My first conscious memory is a news bulletin interrupting my puppet show on the TV: JFK had been shot in Dallas. Mom rushed into the living room, wiped her eyes on her apron, and snatched me up from the floor to watch the reports came in. That afternoon I learned where Dallas was, what a president does, and how assassins earn their living.
Days before my fifth birthday a few months later, my father died. Mom and I were on our own, and the resulting austerity measures, like switching to powdered milk, always felt like my fault. They (i.e. relatives, neighbors, our pastor) all told me I was now ‘the man of the house’ with ‘big shoes to fill’, but none of Them told me How. When I asked Them to help me find work They just laughed me off, leaving me to figure things out for myself.
Sometime during the Summer of Love I spied an ad in a comic book for The Junior Sales Club of America. If I had the courage to sell greeting cards door to door, I could earn a commission on each sale! Encouraging me to bet on myself, Mom bankrolled my first order.
Time froze when I knocked on our neighbor's door. Mrs. Andrews seemed bigger than ever as she scrutinized my greeting card samples. Handing the samples back was my cue to ask her to buy a box, but when I did, she said "No."
When I asked her “Why the heck not?” she replied “Because I want two.” Anxiety was replaced with self-confidence - I got this. In no time at all I was draggin' my empty wagon home with a pocket full of loot, feeling a lot like a pirate. Entering the flow state at the tender age of eight made me a 'sales junkie.' I sell, therefore I am.
They held the ‘68 Democratic National Convention 25 minutes away from our home. As the Chicago Police Riot poured into America's living rooms via TV, Mom feared They would literally be in ours by morning. When the Weathermen blew up the Haymarket Police Memorial during the Days of Rage the following year, Mom sold the house and we moved 400 miles away to her hometown of Ironwood, Michigan. Teen angst and culture shock led to rebellion and a lo-fidelity life of crime. Magazines, underground newspapers, and radio kept me connected in the god-forsaken hinterlands. Outcast at the start, eventually I was embraced by the Party Faithful.
Q: Who has more fun than us?
A: Nobody!
A dis from my high school basketball coach inspired my first successful brand. Harry's Yahoos t-shirts soon haunted him in the classroom, at the pep rallies, at especially at games. Since 'Yahoo' was the nicest label They had for me, I declined Their college scholarship and charted my own course instead. Fancy book learning is overrated. In over 100,000 hours spent selling since The Summer of Love, I've mastered the art of parley.
Success is easier to achieve when you make the right choices.
Think like a pirate. Have fun, be lazy, and cheat!
We all enter this world with a slap and a squawk, rudely roused from Original Sleep. In '59, they slapped my ass in Chicago, back when tailfins touched the sky. Welcome to the American Dream, kiddo. Study hard, get good grades, land a corporate gig, and buy a suburban home!
Sufficient pressure was applied to the skinny pedal, and the Duster ran at full song. Chicago radio stations heralded my return, getting louder as the miles fell away. At this pace, I'd hear the Boogie Check on WLS without static for the first time in years. Ooh! Aah!
Nassar Supply was a new contractor yard in the area where I graduated high school. They needed a salesman who could drive a forklift. When the contractor left their partnership, the remaining owner, an architect with no retail or yard operations experience, promoted me to Manager.
Snagging a copy of the alternative newspaper from the pile on the cigarette machine on my way in, I thumbed through pages as I slaked my thirst. Then, right next to the Life in Hell comic strip, my future was foretold in yet another ad! Before the sweat on that longneck had loosened the label, my future had found me.
Thoreau warned me about leading a life of quiet desperation in sixth grade, so the advice of my well-intentioned pals: "Don't quit your day job!" was cheerfully ignored. Citing the high failure rate of startups in general and/or prevailing market conditions, they all thought I was out of my mind to go into business for myself.
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The alternative newspaper in Key West got a new publisher, and I got invited to an interview for Sales Manager. Japhy rode shotgun, scouting locations for his new futon factory. On the road, the un-resignation of the previous Sales Manager was accepted. Adjourning to Barefoot Bob's on Duval for a beer, we were welcomed by Kathy, who shared how she and Bob came to run their joint and suggested moving down anyway. This daring notion made absolutely no sense, and I loved it.
The Meyer's Manx dune buggy launched the kit car industry back in '64. Enthusiasts purchased bodies and parts in kit form, then built vehicles using the running gear from a "donor" car. Innovative Street Machines in Miami offered kits for Porsche Speedsters that used VW parts, plus three '30s Fords & a '66 Cobra based on Ford running gear. Reporting to the sales office in Plantation in November of '99, I began selling kits manufactured at the factory in Little Haiti.
Freelance work sustained us upon arrival in Elko, NV growing to include the new practice that hired my bride as a medical assistant. You can take the boy outta Radio but cannot take Radio outta the boy, so in time, I got a gig selling radio advertising, first for one radio station owner in the market, then another. Asked to deliver sales training to new reps at a third owner's station, the lessons David and Chris gave me back in Milwaukee were illustrated with anecdotes from my decades of sales experience. One of those radio stations shared their newscaster Lori with the local NBC TV affiliate.