This Beer Sucks

I am not one who is easily insulted. Pick on me because I have may have a zit the size of a wasabi pea on my nose and I won't be insulted. Remark that my posture is worse that Kurt Cobain's and I'll say, you're right, no offense taken. Remind me that I adore breasts and I'll ask, who doesn't?

But despite my resiliance to petty put downs, an insult was recently hurled at me that penetrated my thick skin like a flying shard from a broken heart of glass. While away on a two night business trip in Providence, RI, I was served a pint of IPA at a prominent and well established brew pub that was so unacceptable, I had no choice but to think that the server had mistaken me for some kind of Budweiser-loving die hard curious to know what a micro-brew tastes like and would never know that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Not that there's anything wrong with Budweiser-loving die hards.

I was so insulted by being served a pint of apple-cider-looking, bad-home-brew tasting, brew-pub-business ending disgrace, that I politely sent it back and ordered water. The next night, at a different brew pub, the same thing happened, and a salty injury was added to the wound from the former night's insult.

So, at the next bar, I ordered a bottle of Budweiser, and it was delicious.

It's a Wonderful Job, Eventually

February is here, and I couldn’t be happier. Call me Grinch or Scrooge, but I vehemently disagree that Christmastime is the most wonderful time of the year. I’ve felt this way for a long time, but until this year, I wasn’t sure why.

About a week before Christmas, I had an epiphany that hit me on the head like one too many glasses of my cousin Lenny’s extra-special eggnog. My lovely fiancée and I were relaxing around our Christmas tree, which was leaning a bit to one side and aglow with old fashioned, energy sucking bulbs. Elvis’s Christmas album was playing on the turntable. With that velvety voice caressing my ears, I got to the bottom of why I always have a blue Christmas: I work in retail.

Too many of the negative aspects of Christmas—the commotion, the consumerism, the true meaning-robbing commercialism—surround me during the entire holiday season like gaudy rows of garland on a fake Christmas tree in the lobby of an insurance building. The plastic blinking star they stick on the top represents the headache I get that doesn’t quite go away until the tree gets unplugged, covered with a plastic bag, and stuffed in the corner of the office supply closet.

I am fortunate enough, however, to have Christmas day off, unlike the movie theater concession stand vendor, the shifty ski resort lifty, or the convenience store clerk in the Santa hat who has to finish making that guy’s egg sandwich before he can ring you up for a twelve-pack of beer. But simply not having to work on Christmas day doesn’t mean I’m singing “Deck the Halls” during the four-hour drive to Maine for my family Christmas party. For me to sing “Fa la la la la,” I wouldn’t have to drive back to Vermont later that night, because I wouldn’t have to be at work the next morning for the worst workday of the entire year.

I like to imagine how some folks spend the day after Christmas. I picture the happy couple, young and in love, who bought each other cross-country ski packages, skiing side by side in a meadow, while soaking up the glistening beauty of a perfect winter’s day. I see the content mom, bundled up in her brand new down jacket, taking the dog for a nice long walk. I envision the encouraged dad, his cholesterol level approaching the outer limits of healthy, determined to exercise more often this year, heading out the back door for a romp with his new pair of snowshoes that the whole family pitched in to give him.

I can conjure up these warm and fuzzy sugarplum-shaped visions, but my reality is helping the unhappy couple that bought each other cross-country ski packages and wants to exchange their ski boots because they don’t fit, or because his heel lifts a bit and her boots are not quite as comfortable as her bedroom slippers. Or the discontented mom, who loves everything about her brand new down jacket except the color, and wants to special order the one in the lighter shade of green. Or the discouraged dad, who after trudging around the back yard, would prefer a different pair of snowshoes with bindings that are a bit easier to undo. He only used them once, so he can’t imagine that we couldn’t simply take them back. After all, they are only scratched a little.

The joy of Christmas Eve has also been lost to me. That day is defined by stressed-out last-minute shoppers who don’t have time to pleasantly accept the fact that we are sold out of whatever it is they should have purchased sooner. Or who are too exasperated to understand why we won’t hang around after we close until they arrive, “in only 15 minutes or so,” so that they can “just run in and buy something real quick.” No matter how hard I try to allow the holiday spirit to overtake my petulance, under these circumstances, all I can say is, “Bah, humbug!”

So when it is all over, and the rest of the glorious winter is ahead, I am a much happier person. The craziness of the holidays gives way to the routine of our annual end-of-winter super blowout sale. It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and I’m full of joy. I’m so carefree that when a customer says, “So I see that these tele skis are 40 percent off. Would you take 50 percent off?” I can actually say, “No!” with tact. I can even be persuaded to stay awhile after we close for a nice customer, unless he wants to exchange a used pair of snowshoes.

