and brief as one day someone may call you as a reference for our service as well.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Sure. I understand.”
 

After disconnecting the call with Mr. BIG DEAL Bernie Schmeckler’s Houston phone number behind me rang within one minute. I changed my voice to the southern dipshit agent. The affect is that the other agent will realize if this idiot is using us and finding success with it then it has has to work.
US: “This here is Bernie. How can I help ya.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “Yeah, I am a financial planner out of New York who was given your number as a reference for this marketing service out of Iowa I just talked to.”
US: “Who are you again, partner?”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I am a financial planner out of New York who was given this number by a sales rep that said you use their service. Have you ever heard of these guys out of Iowa?”
US: “Oh, now I follow. I couldn’t hear ya there so well with the accent and all. Heck yeah, we use them boys. I ain’t sure how they do it and I don’t right care. We are making money and that is all that matters.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “So they are getting you appointments?”
US: “Them boys are getting all of our marketing money now. It is just better than all this other stuff we tried that was worthless.”
Mr. BIG DEAL: “I feel ya there. We have been burned so many times. I just don’t want to get screwed again. I just hate calling people on the phone prospecting but it is such an important part of the business.”
US: “You are damn straight there, partner. Someone has to call em’."

Mr. BIG DEAL: “ I ain’t doing it. What kind of appointments do they set for you if you don’t mind me asking?  I have a niche market down here in these parts. I am not sure what your relationship with the Lord is like but I can tell you he has blessed me with a congregation who feels the perpetuation of the word itself is a commitment they need to make. You see, I am a pastor of the Southern Texas Baptist Reformed Reformers as well as a financial professional. I try to find those more affluent members in the community. I have em’ send out an invite to a Christian BBQ or Christian Rodeo. We had a chili cook off last month and got about 9 sales and I did 3 baptisms right there in the water. God Bless. That’s right, brother. Do you have a personal relationship with the lord?” 

US: : "God Bless you for asking. You seem like a man of the word. 

A man, if ya don't mind me sayin', sounds a lot more honest than some of these other I people I talk to here at work. If we can help you out some time you just give us a call up in here in Iowa.You just grab them feet and find us on the internet. Enjoy your day, sir."
 

We hung up the phone and just laughed. Moral of the story? The man with one eye in the valley of the blind is king. A few days later the check showed up. A few weeks after the $6,0000 deposit cleared it was obvious there would be zero appointments for Mr. BIG DEAL. He purchased thin air. Once a week he got a call telling him no one wants to talk to him and no one has ever heard of him. Ouch! He could not be the sole person to tell his team they had nothing for their money. A conference call with him and his team didn’t go so well, for him. It was a bad idea. The weight of the zero crushed his ego. It didn’t matter if we were terrible. What mattered was he paid for it and talked others into it and now had to tell them they had zero appointments. Thus, exposing him as the sucker not smart enough to sniff out a bullshitter….. and now with no refunds. He had to snap on someone. “How could it have worked for that stupid Jesus Hillbilly on the phone and we have nothing?” He was thinking. The other guy in the office who ponied up the other $3,000 was pissed he even got talked into it. The money could have been better spent on anything but this. The reps that Mr. BIG DEAL was responsible for learned a great lesson from that day’s conference call they would take with them for the rest of their lives, however. Whenever Mr. Big Deal spoke up with anger and disappointment that their money was gone and they had nothing to show for it he was slapped down…..with a squawking rubber chicken. What started out in his head was a beatdown over the phone for the Iowa marketing guys that took their cash and left them with nothing more than a list of names that resembled the phonebook. He would show his guys no one can chew ass like Mr. BIG DEAL. Nice try. Nope, not just humiliation for him but a fantastic training lesson for his team. Each time he opened his mouth to complain the rubber chicken would sound off on the conference call. We said nothing and acted like we couldn’t hear it and ignored it. He became furious and then we just throttled the hell out of the chicken. We could hear his guys laughing at him. He hung up. We were in tears laughing. His team was in tears laughing at him. He was in enraged. He had already read the fine print in the contract, road game. No way. All the contract stipulated was that we had to call a list for a period of time. He already had the list. He was left exposed in front of his troops with the expression on his face that said, “There are no guarantees in marketing guys. But a zero on $6k is rough. I told all you guys there was going to be some appointments for you but I got hosed. Fuck, man. I am the one that told everyone to chip in and how good these Iowa guys were.” Now his reputation smelled like a hot fart in the break room. If he could only remember the fucking name of that idiot in Texas who told him these guys were legit? That was the smoothest shit he had ever heard on the phone. Now? the obvious truth was he was stabbed in the mind by the silver tongue and bled from the wallet. It indeed was a Master Bullshit Artist and he got hosed?  
 

In the fine print of the contract it clearly said in the event of any litigation that it would be solved in the local courthouse here in Iowa and not theirs. Even if they had an attorney they would also have to be licensed in Iowa. We did no business in the state of Iowa for this exact reason. Telemarketing is a very tough business. In the professional world it is very important to also know that fine print comes in verbiage too. There is a lot to be said for the touch and feel of business and life. This guy with the check? He was not smart enough to avoid Robin Hood and his Merry Men on the phones. He and his troops learned a very important lesson that day; just like college, you learn nothing without paying first. Mr. BIG DEAL was one of many similar egos that dominate the insurance and financial sales world. For many of these professionals their world is about themselves more than their clients. Their clients are vehicles for their egos. Their clients just want more money than they already have and subsequently trust the rep or agent with their nest egg. Truth is, most people don’t feel comfortable when reading the money section of the newspaper and it is not polite to talk about money in public, for some. Therein lies the shade. Strange how knowledge about investing is so important to financial success in America and it is not taught in school. Tens of thousands of dollars over a lifetime will be paid into various insurance and financial institutions. However, next to nothing is taught at the high school level to students. Half of American students never go to college. Where are they going to learn about this? Why is it like this? What is most profitable for the industry is to feed the population a steady stream of stupid TV mascots in insurance commercials. The financial commercials about investing are always the stupid, smiling couple enjoying anything money can buy as a reward for their relationship with whatever company. Both want you to call so they can teach you about insurance and financial services for the rest of your life on 100% commission.
 

The morals of the story? There are several in this true story. Can you spot them? The business was closed several years ago for a variety of reasons but primarily because we could never get these guys results. It was too good to be true. It just sounded good. The carefully articulated scripting and verbiage amounted to little more than sound in the end. Some people just loved the way it sounded. I spent a lot of money trying to call the campaigns in the beginning. No one wanted to talk to the agents and reps, period. Just like my failure in the industry it was not that I didn’t try hard or couldn’t pass the exams. I ran out of people to talk to and money. I felt taken by an industry that could care less about me. Sure, I was the guy at job fair day after college listening to the recruiter talk about your own office, shirts and ties, making your own schedule, vacations and huge pay checks. I saw myself as the next young Gordon Gecko or Warren Buffet starting out….just like all the other guys that fell for it. In four short years it was bankruptcy. What I had a hunch about, and bet on, was I was not a lone. There were others who would be in the exact same boat as I was. Yes, with their nice suit, office, car and new found wisdom they would share it with anyone who was willing to listen. Eventually, everyone they knew had heard their story. They were starving. The constant demand for new clients and the crushing debt required to initially get into the business smoked most new recruits in the business across America. We just hunted the ones who had enough money and were willing to listen. The insurance and financial services industries’ best kept secret is the terrible attrition rate of starved out agents left in a heap on the financial highway of life. This collapse happens while trying to make a profession of managing others insurance money? Why not put the sales force on salary and not commission? The massive banks and insurance companies like it just the way it is with the money flowing to the top and steady stream coming in. Were these insurance and financial folks prospects? Clients? Customers? Professionals? Scammers? Bullshitters? Victims? Maybe a little bit of each in the end. Live by the sword, die by the sword.
 
