Shadows and light in the backyard this morning.
31 December 2010
21 December 2010
Technology
Whether I end up in heaven or hell (or wherever) when I die, I hope there are no computers there.
28 November 2010
The Choices of Climate
How many times have men (and women) begun a story or a joke with: “There are two kinds of people…”? Such a cliché, and so staggeringly simplistic. Yet like most clichés, most stereotypes, most generalizations, it contains a kernel of truth in its core. In many ways, there are “two kinds of people.”
I was thinking about climate. About our desires for warm or cold or humid or dry. About how most people tolerate the weather they’re born or blessed (or cursed) with; and about how another group of people try to live their lives in a manner to cater to their weather desires.
Of course, the wealthier or freer you are, the easier it is to go where the weather suits you the best. Or maybe not. Is the weather in Omaha the ultimate climate for Warren Buffett? Does Bill Gates really think Seattle has the best climate in the world?
A friend recently commented on our personal weather choices, while briefly discussing hers. And as with most things in life, it’s about choices – the choices we make, and the choices that we suffer in silence for our whole lives in a climate that we can manage to endure. For many people, career, family, history, social opportunities, or inertia drive their ability and desires to celebrate or endure the climate where they live.
Yet for a smaller (I would imagine) subset of humanity, the search for and the living in a “perfect” climate is, if not an obsession, at least an overriding element of their psyche and their core.
I like to believe I’ve lived in a reasonably wide variety of climates – north-central eastern seaboard of the U.S. (New Jersey); ocean-side Pacific Northwest; inland Pacific Northwest (both Washington); Colorado Mountains; Mediterranean southern California; hot Southwest desert (Arizona); high-altitude southwest mountains/desert (New Mexico); Pacific rim (Japan). And over those years, I’ve developed some distinct preferences. At this stage of my life, climate/weather is one of the most significant aspects of any list of places where I’d choose to live. Barring poverty, it trumps jobs, family, or social aspects.
Yet I still fantasize about the semi-Arctic (Scandinavia), the Alps (Switzerland), even the tropics (Cuba). But there is a core within me that needs – craves – a certain climatic mix. Four seasons. Snow (not too much, mind you) in winter. Not humid. Not too hot in summer. Fall colors.
The friend I mentioned says she needs clouds (again, not too many, mind you). Another friend lives where he lives out of ennui, out of habit, because he’s close to family and friends and a career. All in a place that (I think, from his comments) in his core he loathes from a climate standpoint. (We have another friend who always signs his notes to us with the phrase “a Dane stuck in Sweden.” There are many reasons for his line, but a part of me would love to be “stuck in Sweden.”)
We are creatures of our choices – and many of our choices are the ones we choose not to make. The women we decide not to live with. The good jobs we turn down. The family we don’t live near any more. The schooling we didn’t continue.
An ex (who claimed to be a recovering Catholic, or sometimes a Zen Catholic) used to say that there was a saying within the church to the effect that just because God doesn’t grant your prayers or wishes, it doesn’t mean that he/she isn’t listening – that maybe the not-granting of your prayer is God’s gift and answer. (Unfortunately, I think I’m too atheistic to believe in that. Fate or free will – I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the answer to that one.)
As societies, we’ve become numb to the world around us. Most of the world’s population now lives in cities – whether Beijing, Mumbai, New York, or London. Whether we can stand London’s gray weather or Mumbai’s stifling heat – we live where we are. We shuffle through life with our heads down, waiting for the ray of sunlight that can cause us to lift up our eyes and which can brighten an entire week. Or the mysterious cool breeze that can refresh us down to our core.
For me, a “bad” climate seems like getting close to death. I may not always thrive in a “good” climate, but I know that I stagnate and corrode in a bad one.
I was thinking about climate. About our desires for warm or cold or humid or dry. About how most people tolerate the weather they’re born or blessed (or cursed) with; and about how another group of people try to live their lives in a manner to cater to their weather desires.
Of course, the wealthier or freer you are, the easier it is to go where the weather suits you the best. Or maybe not. Is the weather in Omaha the ultimate climate for Warren Buffett? Does Bill Gates really think Seattle has the best climate in the world?
A friend recently commented on our personal weather choices, while briefly discussing hers. And as with most things in life, it’s about choices – the choices we make, and the choices that we suffer in silence for our whole lives in a climate that we can manage to endure. For many people, career, family, history, social opportunities, or inertia drive their ability and desires to celebrate or endure the climate where they live.