Weathering the Sunshine

The economy can be cruel to retailers, but Mother Nature can be straight up nasty to those of us offering gear designed for weather-dependent activities. Especially when it comes to activities that involve snow. Even in a thriving economy, where everyone has so much extra cash they can afford to buy groceries and heating oil, few people get excited about cross-country skiing or free sledding (sledding… but for adults!) when there’s fresh green grass growing with vigor in December. Or in January. If the sunshine doesn’t illuminate a single flake of snow, hardly a soul has a desire to purchase snowshoes, or for that matter, snowshoe accessories. It’s hard work standing in front of a giant wall of shiny new snowshoes, explaining to customers that sure, snowshoes are designed for snow, but they also provide excellent grip on frozen mud. And these snowshoe gaiters over here have many uses, like keeping your shins dry when walking through dew-soaked grass and stuff… or something.

One particular year, Mother Nature was especially cruel. In late November, during our annual Preseason Ski and Snowshoe Sale, which we count on to kick-start the winter selling season as well as pay a few bills, it was 67 degrees and sunny. Birds were chirping, grills were grilling, and in the distance, you could hear the sound of people washing their cars. At the shop, however, all you could hear was the sound of people not buying cross-country skis, which sounds a lot like hair standing on the back of our shop owner’s neck. The following April, during our annual Preseason Bike Sale, which we were counting on to jump-start the summer buying season as well as help dig us out of a hole by paying a mountain of bills, Mother Nature, in truly sardonic fashion, gave us a snow storm. If you wanted to test ride a bike, you had to first wait for the plow to come by. If the weather from each weekend had been flipped, both sales would have been gangbusters. Instead, both sales were just plain busts.

The main difference between these two important sales is that if in the spring our Preseason Bike Sale is snowed out, we will still sell bikes, because people trust that eventually, dirt will come. It may be snowing in April, but soon, very soon, inevitably, like in mid-August, we will see some summery bike-riding weather. That mindset doesn’t apply in the early winter however, when you’re looking at the weather map for that beautiful blue blob and it just isn’t there. The shabby consolation we cling to, that eventually it will snow because it has to, starts to wear thin. And when January rolls around and it still hasn’t snowed, and we’re all waiting for that big snowfall like a transplant patient waiting for an organ donor, we start to wonder, will it ever snow? Is this the winter we’ve been dreading, where it won’t snow at all? No, but it might be one of those winters where Mother Nature decides to give us all the snow we would ever need in March, when at that point, all that snow is the last thing we would ever need.

For some, the lack of significant snowfall doesn’t faze them in the least. Two of my favorite fellow coworkers, Bart and Jesus H., are always among the first people each year to make turns. They don’t worry about blue blobs on the weather map. They will hike on the notion that there will be snow at the top of the mountain. I asked Bart how the first day of hiking went.

“So Bart, how did Jesus H. hurt his shoulder? And why does his board look like it wound up on the wrong side of a cheese grater?”

“Well, he was flying down the trail and all of a sudden the snow just sort of ended.”

“What do you mean ended?”

“Dude, there were so many rocks.”

“Guess you guys should’ve waited a bit longer before heading up there, huh?”

“No way, it was awesome!”

That is optimism. That is inspiration. If Mother Nature gives you rocks, make Rock and Roll. And when you tune in to the Mad River Live Web Cam to see how things are going, and what you see in that surveillance camera is a creeping marauder in the form of unseasonably warm weather, don’t fret. Snow will come. It has to. In the meantime, strap on your showshoes and take a walk. After all, snowshoes provide excellent traction on frozen mud. And don’t forget your gaiters.

Spring into Fall

One of the nicest things about working at our shop is that twice a year we get to shift gears and cruise into a totally different selling season. In the spring, ski season gives way to bike season, and in the fall, bike season gives way to ski season. It’s like starting a new job, except your coworkers already know how much of a slacker you are.

It’s been a long bike season and now it is fall, and we’ve had all the fun we can handle selling bikes and running shoes, and it is time to sell skis and snowshoes. It’s a nice change of pace, a welcome breath of fresh, hotwax-scented air. I imagine working at a bike shop in Key West that just keeps rolling from day to day, never changing, would be rather dull and perhaps even exasperating, like driving through Kansas while listening to an “All AC/DC, All the Time” radio station.

The period between the different selling seasons can at times exemplify dull and exasperating. It can get mind numbingly slow during the months when people are no longer buying summer gear and are waiting until it snows to buy their winter gear. A Tuesday afternoon in mid-November, for example, could break the resolve of a barnacle. During those days, after you’ve dusted the bases of the displays, alphabetized the magazine rack, and Windexed all the sunglasses, you do whatever it takes to retain your sanity. I find that playing games can keep me from losing my mind, and over the years, I’ve invented some good ones. “Time Trial Trike Style,” “Dog Frisbee Golf,” and “What’s That in My Hand?” are a few of my favorites. As a service to all those retail junkies out there fighting the seemingly endless monotony, I present the following Guide to Really Dumb Games to Play at Work When It Is Slow. (If your boss catches you playing these games and you get fired, please do not use my name.)