 
 

The Cornfed Giants were one of the greatest bands of all time, in my mind. The rock band out of Cedar Rapids was destined for mediocrity but sometimes….ya get lucky. From the time I was a little kid I was convinced my destiny lie as a musician. A singer or guitar player in a world famous band, like Elvis. At five years of age I could sing all the words to Radar Love by Golden Ear Ring my father remembers. In 4th grade was the famous Kiss Show lip sync. My buddies and I dressed up in aluminum foil and make up like Kiss while the teacher played God of Thunder with the lights off. I chewed up these red dye dental tablets the dentist used to give out to show you where you had plaque on your teeth. It was stupid 70’s thing that disappeared because they stained your lips red. I chomped a handful I swiped from the dentists office anyways for our gig and spit them all over a girl’s desk in class. Lights on, “Clean it up, Kurt.” By 8th grade I mixed up the band a bit. It was now a lip sync and air guitar performance to Iron Man by Black Sabbath in front of the student body for a talent show. I added JAmie Downing and BJ Miller to the act. Huge fail. Shortly after I tore my shirt off before the cheering teen crowd freakin’ Kleffman and Rod Leverington pushed an amp and a drum kit on to the gym floor and just rocked for real. Another huge beat down. You can read about all the many other great guitar flops in another story but this one is about the Cornfed Giants.
 

Matt Manuel and I started the Cornfed Giants in the late 90’s. I called him Eggwad. He said it was a childhood name they gave him because he had a big head. I met him through a family friend. He smoked pot and played guitar and we hit it off. He had been in a couple local Cedar Rapids bands and I had some experience. We were about the same level of guitar talent, better than most but not good enough. Our styles were a bit different and it was better to let him focus on playing the lead guitar over tracks I would write. I got a 4 track recorder and some software and next thing you know we were playing behind a beat and added in some bass tracks. To be able to turn some music we just recorded onto a CD and play it in the car was new technology. It helped us immensely because it was just us two and the software. Although shitty sounding, it gave us a track to run on and work with. What we didn’t have was a singer.
 

I had been working with Randy Hudson off and on for a few years. Randy was a strange guy my ex wife went to high school with. He burned down the corn field in Marion in high school she told me. I met him in the Music Loft, a former guitar store in Cedar Rapids owned by the best player in the city, Craig Erickson. Craig was ungodly talented and would never stoop to our level. He was a weird guy for sure but Randy was always in there working too that summer of 1993. We hit it off. He had a great voice and a little musical talent. He had the vision. He just was a lazy deadbeat who could not hold a job, would not cut his hair and had a personality disorder that made him paranoid/self-conscious. I still liked him and we got a long musically quite well. In the end, our band, Randy and The Reamers, sucked too much ass to be a formidable musical enterprise after the humiliating beat down at the Chrome Horse gig in Cedar Rapids. The bass player didn’t show up and neither did the drummer, Russ. It was just me and The Reamer left on stage to play for about 4-5 drunk idiots at an open mic. The Reamer jumped on the skins and we broke into a terrible version Dire Straits Sultans of Swing with me on vocals. It was rough. Not a single clap. I swore I heard this gigantic fart before the people started laughing. I had to move on with a new singer. I needed someone with some fresh ideas and a job to pay for some equipment.
 

It was around this time Eggwad brought in Chuck Smith. Chuck was a wild character Eggwad informed me. He said they were in a band in the 1990’s and were pretty good. He said Chuck was the best by far but was impossible to work with. He said Chuck was a natural talent like his dad. Unfortunately, both were drunks and he confessed he had even witnessed him and his father fist fighting. He also witnessed some black guys driving down the street and Chuck yelled out, “Niggers.” The guys turned around and proceeded to give Chuck the beat down in his own yard. He didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t care about much except his music. Eggwad quit the previous band because on stage with Chuck it was never good enough. Eggwad said he wanted to kick his ass but just told him to fuck off. He said it was years ago but he could still get ahold of him. He was definitely the guy we wanted and maybe we could get him on a few tracks. I was hopeful. I knew Eggwad knew rock music and would not bring in a guy worse than us.
 

When Chuck showed up in my basement I wasn’t sure what to think. He arrived in a beat up, black Ford Falcon with mag wheels. The car was somewhere in the middle of several different restoration projects from the looks. Chuck jumped out of it like it was a Maserati. He reminded me of looking at a 1970’s Bon Scott of AC-DC. He wasn’t a big guy and a little rough around the edges. I doubt Chuck had ever seen a college campus. Both Eggwad and I went to college. He looked over my Gibson Les Paul, Mesa Boogie Mk IV and Gibson SJ-150 with approval. He knew at least the tools were legit. Right away I could tell he was tuned differently than most. It was attitude. Chuck had a chip on his shoulder about something. He wore his ego on his sleeve and didn’t really think twice about what folks thought about him. Chuck was already a star in his mind. It was up to the rest of the world to catch up. I loved it. Eggwad or myself could have beat his ass in a matter of seconds. Chuck saw right through us. If we were that good we would not be calling him.
 

Chuck looked over my lyrics and listened to the tracks Eggwad and I had laid down. He threw us both a look like, “You gotta be kidding me.” He didn’t want to insult us but he made a gesture like, “Sure…whatever. Just roll the tape.” I was excited. I tried to contain myself a bit. If he was good our game was going to the next level. If not? Well, we go from there. We got lucky. Chuck’s first run through gave me goose bumps. I was jealous and stunned at the same time. Not on my best freakin’ day could I ever sound like that. Chuck had this sound I have not heard before or since. It almost sounded as if he were a West Virginia coal miner that smoked a pack a day and a hungry tiger in one tone. He had this natural snarl to his voice and the presence and projection reduced my cock to about the size of my guitar pick. Eggwad and I looked at each other and I raised my eyebrows and smiled. He winked at me. Chuck? Wasn’t good enough. “You wrote this?” Chuck asked.
“Yeah, it is a new one. I got some others.” I nodded confidently.
“Yeah, this one sucks. What else you got?” Chuck dressed me down like a cop frisking a suspect. Hey, no worries. I got it on tape now. I moved on to another rock tune I wrote about the shipwreck Cedarville in Lake Michigan. It was a heavy distortion rock piece in the vein of Guns and Roses sounding but much worse. Chuck started nodding his head and I could tell he liked this one a little better.
“Yeah, this one here I wrote about an old shipwreck.” I said trying to sound cool.
“That’s Ok. The lyrics might suck but we can change em’ .“ Chuck answered. What a slap right in the face. I didn’t care. I knew he was good. I just wanted to get him on tape. “Whatever, man. Are we going to smoke that joint or what?” Chuck asked. Unreal, Eggwad got him over to my place for a joint? Wow, what could we get Chuck to do for $50? We smoked a joint and then got right back to it. The first time we ran through the vocal track it sounded totally different but much better than I had imagined when I wrote it. Chuck heard something I didn’t. He stopped in the middle. “That’s sucked. Let me try it again.” No problem. We cued it up again and he gripped the microphone like a pull up bar and just belted out my tune. My heart soared. After all these years, shit songs and different guys I had finally found a front man. Now all we needed was a bass player.
 