Yet for a smaller (I would imagine) subset of humanity, the search for and the living in a “perfect” climate is, if not an obsession, at least an overriding element of their psyche and their core.
I like to believe I’ve lived in a reasonably wide variety of climates – north-central eastern seaboard of the U.S. (New Jersey); ocean-side Pacific Northwest; inland Pacific Northwest (both Washington); Colorado Mountains; Mediterranean southern California; hot Southwest desert (Arizona); high-altitude southwest mountains/desert (New Mexico); Pacific rim (Japan). And over those years, I’ve developed some distinct preferences. At this stage of my life, climate/weather is one of the most significant aspects of any list of places where I’d choose to live. Barring poverty, it trumps jobs, family, or social aspects.
Yet I still fantasize about the semi-Arctic (Scandinavia), the Alps (Switzerland), even the tropics (Cuba). But there is a core within me that needs – craves – a certain climatic mix. Four seasons. Snow (not too much, mind you) in winter. Not humid. Not too hot in summer. Fall colors.
The friend I mentioned says she needs clouds (again, not too many, mind you). Another friend lives where he lives out of ennui, out of habit, because he’s close to family and friends and a career. All in a place that (I think, from his comments) in his core he loathes from a climate standpoint. (We have another friend who always signs his notes to us with the phrase “a Dane stuck in Sweden.” There are many reasons for his line, but a part of me would love to be “stuck in Sweden.”)
We are creatures of our choices – and many of our choices are the ones we choose not to make. The women we decide not to live with. The good jobs we turn down. The family we don’t live near any more. The schooling we didn’t continue.
An ex (who claimed to be a recovering Catholic, or sometimes a Zen Catholic) used to say that there was a saying within the church to the effect that just because God doesn’t grant your prayers or wishes, it doesn’t mean that he/she isn’t listening – that maybe the not-granting of your prayer is God’s gift and answer. (Unfortunately, I think I’m too atheistic to believe in that. Fate or free will – I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the answer to that one.)
As societies, we’ve become numb to the world around us. Most of the world’s population now lives in cities – whether Beijing, Mumbai, New York, or London. Whether we can stand London’s gray weather or Mumbai’s stifling heat – we live where we are. We shuffle through life with our heads down, waiting for the ray of sunlight that can cause us to lift up our eyes and which can brighten an entire week. Or the mysterious cool breeze that can refresh us down to our core.
For me, a “bad” climate seems like getting close to death. I may not always thrive in a “good” climate, but I know that I stagnate and corrode in a bad one.
09 November 2010
The Best Blog of All Time
The best - and best written - blog out there today is simply The Hokumburg Goombah. There's no need to say anything else. Just read the damn thing every day.
08 November 2010
10 August 2010
In Memory – Tom Grams
Yesterday afternoon, I found out that an old biking and paddling acquaintance from Durango, Colorado – Tom Grams – was one of the 10 medical volunteers murdered in Afghanistan.
I’d seen the news when it happened, and I somehow felt... something different than the simple sadness and anger that such news would normally elicit in me. I would normally not have looked for the names of the victims, but something made me search for them. And of course, the media didn’t release those names at first. So I sort of forgot about it... for a day.
Tom wasn’t a close friend, rather he was one of the many casual acquaintances one has in a small town like Durango. We would run into each other at parties, on the bike trails, or on the river. Tom came across as one of those seemingly overly sincere men – yet one of those men who really are. He’d sold his dental practice and had been doing volunteer dental work around the world. He was 51.
I read some of the comments following the article in the Durango Herald about Tom’s death. Most posters were sad and supportive. A few railed against the Muslims (while some of the other posters shot back saying at them, saying to the effect: “let’s celebrate Tom and not condemn a whole religion”).
As much as I believe that Tom’s life was a good life and his death needless, I can’t help but feel even more angry at a culture (Islam) still stuck in the 13th century. A culture that still stones women to death for adultery. A culture that encourages suicide bombers to murder civilians. A culture that celebrates as a hero the release of the convicted Lockerbie terrorist. And on and on.
I certainly don’t know the answer, and I’m sure Tom and his fellow medical volunteers were doing their part to try and change... something... in that part of the world.
Wherever you are, Tom, I hope the rivers run swift and the trails are lined with wildflowers.
I’d seen the news when it happened, and I somehow felt... something different than the simple sadness and anger that such news would normally elicit in me. I would normally not have looked for the names of the victims, but something made me search for them. And of course, the media didn’t release those names at first. So I sort of forgot about it... for a day.
