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.
But owners of bars and restaurants, a ski hill, a jewelry store, a car stereo shop, a stock car track, and a drag strip were all for the idea, with no one more adamant about it than Broadway Bob. "You are out of your mind if you don't go into business for yourself!" he barked, setting me on his knee, handing me a Pabst, and telling me how he built Great Lakes Dragaway.
After WWII, opening a drag strip in either Milwaukee or Chicago would have been a safe bet. Folks told Bob he was out of his mind for building his dragstrip in Union Grove, Wisconsin, halfway between. When I asked Bob to sign with me, he confirmed that he would, then in mid-handshake, he asked for a discount.
Wait. What? More work and more risk for less money? "No."
He laughed, pumped my arm twice as hard, and added: "If you said yes then I would have said no. Never work with someone dumber than you." Out Of My Mind Advertising And Related Mischief was so named thanks to my client, mentor, and pal, Broadway Bob.
Coordinating radio advertising and promotions in the five major markets surrounding the track, one of my shenanigans got us on TV. The Radio Hell morning show from Chicago would jump a motorcycle with a school bus while broadcasting live. A cameraman for the Bulls game had heard the promos and videotaped our stunt, which became the ESPN Sports Funny of the Day. Bob woke me with a call of thanks when it aired, giddy as a kid at Christmas.
Working with Bob, I got to learn TQM by osmosis. Calling the shots, Bob delegated tedious chunks of the business to lieutenants like me. He ran his entire operation using two small stacks of index cards, a pen, and the pockets of the pants he was wearing.
Meetings periodically paused as Bob reached into his pocket and then rifled through his cards. Each card held a single action item, and upon completion, it either got discarded or annotated and moved to the 'follow-up' pocket. An hour of radio business might take three or four, as Bob made calls to vendors and racers, or visits to the beer garden, the t-shirt shack, or the tower. Sometimes in the pre-dawn stillness, I still hear echoes of my checkerboard Vans going "squik, squik, squik," as we walked across the staging lanes.
But the racing season is too damn short in the Midwest. Stepping into a puddle one February morning, icy water filled my shoe. When my foot eventually thawed out, it was pushing the skinny pedal in my Lincoln, on a road trip to reconnoiter Key West.