I won a trip to Las Vegas at MCI Worldcom where I worked. We decided we were going to make a video of us with a camcorder like we were talking to a fake agent about our upcoming world tour. It was going to be a spoof like Spinal Tap. It was stupid, low quality and unedited. On top of this bad footage I carried it on in Las Vegas. I was asking if anyone had heard about the Cornfed Giants upcoming World Tour. It was just random people who also said they had no idea who the Cornfed Giants were. I had some good footage. We could have used may be a few sniptes with some other footage we never shot. When I got back to Cedar Rapids Eggwad had designed our logo. It was great. It was a giant cow head smoking a huge joint. I made a bunch of the shirts and gave them out to my friends. I was happy we were making progress.
 

It went downhill from there. Eggwad had a girlfriend at the time, Sarah, I think. She was kind of interested in him sharing more time with him and not over at my place drinking, smoking weed and playing music for hours at a time. Unfortunately, this came right as Black Rose Records out of New Jersey hit us back on one of the fifty demo tapes I had sent out to studios. The letter said they were interested in recording us. It was $1,000 and we got 8 hours in the studio and the master tracks. It was a very nice studio and it was a screaming deal on the price. The problem was everyone else was broke and had zero money. Chuck, Eggwad and myself for flights, meals, a hotel and a rental car for a weekend? Plus, the recording fee was too? It was too much. No one wanted to do it and I was not going to pay for everyone. I knew right there it was doomed. Chuck, Randy and Eggwad were all broke ass Cedar Rapids guys who just didnt have cash. I would have taken Randy out there too if we were going to go knowing he would be broke, but the other guys too? Selling it to my wife at the time would be a tough sell if not impossible. She was not a big fan of the band.
 

Chuck thought differently. I never got him in front of microphone again. He left town for California. He was going to take his shot out there. I saved his phone number and called him one time over the holidays when he was out there just to keep in touch. He said he was recording with a good band out there but he didn’t like the music. He said it was Americana shit like mine and he was trying to find a job. I saw him again a couple years after that. It was at the BBQ fest in downtown Cedar Rapids. I was running the Ashton Danbury boiler room at the time and I was with my trusty assistant Josh Rathje who was also a young guitar player. I winked at Josh and told him Chuck was a true gunslinger. I would try and coax him up to the office and smoke a joint. Chuck remembered me and I asked if he was still playing. Chuck looked at me like I asked him if he had given up on women. I could see the wheels turning in his mind, “Oh yeah, the one college geek that was Egghead’s buddy. Lame guitar player and flat songs.” He just smiled and nodded his head when we sat down. We talked music for a bit and I told him I had some weed and a guitar in the office. He agreed to come up for a few minutes. I winked at Josh.
 

Our office was on the 4th floor of the old Guaranty Bank in Cedar Rapids. Chuck laughed at some of the stuff that was hanging on the walls. He stopped laughing when he saw the amount of money that was written on the dry erase board. This was probably the time we were making the most money. At the very least we could now afford to build a legit band. I asked no questions about why he blew us off or what happened in California. I just handed him a bong and my Gibson. Chuck wasted no time. He exhaled a huge cloud of smoke and then just threw it down. He sounded almost like Chad Kroeger of Nickelback but it was more hillbilly sounding almost. It was harsh but in perfect pitch. He had the whole package too. The fretboard skills were still north of mine that was for sure. Was he missing a freakin’ tooth now? Wow. He sat the guitar down. I asked him if he was interested in doing some more recording and he said to give him a call some time. He took another bong rip and then said he had to go. He was only in the office for maybe 10 minutes. I called him a couple times but he never returned the call.
 

A year or two after that I ran into Eggwad in Cedar Rapids. We went out to lunch at the Mexican place on Center Point Road. He told me he should have told the girldfriend to fuck off but didn’t. She was jealous of our good times. He was still playing guitar but was with another girl. It was too late to get the Cornfed Giants back together. It was great to talk about the old days though. It was the last time I saw him. I got wind Eggwad died last month. He had cancer. I never got to say goodbye. Those were good times, bro. I still got the videos and some of the music. R.I. P. Eggwad.

A long time ago in Desert Storm I used to be a navy diver. Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD). Basically, the bomb squad in the water. I jumped out of helicopters into the ocean to swim out explosives and place them on mines to clear a path for ships, mine counter measures. My buddies and I made it home safely and received awards. This was definitely my greatest accomplishment as far as the government is concerned. The training was difficult and I failed the first time. I had just turned 18 years old and was the youngest, and most immature, guy in my class. However, I was the only guy that got off the bleachers in boot camp to try out for their training. Maybe it is best to start there.

The navy was the last place that would take me by the time I was 17. The home life was a wreck. I dropped out of school. I had experimented with every drug I could get my hands on and worked in a factory after dropping out of high school. My buddy Alec and I were destined to make it in rock and roll. We just had to get out of Iowa. My mom kicked me out after finding some weed. She wanted me to go to rehab or move out. Simple choice there. It was great because Alec and I shared a shitty two bedroom apartment near Drake University in Des Moines our junior year of high school. 

I delivered pizzas and lied about my age to get an entry level job in a Des Moines factory by day. It was boring work and the guys were dumb. I was going to become them I could see. No college, low pay, shit car and a fat girl. I had to get away. The only out I had was the military like my brother when he joined the army.  I ended up in the navy only because the Air Force and Marine Corps both slapped me down. I was all ready to go into the Air Force when the recruiter stopped over to the apartment and smelled weed. He asked and I told him honestly that I had experimented with a variety of drugs. He shit on me right there and left a skid mark in front of my apartment on the way back to his recruiting office. So, I went to the Marine Corps office the next day or shortly there after. The marine guy was a dick and thought I was a burn out.  The army guy looked dumb and the navy recruiter looked gay in his Cracker Jack dress blues. However, his stories of girls in the Philippines sucking your cock in the bar and letting you fuck them for an apple or a bottle of shampoo from the ship was all that was needed for my signature.  The navy recruiter was no rookie. He hid the papers regarding drug usage in the stack of papers my mom also had to sign since I was a minor. He got the paperwork in order and I finished my senior year of high school in about a month at the Des Moines Area Community College. I got an Adult Education Diploma. It was one better than the General Education Diploma (GED) The drop out had actually now graduated before  anyone in my 1987 high school class at West Des Moines Valley.  

I soon found myself in San Diego in boot camp with about 100 guys in my company. The Naval Training Center in San Diego no longer exists but can be seen in parts of the 1986 movie Top Gun with Tom Cruise. It was the first time I had seen so many black guys in my life. Half of the guys in my boot camp company were black and from all over America but mostly the south or big cities. All of the white guys were definitely in the geek squad. Most were either white trash losers or deadbeats. None of them had a personality worth remembering nor athletes. 