Tom wasn’t a close friend, rather he was one of the many casual acquaintances one has in a small town like Durango. We would run into each other at parties, on the bike trails, or on the river. Tom came across as one of those seemingly overly sincere men – yet one of those men who really are. He’d sold his dental practice and had been doing volunteer dental work around the world. He was 51.
I read some of the comments following the article in the Durango Herald about Tom’s death. Most posters were sad and supportive. A few railed against the Muslims (while some of the other posters shot back saying at them, saying to the effect: “let’s celebrate Tom and not condemn a whole religion”).
As much as I believe that Tom’s life was a good life and his death needless, I can’t help but feel even more angry at a culture (Islam) still stuck in the 13th century. A culture that still stones women to death for adultery. A culture that encourages suicide bombers to murder civilians. A culture that celebrates as a hero the release of the convicted Lockerbie terrorist. And on and on.
I certainly don’t know the answer, and I’m sure Tom and his fellow medical volunteers were doing their part to try and change... something... in that part of the world.
Wherever you are, Tom, I hope the rivers run swift and the trails are lined with wildflowers.
07 August 2010
Uncharitable Charities
The August 5, 2010 Wall St. Journal ran a front-page story about how charities are defending their names, logos, even colors against other charities that they deem to infringe on their branding or trademark. Examples, according to the WSJ:
The Susan G. Komen For the Cure has taken legal action against Kites for a Cure, Juggling for a Cure, Kayak for a Cure, and “dozens of others.” Not only does the Komen organization believe they own the “Cure,” they also believe their signature color pink should not be used by another organization.
Lance Armstrong’s LIVESTRONG association has taken legal issue with HEADstrong – with it’s name, logo design, and color. And not just the color yellow of Livestrong – they objected to the gold color of Headstrong’s logo, deeming it “appears to be very close to the color yellow.”
The Wounded Warrior Project (Florida) objected to the domain name of Wounded Warriors Inc. (Nebraska), as it claimed people wanting to contribute to WWP mistakenly went to the WWI site. [Trying to access the website in question, woundedwarriors.org, currently brings up a “network error” message.]
The Sunshine Kids Foundation in Texas sent legal notice to Sunshine Kids Club of California, claiming that one SKF donor mistakenly wrote checks to SKCC. The California group even offered the Texas organization to “reference the Sunshine Kids Foundation on its website to dispel confusion.” The SKF said they would not allow their name to be used even for that purpose of clarification.
So I guess this is just another example of the lawyers having taken over America. Have the big charities themselves become non-profit versions of corporate America? Is it really about money, money, money, rather than fostering a culture that cares about other people? In the article, trademark attorney Andrew Price (apparently not associated with any of the organizations mentioned) is quoted as saying: “The days are probably over when nonprofits just said, ‘We’ll just get along with anybody who’s a nonprofit because we’re all trying to do good here.’”
For me, this only reinforces my aversion to “big” charities – although I imagine in some cases they do excellent work. We remain committed to Kiva, with its direct funding to needy individuals and its extremely low overhead.
Sorry Lance, Susan, and the rest of you. You’ll need to become a lot more charitable to attract my contributions.
The Susan G. Komen For the Cure has taken legal action against Kites for a Cure, Juggling for a Cure, Kayak for a Cure, and “dozens of others.” Not only does the Komen organization believe they own the “Cure,” they also believe their signature color pink should not be used by another organization.
Lance Armstrong’s LIVESTRONG association has taken legal issue with HEADstrong – with it’s name, logo design, and color. And not just the color yellow of Livestrong – they objected to the gold color of Headstrong’s logo, deeming it “appears to be very close to the color yellow.”
The Wounded Warrior Project (Florida) objected to the domain name of Wounded Warriors Inc. (Nebraska), as it claimed people wanting to contribute to WWP mistakenly went to the WWI site. [Trying to access the website in question, woundedwarriors.org, currently brings up a “network error” message.]
The Sunshine Kids Foundation in Texas sent legal notice to Sunshine Kids Club of California, claiming that one SKF donor mistakenly wrote checks to SKCC. The California group even offered the Texas organization to “reference the Sunshine Kids Foundation on its website to dispel confusion.” The SKF said they would not allow their name to be used even for that purpose of clarification.
So I guess this is just another example of the lawyers having taken over America. Have the big charities themselves become non-profit versions of corporate America? Is it really about money, money, money, rather than fostering a culture that cares about other people? In the article, trademark attorney Andrew Price (apparently not associated with any of the organizations mentioned) is quoted as saying: “The days are probably over when nonprofits just said, ‘We’ll just get along with anybody who’s a nonprofit because we’re all trying to do good here.’”