TIME TRIAL TRIKE STYLE

By simply rearranging clothing displays a bit, you can make quite a challenging time trial course, made even more challenging by having to ride the course on a tricycle. Knocking products off displays incurs a five-second penalty. Knocking entire displays over results in disqualification. For an added degree of difficulty, do the course with a wool hat pulled over your eyes. The rider with the fastest time gets immunity from picking up all the downed displays and scattered products.

DOG FRISBEE GOLF

If your store carries dog accessories, you know that you’ve wanted to toss around one of those soft dog Frisbees. Well, now is your chance. Using existing objects as targets—the time clock, the changing room door, the head of your favorite fellow coworker—lay out a 9- or 18- hole Frisbee golf course. Winner gets immunity from helping any customers that may wander in.

WHAT'S THAT IN MY HAND?

Obscure bike parts can stump even the most time- tested mechanic in the shop in this exciting game of mental prowess. An object is placed in the hands of a blindfolded player, and the player has one minute to identify it and then use the name of the object in a sentence. For example:

“Well, it’s round and has sharp points. Is it a 104 BCD, 34-tooth, four-bolt chainring?
“Yes! Now use it in a sentence.”
“This 104 BCD, 34-tooth, four-bolt chainring is used, and now I have grease all over my hands. Aargh!”

Ultimately however, the bike parts must be put away and the time trial and golf course must be closed because it finally starts to get busy. At that point, we are fervently ready to sell and share our vast knowledge of winter products. How do we get so educated you ask? How do we avoid saying “Not sure” when asked technical questions? Way too many product clinics, that’s how. The downtime between seasons is the perfect time for sales representatives to come and explain in detail why their products are the best and why the other stuff we sell is clearly inferior. During these clinics, we listen and learn, and as a reward for paying attention, and promising to sell and promote their brand, we are given free stuff, such as a bottle opener or a water bottle, or a double extra large t-shirt. But we don’t attend these clinics for the free stuff. We attend them for you, our valued customers, so that you get nothing but the absolute best customer service. Unfortunately, the most common questions asked are “When is this stuff going on sale,” and “When is it going to snow?” And all we can say is, “Not sure.”

To all four people who read this blog...Help!

I need help coming up with a cool name for a monthly gear review column that I'll be writing for VT Sports. Each month, I'll be covering three items that I think are cool.

So far, here is what I've come up with:

Hooked on Gear
Down With Gear
Happy New Gear
Gear Junkie
This Stuff is the Shit


The Editor is leaning towards:
Got Gear?

It can't be Got Gear. Any suggestions?

Bueller?

Commiserating with a Typewriter

Commiserating with a Typewriter

Today
I purchased a new pair of
shiny durable
leather boots.

My old pair-
cracked and scuffed,
torn and worn,
shank exposed,
sole deposed-
could give nothing more.

Years ago,
before all the
miles and mud,
dirt and debris,
shoe polish and shoe laces,
they too were a new pair of
shiny durable
leather boots.

But on this particular day,
they are being
cast aside
like the contemporary aspirations
of a typewriter.

They are an old pair of
dulled admirable
leather boots
and now, at last,
they can rest.

With their work cut out for them,
and new ground in front of them,
I wonder where
this new pair of
shiny durable
leather boots
will take me
tomorrow.

Here Things are Quite as Good: Lendway Album Release Party at Nectar's, November 14, 2008

“We have vinyl,” Lendway singer Michael Clifford proudly told the crowd during the first set of their album release party at Nectar’s on Friday night. Of course, they also had CD copies of The Low Red End available, but it goes without saying that if you have vinyl you most likely have plastic too, and I imagine there’s more satisfaction talking up the vinyl. Vinyl is and will always be sexier.

A fog machine and chaotic sounds over the PA added an element of dramatic tension as the four members made their way to their instruments. The fog filled the dark stage as the noise continued to build until finally, when the tension could mount no longer, the PA cut out, and Clifford jumped right in and delivered the first lines of the album’s opening track Yardsale, followed four beats later by the rest of the band and a blast of bright stage lights perfectly on cue. The show was on.

From there, they played the new album in its entirety, only occasionally addressing the packed crowd to say something like, “We’ve never played in front of this many people before. It’s kind of scary.” There was nothing, however, for this young band to be scared about. Each song, from open to close, was delivered with the conviction and maturity of a much more seasoned band, and the crowd was listening.

Lendway’s notably developed songwriting ability is immediately evident and supported with strong vocal harmonies, restrained but creative guitar phrases, and a tight rhythm section. It’s clear that a majority of their musical influences come from the eighties and nineties Indie Rock scene, but they are in no way a clone of any particular band. With such an impressive first album and working band aptitude at playing live, they have shown their potential to further distinguish their sound as they continue to grow as a band. I’m looking forward to watching them grow as they likely will outgrow Burlington. Michael better get used to bigger crowds.

Check them out here:

http://www.myspace.com/lendwaymusic