Part of boot camp was the swim test. The test was simply to swim to the other end of the pool any way you can. It was no problem for me as I grew up spending my early years at Holiday Pool in West Des Moines. I was a good swimmer as a kid. My mom did send us to swimming lessons and that paid huge dividends later down the road. I passed the test easily and sat back on the bleachers with the other guys. Half of the black guys would not even get off the bleachers to get in the water and try. The black guys in the water? Comedy. It was unreal. I never knew black guys couldn’t swim. This short and burly white guy was pulling a fat black kid out of the water with his long aluminum pole when the weight of the kid bent his pole and he got pissed. It was that act there that spawned the idea of my future; the navy life guard. The guys on the TV show Baywatch were gay but they got a lot of ladies. I never knew the navy had life guards. Pulling black guys out of the water or swimming lessons in San Diego? This what I wanted to do. I got off the bench and approached the life guard guy in the blue and gold shirt and khaki shorts that were way too small.  “Excuse me, sir. How do I become a navy lifeguard?” I asked.
“Shitbag, get in the freakin’ locker room shower stall and start doing some push ups.” The dude looked at me like I was loser. was pissed and followed me into the showers. I started doing some push ups and the guy turned on the cold water in the shower. Then it was a personal beat down of a few other calisthenics in the shower by myself. I wasn’t sure what I said that was wrong but the dude was pissed. “Yo, Ricky.” This is an insult to recruits to remind them they have so little time in the navy they are called Ricky Recruit. “There is no goddamn life guard in the navy. I am a navy SEAL, genius. Shut the water off on go back and sit in the bleachers.” He ordered me to leave. I was thankful that guy didn’t kick my ass because that damn dude was hard.

I sat on the bleachers for a while watching the black guys fail the swim test one by one for quite a while it seemed. It was baffling. I noted to myself if I ever got in a fight with a black guy to jump in the water. Our boot camp instructor asked everyone in our company, “Who wants to be a navy diver, SEAL or EOD?” I looked over either shoulder and not a single hand went up. I looked over at the dude in the blue and gold shirt who just dropped me for the push ups in the shower. What in the hell did SEALs do? I had no idea what EOD was. A navy diver with tanks, a mask and fins? Hell yeah. I raised my hand. The company commander told me to go talk to the SEAL who just dropped me in the shower. Oh,man. He made me do the entrance test on the spot right there for the swim test, push ups, pull ups and 1.5 mile run. I barely made it. I never practiced the side stroke but knew how to do it in efficiently at the time. I was exhausted. Whatever, I passed the physical fitness portion and the SEAL guy was happy for me.

A couple months later I found myself across the bay in 2nd Class Navy Dive School on the Naval Amphibious Base in Coronado, California. The guys were all good athletes and much cooler guys. My class had maybe 20 guys in it. I was the youngest I remember. I lasted about a month. It was not the physical fitness part of that got me. I could keep pace and take the physical punishment. It was just my attitude that was terrible. I didn’t care for the macho military shit up in my face. These guys were telling me in so many words I was not as cool as I thought I was. Instructors felt I needed an extra beat down to help motivate me. I remember doing 8 count body builders one night outside the instructors’ dive locker forever while this huge ass marine instructor, Staff Sergeant Macavoy. Sat on the couch and watched Monday Night Football. There was a huge barracuda head in formaldehyde on a table I could see from the little sand pit while I was counting out my calisthenics. Rumor was he killed it with a spear gun and cut the head off. Cool fish but what an asshole to leave me out front doing 8 counts until I dropped I thought to myself. After I was completely exhausted he cut me loose. He was not even the instructor for my class just a huge ass marine that was an asshole just like the dick in the recruiter’s office in Des Moines. A few days later I was standing in front of a board of senior divers and staff who asked me why I wanted to be a navy diver. I am not even sure what my answer was but their decision was immediate. “Nope, sorry, Bozo. You are going to the fleet. Attitude sucks and  too immature.”

The next couple weeks I spent in open bay barracks with all the other transient guys. It was no longer navy divers it was various marines and navy guys waiting on orders to go somewhere with all of their stuff in a sea bag in a locker and a bunk in the barracks. It felt like the navy gave up on me and could care less what I did. The school had me showing up to morning muster and then didn’t care what I did as long as I cleaned the locker room, scrubbed the shitters and stood the midnight to 4am quarter deck watch every night until I left. There was literally no one in the dive locker, instructors’ locker or the school itself in the middle of the night. Plus, we were on a navy base. No one was going to get in to the school and it was ungodly boring standing a fire watch by myself. It felt like punishment. I took it out on Macavoy’s instructor picture on the quarter deck. I drew a huge mustache on his picture so he looked stupid. It was hilarious. They would never know who did it until the watch had changed a few times… I thought. When I came back to the school later that morning Macavoy had his entire class down in the surf getting beat down doing calisthenics.  I could tell he wanted to know who drew on his picture. He was going to mash it out of them. I laughed. A little gift for his class I thought.

A day or two later I stopped by the galley before I started the mid night watch to get something to eat first. Right after I walked in a BUDS class of SEAL candidates came into the galley. These guys were in rough shape. They were all wet, covered in sand and shivering cold. They were moving slow as most of their knees didn’t bend much. It was more of a shuffle almost to the food trays. One guy fell over and hit the deck after he grabbed his food tray. The instructors were right on top of him. I am not sure what was said but that freakin’ guy got back up. I saw his face. He was struggling hard just to stay awake and keep walking. There was not a word said by any of them and no smiles on any faces. These guys were in hell week. No sleep for 5 days and constantly wet, sandy and getting beat down with a rubber boat in cold water. This was obviously much more physically demanding than dive school was. It was the most difficult military training course in the world. I felt bad. These guys were struggling just to keep moving to get their next meal. Me? I was drawing mustaches on instructor photos when no one was looking for a laugh. Macavoy was there specifically to weed out geeks like me and seeing the BUDS candidates made me feel shame. 

I walked out of the galley headed towards the dive locker and school but I exited right into a SEAL instructor with a bullhorn yelling at some guys holding up a zodiac rubber boat. One of the guys quit right as I was standing there and the other guys went to set the boat down. The instructor was blowing up the remaining guys with the bullhorn and teasing them to keep the boat up by themselves. It was almost as if he wanted them all to quit and move on with the next phase of their lives because they were not good enough and the guys dying underneath the rubber boat refused to quit no matter how bad the pain, no matter how little sleep, no matter how cold the dark sea water was, no matter how annoying the grinding sand was in every crack of their flesh.  

Me? I didn’t matter. I wasn’t good enough. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. I was immensely ashamed of myself. All I could think of was the dumb ass just a few weeks ago running his mouth to friends and family about becoming a navy diver before spending a single day classed up. Could I now scrape together what was left of my ego to tell everyone why I failed? Simple task. “Yeah, those guys are definitely cool. Basically, they dropped me because I was a fucking loser. They were right. I am barely smart enough to dress myself, keep my hair cut and scrub shitters. No, it is the navy, not the army. Really? You? Oh, going to college now. Nice. You fucked Jenny and Mindy. Wow. Going to get drunk at the football tailgate with the college girls tonight? Sounds good. Tell them I said Hi. Yeah, me. Remember Jasa? Navy shitter scrubber….Hello? Hello? ” Of course, it could not end here.