For me, this only reinforces my aversion to “big” charities – although I imagine in some cases they do excellent work. We remain committed to Kiva, with its direct funding to needy individuals and its extremely low overhead.
Sorry Lance, Susan, and the rest of you. You’ll need to become a lot more charitable to attract my contributions.
21 July 2010
05 June 2010
03 June 2010
31 May 2010
Article/Blog Comments: The World’s Soapbox
Yesterday, May 30, 2010, I was reading a Yahoo News article/update about the BP oil spill in the gulf of Mexico. As I scrolled to the bottom of the piece, I saw the comments section begin with the words “comments 1-10 of 77,083.”
Seventy-seven thousand comments (since May 1) about the article.
I’ve mentioned in other writing that I very seldom read blog or article comments. And I decided some time ago to not have a comments section on any of my blogs. Far too many comments show a certain lack of, shall we say, knowledge (OK, I’ll be politically incorrect: they’re written by idiots); are “comment spam” (folks trying to get in a free web plug); are abusive; devolve into comments about other comments (and the folks who wrote those other comments); or are a soapbox for preaching one’s personal political/religious/philosophical/business agenda.
But 77,000?
Of course, the gulf spill is a major event, and people are heartbroken and mad and confused. Some of the outpouring of comments are a way for people without any other outlets to have their voices heard and to exorcise their personal fears and frustrations. And scanning a few of the comments (that’s all I could take), it seems that many really are wanting and needing to say something. Unfortunately, it’s seldom something substantive, or even something interesting – in the sense that someone else might be interested in reading it; that someone else would want to read those words.
Nonetheless, I especially enjoy reading ...
And my favorite, today, when the comment count was up to 82,553...
“82,500 comments? LMAO. This is sooooooooooo pointless! LOL...”
As, of course, was that comment.
Is it that we’ve become so isolated looking at our laptop screens that we don’t have anyone real to talk with anymore? Have we become so wrapped up in our culture of “Hey Look at Me” that we take any opportunity to wave our own little flags? Is this our three seconds of fame?
I don’t really know, nor do I really understand it.
Eighty. Thousand. Comments.
Seventy-seven thousand comments (since May 1) about the article.
I’ve mentioned in other writing that I very seldom read blog or article comments. And I decided some time ago to not have a comments section on any of my blogs. Far too many comments show a certain lack of, shall we say, knowledge (OK, I’ll be politically incorrect: they’re written by idiots); are “comment spam” (folks trying to get in a free web plug); are abusive; devolve into comments about other comments (and the folks who wrote those other comments); or are a soapbox for preaching one’s personal political/religious/philosophical/business agenda.
But 77,000?
Of course, the gulf spill is a major event, and people are heartbroken and mad and confused. Some of the outpouring of comments are a way for people without any other outlets to have their voices heard and to exorcise their personal fears and frustrations. And scanning a few of the comments (that’s all I could take), it seems that many really are wanting and needing to say something. Unfortunately, it’s seldom something substantive, or even something interesting – in the sense that someone else might be interested in reading it; that someone else would want to read those words.
Nonetheless, I especially enjoy reading ...
- The armchair engineers who have the solution
- The slams against politicians (Palin and Obama seem to be the favorites)
- The spellings – my god, the misspellings and the utter lack of grammar
- The “conspiracy thearies” that the spill was intentional to promote green energy, or it was terrorism, or that Halliburton is delaying cleanup so they can “harness the oil and then to retreeve it to sell on the open market”
- The comments in CAPITAL LETTERS
- The 100-word-long comments with no punctuation or capitalization
- 500-word diatribes about politics
And my favorite, today, when the comment count was up to 82,553...
“82,500 comments? LMAO. This is sooooooooooo pointless! LOL...”
As, of course, was that comment.
Is it that we’ve become so isolated looking at our laptop screens that we don’t have anyone real to talk with anymore? Have we become so wrapped up in our culture of “Hey Look at Me” that we take any opportunity to wave our own little flags? Is this our three seconds of fame?
I don’t really know, nor do I really understand it.
Eighty. Thousand. Comments.
25 May 2010
11 May 2010
The Banks Think I'm Immortal
Lucky me! I can either save $2.4 million, or live for 2,550 years!