The guys in Macavoy’s class found out I drew the mustache. I was stupid enough to tell a guy I liked in my previous class, John Hedge, what I had done. Hedge told someone in that class. There was a weekend party somewhere on the Amphib Base. This was back in the 80’s when Gator Gardens was a very busy enlisted club with females from the local area being checked on base as guests somehow. They were beautiful. They were the first California girls I had seen in the bars. There were live acts in Gator Gardens and the bands were much better than Alec and I ever were. These were the first live acts I sw outside of Iowa and if I felt like a loser before for getting kicked out of dive school listening to a band that was far north of my talent level playing to a large crowd of cool guys and good looking ladies was a sucker punch. I had a shit guitar and it was in Iowa. It had been weeks since I played in pawn store in San Diego. Why was I was so far behind? My effort was flat? My natural talent worse? My songs were shit? All the above? I had to get out of there.

I was walking out of there when I ran into a guy that was in my former class. He said he felt bad I got dropped and said I was a cool guy. He said they had a bunch of beers in their room. I was already on my way out. We walked a little ways and I got jumped by a bunch of guys from Macavoys class. I was duped. They tied me up and hung me upside down from a swing set and poured beer on me. Some guys from my former class were there watching and laughing. They got me back. I laughed with them when they let me down. I still felt like a loser because I was. It was my last memory of my first attempt at navy dive school.

That failure in 1987 actually is on my DD214 as a successfully completed course of training. Crazy but true. It was an administrative mistake made years ago that is actually a pretty good reference that I did pass if I were a liar. If I were calling someone out about their status, and this was presented to me as proof? 99% chance it is accurate. It is not. I failed. I wonder what Macavoy and his class would think if they knew my DD214 says I passed?   

Many, many years ago before the modern US Navy’s protocols and culture was a life at sea that was much more politically incorrect. Today’s modern navy and culture? After 20 years of the War on Terror I can’t really say they are any better. We won the war I was in to start with. The War on Terror? Think back to the last of the good ol’ days in the navy, the 1980’s. Yes, this was in the days when there was a 3 Strikes and You’re Out with the drug policy. Drunk driving in the civilian world had almost no effect on your military career. It was “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” for the official policy for gays in the military. To say there were some colorful characters in the navy at this time was an understatement. It was before the 1991 Tail Hook scandal too in Las Vegas which changed much of the sexual harassment women were exposed to, in theory anyways.
 

The military is dominated by men. About 85% of our military are men and this has been pretty steady across the recent decades. The average age of our troops is about 19-20 years of age. This always seems to be lost in the narrative about our troops. Regardless of what their rank, security clearance or job they are still subject to the forces of hormones. Given the appropriate venue, and a few beers, young men of this age will say and do anything in competition with their shipmates to attract the attention of the ladies anywhere on the planet. Take them out to sea for a few weeks with no alcohol or women and then turn them loose in places like Thailand, the Philippines and Tijuana and you will see America’s finest behaving at the worst on a daily basis. Constantly drunk, sex with bar girls, fights with other sailors and living sea stories that seemed once impossible to fathom whenn first heard. These are facts about sailors that have been proven over the centuries.
 

However, as one legend goes, a long, long time ago in a port far, far away from home inside a pub on the pier there were some sailors with their eyes on the prize, the local women in the pub. The young sailors would compete trying to convince the local ladies they were the better choice because they were a proven sailor with a steady paycheck. The older sailors looked upon the greenhorns with disdain. Just because they were on the ship meant only that. They were the lowest rank and made the least money. This had to be stated clearly to the women. To waste their honor on a shipwreck would be a travesty. There needed to be a way to determine who really was a sailor and who was little more than a conscript or passenger. Enter the definitions of Pollywog and Trusty Shellback.
 

To determine who was a salty sailor and who was a greenhorn the equator became the line of verification. Those who had crossed the equator on a ship were determined to be a Shellback and those who had not were deemed worthless and slimy Wogs. The Shellback designation was noted in the sailor’s service record and a certificate of accomplishment was issued to the crew member, if they completed the ceremony. The ceremony was a disgusting beatdown administered by the Shellbacks, those who had already gone through the ceremony. The Wogs were those who had not. This R rated behavior I guarantee is nowhere to be seen in today’s US Navy Wog Day ceremony. However, in fact, my testimonial, supported by photo evidence, should bring a smile to your face. I went over the equator a couple times in the US Navy, once as a Wog and once as a Shellback. The depths of my mind was plumbed to create an interesting and unforgettable experience for the Wogs under my supervision for the day. After the humiliation I went through to earn my Shellback certificate?  
 

My first trip across the equator came in 1988 on a Western Pacific tour onboard the USS New Orleans (LPH-11). The day began in the evening with the Wog Queen contest. This tradition allows the guy that looks like the hottest woman to be deemed the Wog Queen and exempted from the event. We had a few guys made up as women parade around in their dungarees with socks in their T shirts in front of 1500 guys cat calling and insulting them. However, when Tad McCalmont from the our division on the flight deck walked out there was a roar that could be heard for miles across the waves. That freakin’ guy looked like a cute woman. It was crazy and the boys erupted with their vote. Then it was taps and lights out. No one went to bed. All the shellbacks hid in some part of the ship. The hangar deck and flight deck were secured with a watch posted so you could not access the decks while the ceremony was being set up. We , hundreds of guys, anxiously hung out in the berthings, the galley and below decks until sunrise.
 
 Captain J. J. Zerr’s voice came over the ship’s 1MC overhead speaker system and he told all the Wogs to report to their divisions. By reporting to my division on the flight deck wearing my dungarees turned inside out and the underwear over top of the pants. There were about 1500 sailors and Marines on the ship and 1200 were probably Wogs. Didn’t matter. All Wogs were required to crawl around the ship on their hands and knees. This meant nose to asshole of the Wog in front of you in line. Then sprayed down with a 4” firehose on the deck until well beyond soaking wet. The entire time required to keep my nose on the cotton of the underwear of the Wog in front of me. Any infraction of these rules was met with a slap from a Shellback holding a lengthy piece of firehose dangling from their wrists. These were usually always friendly little slaps and the laughter from the humiliation was all day long. A group of us Wogs were then led to the aircraft elevator and taken down to the hanger bay and back aft. One by one we were planked out on a spinning capstan with another Wog either on top of you or underneath. The capstan then began spinning while we were hosed down. “Start acting like you are fucking each other or you will be spinning all goddamn day you slimy Wogs!” A Shellback yelled out and sure as shit the guy on top of me starts grinding me in to the guy beneath me for a few spins then then we were pushed off and the next few got the treatment. Then it was time for snacks.
 

Our ship’s pharmacist was named Mohamed. He was a Shellback. He had set up his own “Medical” station. This is the picture above. This was my turn at his station. What a twisted fucker. He made a fake cock out of a giant syringe and steel sponge for pubic hair. You can see the plastic tube hooked up to his syringe that was connected to a bag what tasted like vomit and Tabasco sauce. You had to open up your mouth while he ejaculated some Shellback sperm in your mouth or you got the beat down with the fire hose and got to begin again. It was nasty tasting and I spit it out immediately. I had to wait until the shipmate behind me had his nose properly secured to the cotton of my underwear between my wet ass cheeks and mine to the Wog’s in front of me before we crawled to the next station set up. I am not sure if this contraption had an official name but the Shellback running the station called it “Welcome to Suck My Cock, Wogs.” It looked like a short pull up bar about 3 feet off the deck. Tied to it were condoms filled with raw eggs hanging from strings. “You fuckin’, shitbag Wogs are going to nibble on these rubbers until you get all the cum out of them. You better fuckin’ swallow too, shitbags, or you get another.” It was humiliating and hilarious at the same time. I ended up nibbling enough to get some on my face which passed inspection. The entire deck was soaked with water and eggs so the judge had to take my word for it. I got away with one. Then we were lined up again to crawl over to the toilet that had been brought up to the flight deck and filled with wet garbage. The shellback with a long fire hose in his hand stood right beside the toilet with another guy. “Crawl right up you slimly Wogs and blow some bubbles in my shitter. “ He cackled out loud. You literally had to stick your head in the toilet that was just ungodly gross with wet garbage and vomit in there from other guys who couldn’t take it and just puked in there. There was nothing to wipe your face off with except your soaking wet and torn up dungarees while still on your hands and knees.  
 

Myself, and a lot of other wogs were starting to get pissed because it was so freakin’ nasty. However, anytime someone would stand up a couple shellbacks would descend upon them hitting them with firehoses. They were not hitting them real hard but hard enough to be annoying. It was hilarious to see another Wog literally get beat into submission back with the nose into the ass cheeks of another humiliated idiot on his hands and knees crawling around. The end was near but this meant clearing the gauntlet of Shellbacks all holding their fire hoses and slapping the procession of Wogs crawling through the forty-man spanking machine. Most of the whacks were pretty soft but, of course, there were the occasional idiots you knew who would just smoke ya across the ass cheeks with their fire hose. At the end of the gauntlet was the fattest guy on the ship. His name was King Neptune. He had a bunch grease and oil all over his stomach and a cherry in his belly button. You had to suck it out of his belly button on your hands and knees. The second you got close enough he cuffed you behind the head and just rubbed your face into his fat gut. “You better use your tongue to get it you filthy Wog!” He yelled out and laughed. Oh, man. The guy just stunk so bad I remember. His gut was covered in spit, snot, and slime. Between each Wog he would refresh the cherry and put a little extra oil and slime on the gut so each guy got the full effect. The final step was simply to kiss the bare foot of the Wog Queen, McCalmont. Everyone finished it and then all of the costumes and Shellback stations went over the side and we sprayed down the decks. The entire crew were now Shellbacks. It was great! That was 1988.
 

In 1991 Desert Storm found me on the USS Mt. Hood (AE-29) attached to Explosive Ordnance Disposal Mobile Unit 9 Detachment 23 out of Mare Island in Vallejo, California. We were a four man navy diving bomb squad team. We did mine countermeasures. In short, if anything was reported floating in the water we would jump out of the helicopter and put some plastic explosives on it and blow it up. We never saw a mine and it was a short war. However, we did cross the equator during the journey and we did undertake another Wog Day. This time I was the only Shellback and the lowest ranking guy on our four man team. None of us got along very well except for Powers and I. The personalities all clashed and we just did not want to be around each other. In no port during the entire cruise did any of us hang out with one of the other guys on the team. Lt. Jones was a flight school drop out. He was an asshole and he knew I thought so. Lumpy? He lied and said he had but was just not going to partake. I called him out and said I thought he was full of shit and just scared of the beat down the other two geeks knew was coming. I could not admit I looked in his service record, but I did. He was a liar. I just demanded he show us proof. If Lumpy did’t want to do it he had the right to remain a Wog. A shitbag or a woman. Yet some women did go through it. He knew I looked in his record too and caught him lying but he couldn’t prove it. He was lucky. Jones and Powers? Not so much.
 

Once the ceremony began I immediately isolated Jones and Powers for some personal fun and games courtesy of yours truly. First up, navy diving lessons for the rest of the crew. In a puddle of water on the deck I had them practicing their swim strokes with their masks and snorkels on while spraying them with a hose. It was funny watching the crew laugh at them as no one else was required to do it. After they were soaking wet and past the first part of the humiliation we began to do the exercises. They took turns changing postions. Position one was called the Dead Cockroach with both hands and feet in the air on your back. Position two was the push up position directly over top of the Dead Cockroach. I would count out the push ups. Each time the guy on top touched noses with the guy underneath they had to yell out, “Hit her in the shitter and ya never forget her!” The captain and some officers were in earshot and standing with a female firend of mine that was a pilot who opted not to go through the routine. She told me the captain said I was hilarious but I being a bit harsh. However, since I was only picking on the other two EOD guys it was OK. I found this out the following day. Whatever, this day was not done. I had my own special concoction of wet garbage I made of disgusting stuff out of the galley and scullery. I poured it into a padeye on the deck. The concept was to suck the nasty shit out of the padeye with your straw, hol it in your mouth and then spit it and fill up another padeye. The next guy would suck that up with his straw and put it back in the original padeye. Powers puked in the padeye and he was done. They rejoined the other wogs and finished. They too are now Shellbacks. I am sure it is different now but that is how it went down thirty years ago.
 

Spring Break 2022. What to do? Escape to a Caribbean island sounded good. My lovely girlfriend and I opted to use a lingering credit from a COVID canceled flight on an Air BNB rental in Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic for $125 a night. The Dominican has one of the best economies in the the Caribbean. Hey, Christopher Columbus landed here and discovered the New World in 1492 too. There might be some interesting history and culture parts to the adventure beyond just fun in the sun time. It had been a while since I had been in the Caribbean.The last time was the Bahamas in the 1990’s. However, like the Bahamas, after a few days in Dominican Republic I suspect I won’t be going back there anytime soon either. The more things change the more they stay the same would be the conclusion.
 

We flew American Airlines and in the airport I also saw JetBlue and Southwest planes also at gates. It makes you feel a little more confident in your purchase when you see hundreds of other people have made the same selection. We stayed in a nice condo right on the beach in Cap Cana, “the nicest part of the area”, the cab driver told us on the ride from the airport. I asked the driver if he had ever been to America and he said no. “It is hard to get a travel visa as a Dominican.” He replied in semi decent English. “The island is like a prison for Dominicans.” The place we stayed was called Soto Grande. It was a beautiful, clean and modern development made of approximately 100 condos on a sprawling 3 story layout right on the ocean. It was impressive. It was not Las Vegas standards but quality and well maintained. The entire complex was sparsely populated with guests or employees. It seemed strange since it was spring break and the airport was busy. Many times we had the entire beach and pool to ourselves which was fantastic. The center piece of the complex was a massive Olympic size pool to swim in beside the beach and right below the patio on our condo overlooking the ocean. The waves crashing and the non stop wind provided nature’s house music the entire time. All the college kids were 15 minutes away from us in Punta Cana. These condos were for sale online for $300,000 to $500,000 each. Cap Cana was where you went to get away, not party with the all you can eat food and beverage crowd. Cash game only for real estate as no US bank would finance a property in the Dominican and who is using a Dominican bank to do their mortgage? No one in my pay grade. Had we never left the area it would have been wonderful. I never do the group trips on anything if I can avoid them. We stepped out away from the tourists to get a better flavor. 