We always pay off our credit cards each month. But some time ago (back before the “credit crisis”) we had a 1% cash-advance offer, good for the life of the balance. Sort of like nearly free money until we decided to pay it off. Even in this stupid, scary, weird financial market, I figured I could make more in interest or appreciation on that loan.
So now, with the new credit-disclosure laws, card companies have to include certain wording on their statements. We all know how humorous banks can be, but this is by far the funniest I’ve seen.
We always pay off our credit cards each month. But some time ago (back before the “credit crisis”) we had a 1% cash-advance offer, good for the life of the balance. Sort of like nearly free money until we decided to pay it off. Even in this stupid, scary, weird financial market, I figured I could make more in interest or appreciation on that loan.So now, with the new credit-disclosure laws, card companies have to include certain wording on their statements. We all know how humorous banks can be, but this is by far the funniest I’ve seen.
29 April 2010
07 April 2010
April 7, 2010 Photo
My skills with photo manipulation are abysmal, but I like this old image from Amsterdam.
02 April 2010
11 March 2010
Photo March 11, 2010
Fort Flagler State Park, Marrowstone Island, Washington(Yea, we were shocked to see blue skies, too.)
07 March 2010
03 March 2010
27 February 2010
26 February 2010
The BBC On the Healthcare Summit
I just read a rather long (for the web) BBC (UK) news article about yesterday’s healthcare summit. Their final sentence says it all. “The US is the world’s richest nation and the only industrialised democracy that does not provide healthcare coverage to all its citizens.”
25 February 2010
Another Chapter - The Cooking School of Life
A Ride to the Beach in Cuba
by Ken Hulick © 2009
Sweat droplets make little splotches on the pavement, then slowly dry in the hot, humid air. Beer helps a bit, and it’s only a buck a can. One walks slowly, on the shady side of the street. We pause to appreciate – admire is too strong a word in this car’s case – a blue 1959 Chevrolet Impala. Scott asks the two men seated nearby if the car is theirs and if he can take pictures. The owner is quiet, almost shy, but nods his head OK.
“Do you want to go to the beach?” asks the other man. The car owner doesn’t seem to speak any English, but his agent speaks passably well. Scott speaks some Spanish but doesn’t always understand the usually rapid responses; while I understand quite a bit but my speaking is so rusty that I’m not good at stringing sentences together. Most of the time, if we’re together, Scott talks and I listen and translate. It’s kinda funny, in a way, until much later in the trip when a beautiful woman in Mexico mistakenly thinks Scott and I are a gay couple.
So for five dollars each, they’ll drive us to the beach about 10 kilometers away. We think it might just be a tiny bit cooler, plus we can swim and maybe get a little breeze.
The car isn’t particularly pristine, either on the inside or the outside. And very, very far from original. The bright red dash looks good, but seats, floorboards, headliner, and maybe even the steering wheel have been replaced sometime over the previous 40-some years. The glove compartment door opens into empty space. The sky blue exterior appears to have been painted with house paint. And, from the sounds coming from the engine, wheels, and drivetrain, the mechanical parts aren’t in any better shape.
Within a few minutes we’re out of Trinidad’s town limits. A few minutes later we’re on the side of the road. Sputtering, stalling sounds, then a dead engine, and we coast to a stop. There’s not much need to pull very far over, as there’s little traffic.
“Out of gas,” the agent explains. We all get out of the car to assist – isn’t that what males do everywhere in the world? Even two Americans and two Cubans in a ’59 Chevy? If we’ve guessed right about the car’s age and heritage, it would be one of the last American road warriors imported before the revolution.
The driver goes to the back, opens the trunk, and takes out a gallon plastic milk carton of gasoline. He walks to the front, opens the hood, and pours the gas into a small tank inside the engine compartment. We’re witnessing another example of no-spare-parts innovation.
All the Cubans who own classic old American cars think that when relations between America and their country normalize, that wealthy American car collectors will be flocking to the island to purchase their relics and make them rich. We really didn’t have the heart to tell any of them that American car collectors want cars in pristine, original condition. We silently wonder if even the engine in our taxi is from Detroit, or instead was pulled out of a Russian Lada and grafted onto this big, blue Chevy.
Back in the car, we go no more than five minutes, and we have to pull over again. “Engine oil light is on.”
This time the driver reappears from the bowels of the trunk with a quart plastic bottle of motor oil that looks like it’s already been used several times. Again, we wonder. Did he drain it from a dead Lada’s engine? Is the oil something semi-bootleg, like the cigar seconds that workers bring home from the cigar factories? Those questions and their answers are beyond the language skills of any of us.