After a few days? In general, it reminded me of the other 2nd world countries I have been in; the Philippines, Guatemala and Mexico. I think most, not all, of the Dominicans I met were rather dumb, ignorant, and/or had settled into being lazy and/or corrupt as their lot. I don’t see any ambition past a petty hustle for half the entire population of locals. But the extreme poverty really tips the scales to the shit hole country level. Examples? Sure.
 

1. There was one grocery store that had prices on items. The rest of the entire country you have to ask how much items cost? Strike one. This is so they can screw the tourists on prices….and they do. I don’t require the rock bottom prices in 2nd and 3rd world countries but you screw me once and we are done. 
2. Every cab we got in had no meter and no change. None of them on the street would take a credit card but all knew where the ATM machines were. Half of those did not work for my girlfriend’s debit card and one of mine at a bank for whatever reason. We paid $30 for a half hour ride and $30 for a 3 minute ride. 
3. The casino in The Hard Rock Cafe refused to allow us to gamble with Dominican Pesos. You have a casino that won’t allow you to use the currency of the country you are in? Wrong. The casino had more employees in it than gamblers which I counted about three other people in the place. It was empty for a reason; no one wins. It was also spring break and the college crowd are there for unlimited booze and food all inclusive deals. They want to get drunk and try and get laid by another college kid on spring break, not gamble.
4. The garbage and litter. Dominican Republic is the filthiest country I have ever been in and Santo Domingo is a shit hole.. Everywhere you look outside of the private resorts is trash. In the water, on the beaches, in the streets, it is everywhere. It does not require a lot of money to pick up trash. It requires the community will power to do so and enforce a strategy to keep the town clean. The garbage and litter personify the culture. 
5. The poverty. There may be some wealthy Spanish who own the big hotels and resorts, however, the vast majority of natives are living check to check at retail an d service jobs and the rest are either homeless beggars or deadbeats that sit around all day in the shade and do nothing. Unemployment has to be 35-50%.  
6. There is no national health care, social security, pensions or scholarships for the average Dominican. The public education is free but the standards are low and the drop out rate is high. 80% of those that enroll in college drop out according to a 2014 World Education and News Review report. I saw no churches colleges or or school campuses during four hour stay or from the bus tour, but there obviously are some in the country. The wealthy cherry pick the quality education opportunities and the rest eventually drop out. Very few police could be seen and the ones witnessed were not up to 1st world country standards in either police or military. Corruption I suspect is prevalent. 
7. The infrastructure is chaos. The electricity is pushed across the country on tangled wires that are so far out of code it is amazing they do not start on fire let a lone work. The busted up sidewalks, abandoned cinder block homes and businesses are every where. The abandoned and defunct properties in various stages of completion or collapse are everywhere. 
8. The weed still sucks. One would think with all the high quality marijuana floating around America someone would have imported some seeds and started going high quality pot down in Dominican Republic. Nope. The cab drivers can find you some weed but the stuff we find was very low THC brown weed. One was a little better than the other but garbage by modern American standards. Are the Dominicans so dumb and lazy they can’t even run a legitimate grow operation and sell weed to the tourists?  

The final straw was the “quad” rental. Simple 4x4 buggy going through the tour. Nope. The place where you buy the tickets has no one there that is a rep of the establishment. A seedy guy who took $150 off me for the trip and handed me a receipt that had nothing on it disappeared. He pointed to some pics of nice Polaris Razors in his 3 ring binder on the counter of the bodega to make the sale. 4 hours later and 3 shuttle transfers we end up with half a dozen other Americans in the middle of nowhere. The buggies? What a scam. They were hand welded frames with lawn mower engines. In the first one minute of our ride I notice the accelerator stuck. In 10 seconds the quad went full blast into the ditch and crashed. My girlfriend cut her head and was bleeding. I was pissed. Lots of drama for a minute or two but it was my fault for getting into an unsafe vehicle in the first place. No refunds. 

Surely, they had no idea who sold us the package nor the cost. They knew I was pissed and had someone take us to the closed hospital. Then back to their camp to have some woman wipe the blood off my girlfriend. We got a ride back to the hotel frustrated and injured. She is fine now but it truly could have been much worse.

So how did the Dominican turn into such a shit hole? Simple, the people. They are all descendants of slavery and the Spanish. As the Spanish captured or killed off the natives that were on the island slaves were imported. As Columbus and the Spanish kept exploring they moved west on the island in search of treasure. Over time the population became all slaves. When they ended up on the west side of the island and resources were tapped they left the slaves and kept sailing on. The Spanish influence is more prevalent in the Dominican and the African influence is in Haiti. Haiti is the biggest shit hole in the northern hemisphere. It is so bad the Dominican Republic is building their own border wall that will seal off the black blood from the Spanish blood. No one I talked to had anything positive to say about the Haitians either.

So, trying to be positive, how did it get so shitty and how would you fix it? Sure.

1. Clean the goddamn island! $2 for every filled trash bag delivered to the dump site. Have local collection sites and then a landfill/recycling center. Doesn’t require a massive amount of money for this campaign.
2. Massive birth control campaign. The reason everyone on the island appears to be under 50 is their life span is miserable. No need to bring children into abject poverty. 
3. Education. Illiteracy I suspect is high and scholastic achievement is low. Without the ability to think beyond survival mode means your lot is doomed to fail. Cuba is poor country that has excellent education and health care just an island away. 
4. Income inequality. There are some wealthy people that own and visit the resorts. There are several wonderful golf courses and resorts to chose from. Outside of that? There were thousands of cinder block shacks with tin roofs in various degrees of disrepair all over the country. These have no running water or electricity. I am not sure if they own them, pay rent or how it works but it was the poorest people I have seen in a long, long time. It reminded me of Caribbean version of the Philippines to be honest. 
5. Corruption needs stamped out. There is no culture of religion, family values, higher education or anything I could identify in the people. This leads to few thoughts outside of immediate survival. This creates the high crime and murder rate outside the gated communities . You either have money and get your way or you have zero and are left for dead or to fend for yourself until you die or escape the island.
6. The traffic is a shit show. Although the roads are in good condition there are 100cc motorcycles buzzing everywhere with two and three riders on them. No hand signals, helmets or turning lights. Small trucks carrying groups of Haitian workers piled into the back was a common site. There are no insurance claims or lawyers down here for any gringo accidents. Are you going to call the cops being the white person in the Dominican? Good luck. There needs to be a substantial investment the police, military and first responders. The roads and hotels are proof it can be done, it just needs to be expanded at a national level.
    

The two bright spots were a fabulous dinner at the Sanctuary on Cap Cana. $160 for a tomahawk and bottle of wine. Nice place too. The waiter popped the wine and wanted me to sniff the cork? I told him you never do this and a sign you have no idea what you are doing. The manager came over and was very polite. I suspect they looked it up on their phones and realized the gringo was correct. Hey, I helped a bit!

The best adventure was a scuba dive through SeaPro Divers of Punta Cana. Excellent dive in coral reefs. Great fish sights and saw a huge barracuda about 10 feet from us. Juan Carlo was the dive charter guy and competent on the boat and in the water. Water was 82 degrees and warm. We did a couple dives in a couple hours. All the gear was maintained correctly and the boat was in good working order. It was fun to be out on the high seas and below the waves again. Diving and swimming in the ocean cleans my soul.