Back on the road, almost beginning to smell the sea breezes, we hear rattling from the back. Outside the car. First it was low gas, then low oil, now it’s low lug nuts. The three lug nuts on the left rear tire are all loose (there should be five). They’re tightened quickly, but Scott gives me a look that clearly says: “Will we be walking back?”
A stretch of Caribbean white sand begins just steps from the car. On the north shore of the island, the coast bears the brunt of the powerful Atlantic. Here, on the southern Caribbean side, we could have been in Cozumel. “We’ll wait for you.” Not a question, but a statement. We said we didn’t know how long we’d be. We silently thought that maybe we really didn’t want to get back in the Chevy. “That OK. We wait.”
Scott hauled his pale body to the water, while I spread my pale body on the beach and read, and later walked down the beach a ways. A young family was sitting in the shade of a palm tree, their car parked right on the beach. The car was in much better condition than our taxi, and I stopped to admire it. “Es tu coche?” “Si. Would you like a drink?” as he handed me a bottle of Havana Club rum.
Havana Club is rum in Cuba – not brown but clear, and about $3 a bottle, although we guessed the locals didn’t pay even that tourist price. You can’t make a decent Mojito in Cuba without Havana Club, and every bar and restaurant claims the best Mojito on the island, some willing to guarantee that they do. We just drank them, not worrying how we’d make good on the “guarantee” if we didn’t like their mix. Although Daiquiris are allegedly as traditional as Mojitos (especially in the mystique of Hemingway’s Havana), the latter were consumed 10 to 1 by everyone we encountered – Cubans and tourists alike.
Scott walked up and mildly berated me for drinking out of a stranger’s bottle. Yet never an adverse thought crossed my mind as I enjoyed a smooth mouthful of my new friend’s gift. Scott, always working, took several photos of the car for possible use in his planned book.
The guys were waiting for us back by the car. We bought everyone Cristal beers and chatted with several of their friends who’d joined the table. The agent appeared to be quite a lady’s man, and had a good-looking chica on each arm. We returned to Trinidad with one girl in the front seat with our driver and agent, and another two girls comfortably close to us in the backseat. It appeared to be just a ride back to town for the girls, not a set-up for us. Anyway, Scott claimed to have given up on women after a recent bad relationship, and our host at the Casa Particular where we were staying made it very clear that “guests” weren’t acceptable in his establishment. Besides, the whole phenomena of Cuban-women-and-foreign-men seemed a little too much like prostitution to me, so we said farewell to all our new friends as we left the car.
A British friend of Scott’s who we ran into in Trinidad has been visiting the island for several months a year over the course of many years. Keith was always dreaming of dating Cuban women, but despite many visits he could barely speak a dozen words of Spanish. Keith was the perfect example of the peripatetic travelling Brit who just doesn’t assimilate but always stays a “tourist,” even though he had spent years in China, Thailand, Africa, and other far-flung destinations.
Keith told us a story about being in Havana on one of his first trips, and trying to understand “the women thing” on the island. He asked his taxi driver, “How do you tell which ones are the prostitutes?” The Cuban driver, calm and worldly, replied, “They’re all prostitutes.”
Keith and Scott would sit on the patio of our casa, smoking cigars and exchanging photographer war stories. Tobacco smoke in the states would cause me to cough and cringe, but Cuban tobacco smelled sweet and natural, as natural as mangoes or papaya or a bowl of limes and oranges.
Julio, our casa host, was also a photographer, and he organizes photo workshops in Trinidad. He loved showing his work, and I was happy to see his collection. Julio had two guest rooms, and the other was occupied by a Canadian man and his stunning South African girlfriend. They were sweet people, interested in Julio’s work, but somehow just didn’t seem to fit into the fabric of Cuba. The Canadian always wore a Guayabera, the prototypical Cuban man’s shirt. Scott hated Guayaberas, saying, “Why would I want to go around looking like a dentist?”
Finally, it was time to move on to another destination on our trip, so we found a driver who would take us back to Havana – cheaper, hotter, and much more Cuban than the sterile, air-conditioned Viazul tourist bus we’d arrived on. Keith, Scott, and I crammed into a middle-aged Russian Lada which never so much as hiccupped on the entire five-hour drive. The driver spoke no English; Scott asked questions; I translated; and Keith kept talking about the women at the Casa de la Trova (music venue) the night before who he should have asked to dance.
by Ken Hulick © 2009
Sweat droplets make little splotches on the pavement, then slowly dry in the hot, humid air. Beer helps a bit, and it’s only a buck a can. One walks slowly, on the shady side of the street. We pause to appreciate – admire is too strong a word in this car’s case – a blue 1959 Chevrolet Impala. Scott asks the two men seated nearby if the car is theirs and if he can take pictures. The owner is quiet, almost shy, but nods his head OK.
“Do you want to go to the beach?” asks the other man. The car owner doesn’t seem to speak any English, but his agent speaks passably well. Scott speaks some Spanish but doesn’t always understand the usually rapid responses; while I understand quite a bit but my speaking is so rusty that I’m not good at stringing sentences together. Most of the time, if we’re together, Scott talks and I listen and translate. It’s kinda funny, in a way, until much later in the trip when a beautiful woman in Mexico mistakenly thinks Scott and I are a gay couple.
So for five dollars each, they’ll drive us to the beach about 10 kilometers away. We think it might just be a tiny bit cooler, plus we can swim and maybe get a little breeze.
The car isn’t particularly pristine, either on the inside or the outside. And very, very far from original. The bright red dash looks good, but seats, floorboards, headliner, and maybe even the steering wheel have been replaced sometime over the previous 40-some years. The glove compartment door opens into empty space. The sky blue exterior appears to have been painted with house paint. And, from the sounds coming from the engine, wheels, and drivetrain, the mechanical parts aren’t in any better shape.
Within a few minutes we’re out of Trinidad’s town limits. A few minutes later we’re on the side of the road. Sputtering, stalling sounds, then a dead engine, and we coast to a stop. There’s not much need to pull very far over, as there’s little traffic.
“Out of gas,” the agent explains. We all get out of the car to assist – isn’t that what males do everywhere in the world? Even two Americans and two Cubans in a ’59 Chevy? If we’ve guessed right about the car’s age and heritage, it would be one of the last American road warriors imported before the revolution.
The driver goes to the back, opens the trunk, and takes out a gallon plastic milk carton of gasoline. He walks to the front, opens the hood, and pours the gas into a small tank inside the engine compartment. We’re witnessing another example of no-spare-parts innovation.
All the Cubans who own classic old American cars think that when relations between America and their country normalize, that wealthy American car collectors will be flocking to the island to purchase their relics and make them rich. We really didn’t have the heart to tell any of them that American car collectors want cars in pristine, original condition. We silently wonder if even the engine in our taxi is from Detroit, or instead was pulled out of a Russian Lada and grafted onto this big, blue Chevy.
Back in the car, we go no more than five minutes, and we have to pull over again. “Engine oil light is on.”
This time the driver reappears from the bowels of the trunk with a quart plastic bottle of motor oil that looks like it’s already been used several times. Again, we wonder. Did he drain it from a dead Lada’s engine? Is the oil something semi-bootleg, like the cigar seconds that workers bring home from the cigar factories? Those questions and their answers are beyond the language skills of any of us.
Back on the road, almost beginning to smell the sea breezes, we hear rattling from the back. Outside the car. First it was low gas, then low oil, now it’s low lug nuts. The three lug nuts on the left rear tire are all loose (there should be five). They’re tightened quickly, but Scott gives me a look that clearly says: “Will we be walking back?”
A stretch of Caribbean white sand begins just steps from the car. On the north shore of the island, the coast bears the brunt of the powerful Atlantic. Here, on the southern Caribbean side, we could have been in Cozumel. “We’ll wait for you.” Not a question, but a statement. We said we didn’t know how long we’d be. We silently thought that maybe we really didn’t want to get back in the Chevy. “That OK. We wait.”
Scott hauled his pale body to the water, while I spread my pale body on the beach and read, and later walked down the beach a ways. A young family was sitting in the shade of a palm tree, their car parked right on the beach. The car was in much better condition than our taxi, and I stopped to admire it. “Es tu coche?” “Si. Would you like a drink?” as he handed me a bottle of Havana Club rum.
Havana Club is rum in Cuba – not brown but clear, and about $3 a bottle, although we guessed the locals didn’t pay even that tourist price. You can’t make a decent Mojito in Cuba without Havana Club, and every bar and restaurant claims the best Mojito on the island, some willing to guarantee that they do. We just drank them, not worrying how we’d make good on the “guarantee” if we didn’t like their mix. Although Daiquiris are allegedly as traditional as Mojitos (especially in the mystique of Hemingway’s Havana), the latter were consumed 10 to 1 by everyone we encountered – Cubans and tourists alike.