But what happened to Columbus? He thought he landed in India in 1492. He went back a few times and then died. The bones were moved around a bit and Spain says the bones they have in their possession have undergone DNA testing and match others in the Columbus lineage. The officials in Dominican Republic refuse to believe this, accept the results or willing to do their own DNA testing. We would have liked to see the resting place of the man who discovered the new world even if it was not his final destination. Nope, we ran out of time and had seen enough. Unfortunately, Santo Domingo is a gigantic shit hole city that needs a massive hurricane to clean the island and push most of the civilization into the sea and try again. Sounds cruel, but these folks are fucked. They are either too dumb, too lazy or too corrupt to see many return tourists or attract substantial foreign investment beyond the resorts.

 I remember the 2008 recession in America as if it were yesterday. We had built Ashton Danbury up to a telemarketing business making no less than $20,000 a month for the last half of 2006 going in to 2007. I had leased two more offices on the same floor of Guaranty Bank in downtown Cedar Rapids to expand our operation. I was up to 7-8 guys on the phones and was confident my million dollars was just around the corner. I had finally made it. Sure, the boiler room was always in chaos and the clients were never happy getting screwed by us but money tends to give people a little too much confidence and artificial sense of importance. This often leads to complacency. I was not immune to this. However, to say there were not warnings signs trouble was just around the corner would be inaccurate. It is much easier to say this in retrospect.
 

The first warning sign things were in trouble was when Sanchez came in the office and told me Concord Mortgage was no longer in business. It was not a just a few days previously I had run into an old rep from the MCI/Worldcom days telling me about how he was making a bunch of money as a mortgage broker at Concord Mortgage literally across the street. He bought an old Jaguar and was trying to make his game sound fresh. The thing that struck me about the conversation is he easily could have been one of my guys. I would have picked him up for our crew but he was intent on impressing me with his spiel. He reminded me of all the guys we talked to on the phone that were in the mortgage racket. They sounded almost exactly like our guys but were dealing with a lot larger sums of money on the home loans in some of the zip codes we were hunting. The entire game was finding people to refinance their mortgage to a lower interest rate. It seemed every bank commercial on television from Country Wide on down was talking about refinancing. We moved in on this industry for prospecting and it was hot. Checks were coming in. Concord Mortgage, however, to us, were telemarketers on the 4th floor across 3rd Ave from us. We would try and get their attention if we saw them in the window and then moon them. There were no screens on the windows in the old bank. There was no central air either so we opened the windows all the time in the summer when we would be baking in the boiler room. I remember looking out my office window across the street and sure enough their shades were pulled. This was the fall of 2007. Hearing they were done all of sudden was the moment Ashton Danbury hit the proverbial ice berg at full speed.
 

Slowly but surely as we moved through 2007 the sales became harder and less checks were coming in. We were making thousands of calls a month and had been for a couple years. No one we were talking to was saying the mortgage industry was going to collapse and America was headed into a substantial financial recession. Guys were quitting because they could not make sales and the guys that stayed with me were borrowing money all the time and living like broke 20 somethings; getting drunk, stoned and laid as often as possible while ignoring the opportunity costs of doing something else. All of us were hoping the big cash would come back around again. It did not. It was a slow constriction but one by one the players were falling off the books and the cash flow was getting smaller. I was loaning out money to guys just to keep them showing up to work by the time 2008 got underway.
 

The Gorzyca call I will not forget. It was a guy Sanchez found out of New Jersey. We would joke about all these insurance, financial and mortgage “professionals” and their gay pitches. “I have a niche market” or “I close half of everyone I sit down with” and “You guys do me a solid and you just found the best customer you ever had.” All of them were guys just too lazy to pick up the phone and do the heavy lifting of taking the no’s fifty times a day to get to possibly one or two who will let you keep talking. That means about 1000 calls a month looking for about a dozen people to sit down to talk to about their money, insurance or mortgage. All of them we spoke with had more money than brains. It is exactly why they were targeted. Gorzyca was a special case. The only reason I remember it so well is because Sanchez had me jump on the phone to feel the guy out to make sure it wasn’t a waste of time. The guy was probably late 30’s or early 40’s and sounded like a nut. We dealt with all kinds of egos but this guy sounded completely misguided. He told me his company name or philosophy was something like Financial Dream Images. It was just stupid but I went along with it. He basically was doing the same thing everyone else was; looking for people with money that needed his wisdom to get to that next level of whatever. He was an idiot but no different than many of the rest of the geeks we spoke to on the phones I thought. I gave the headset back to Sanchez and Gorzyca’s check verified within a week.
 

Gorzyca’s campaign ran like the rest of them, flat. I doubt Sanchez even called his campaign but I did make the guys call them every Friday to update them on their campaigns. It was a simple part of the shade. No calls were made or very little effort was made on their campaign. We would call on Friday with an update that said we got a fat zero every week until they eventually gave up and moved on. Some would kick and scream all the way down the toilet. But all were left wondering if we were just terrible or we hustled them. That shit sounded like butter on the phone before you got my check and now all I get is thin air or wood? If you were going to steal my money why not just run down the street with the check? This was the grip, to let them feel as if we were trying when no effort was being put it into their campaign or very little. There were some that actually sent us money, got absolutely zero and never even called back to complain. They just kept flying.
 

One Friday Sanchez called Gorzyca to tell him he got another fat zero for the week and his secretary said he died. We looked it up on the internet and sure enough the dude was dead. From the article in the paper he apparently took the family out for a nice weekend somewhere and then parked the car along side the freeway and walked in front of a dump truck committing suicide. We were stunned. “You stole his last money and the fucker went nuts and killed himself.” I said to Sanchez. His face went white. I laughed. “Sanchez, you did not kill that fucker. That guy was a goddamn lunatic. I talked to him on the phone. I find it hard to believe that crazy bastard killed himself because you rammed him on $3,000. Chances are pretty good there was a lot more at play than his campaign results.” That part was true.
 

What was interesting is Gorzyca personified the entire mortgage, financial and insurance industry. Here was a guy working on 100% commission that knew little about the impending future and was sharing his wisdom with anyone that was dumber than he was. The entire insurance, mortgage and financial industry is exactly that, a hustle, but buried in a blur of fine print and sold to you by a guy in a shirt and tie. If he really was a good financial planner he would have told his clients to move their money to cash or fixed investments until the storm blows over. Almost none of them did this and surely no one we talked to in prospecting. By June of 2008 we were on our knees down to less than $5-$6k a month in revenue. Most of the money that was previously made was now gone. The historic flood came that month to downtown Cedar Rapids and wiped us out. The operation carried on in my basement for a couple years after that but it was never the same. Looking back on it, I see the same things right now in America.
 

Look at a graph of the NASDAQ or Dow Jones in the last 20 years. You think this is sustainable? There are a lot of people out there who do not like to talk about money because they are uncomfortable with it. They are either private because they don’t want people to know how much they make out of fear. Fear they will be exposed as a charlatan taking way too much off the table for their efforts, a tax cheat or they fear they have too little and will be judged as inferior. Herein lies the shade. Just because someone is smart at medicine, science, welding or computers does not mean they know very much about money. If money were so easy we would all be rich, right? What the Gorzyca moment reminds me of is the old saying about complacency; the most dangerous place to be is in a state of complacency. I think we have arrived.