Scott walked up and mildly berated me for drinking out of a stranger’s bottle. Yet never an adverse thought crossed my mind as I enjoyed a smooth mouthful of my new friend’s gift. Scott, always working, took several photos of the car for possible use in his planned book.
The guys were waiting for us back by the car. We bought everyone Cristal beers and chatted with several of their friends who’d joined the table. The agent appeared to be quite a lady’s man, and had a good-looking chica on each arm. We returned to Trinidad with one girl in the front seat with our driver and agent, and another two girls comfortably close to us in the backseat. It appeared to be just a ride back to town for the girls, not a set-up for us. Anyway, Scott claimed to have given up on women after a recent bad relationship, and our host at the Casa Particular where we were staying made it very clear that “guests” weren’t acceptable in his establishment. Besides, the whole phenomena of Cuban-women-and-foreign-men seemed a little too much like prostitution to me, so we said farewell to all our new friends as we left the car.
A British friend of Scott’s who we ran into in Trinidad has been visiting the island for several months a year over the course of many years. Keith was always dreaming of dating Cuban women, but despite many visits he could barely speak a dozen words of Spanish. Keith was the perfect example of the peripatetic travelling Brit who just doesn’t assimilate but always stays a “tourist,” even though he had spent years in China, Thailand, Africa, and other far-flung destinations.
Keith told us a story about being in Havana on one of his first trips, and trying to understand “the women thing” on the island. He asked his taxi driver, “How do you tell which ones are the prostitutes?” The Cuban driver, calm and worldly, replied, “They’re all prostitutes.”
Keith and Scott would sit on the patio of our casa, smoking cigars and exchanging photographer war stories. Tobacco smoke in the states would cause me to cough and cringe, but Cuban tobacco smelled sweet and natural, as natural as mangoes or papaya or a bowl of limes and oranges.
Julio, our casa host, was also a photographer, and he organizes photo workshops in Trinidad. He loved showing his work, and I was happy to see his collection. Julio had two guest rooms, and the other was occupied by a Canadian man and his stunning South African girlfriend. They were sweet people, interested in Julio’s work, but somehow just didn’t seem to fit into the fabric of Cuba. The Canadian always wore a Guayabera, the prototypical Cuban man’s shirt. Scott hated Guayaberas, saying, “Why would I want to go around looking like a dentist?”
Finally, it was time to move on to another destination on our trip, so we found a driver who would take us back to Havana – cheaper, hotter, and much more Cuban than the sterile, air-conditioned Viazul tourist bus we’d arrived on. Keith, Scott, and I crammed into a middle-aged Russian Lada which never so much as hiccupped on the entire five-hour drive. The driver spoke no English; Scott asked questions; I translated; and Keith kept talking about the women at the Casa de la Trova (music venue) the night before who he should have asked to dance.
Chapter from The Cooking School of Life
A Pig Leg in Prague
by Ken Hulick © 2009
I still actually like meat, although I very seldom eat it and we never cook it at home. We recently came close with Escargot (snails), and sometimes our thick, rare tuna steaks are almost meat-like, but I just don’t miss meat or poultry. Much.
Our honeymoon was the first big international trip we took together – about a year after we married. (That’s how it happens when you marry later in life.) Francesca had previously done the hippie-trail travel to New Zealand and Ecuador, and of course the just-out-of-college Western Europe tour too many years ago for her to remember much of any place. I’d been to Europe only once, and really wanted to see Eastern Europe.
We learned about how we travel with each other (we take turns being pissy); about who does the planning (Francesca arranges lodging, I do transportation); and all about our sleep/jet lag/eat/rest schedules (simply too much information).
In Prague, we stayed in a very odd, but nice, “Botel.” This was a floating hotel (a Boat and a Hotel, get it?) built from scratch to look like a large canal boat – porthole windows, dark wood, lots of brass. The Botel Admiral is permanently anchored on the Vltava river, about a 15-minute walk from central Prague across the Charles bridge. We strolled into the city center for sightseeing and dinner several times.
We were dining at an outside table, drinking real Czech Budvar (Budweiser). Francesca had a light Bud (not a "Bud Light"), and I had a dark Budvar (even being a homebrewer, I’d never heard of dark pilsner before). Francesca ordered some oh-so-exciting-looking grilled zucchini and cheese course (yawn), and I decided upon a roast pork dish. I figured, when in Prague, drinking a Czech Bud, well ....
Francesca’s meal came out first, and I was just about to get annoyed about us not being served together. Then I understood – the waiter needed both hands for my dinner. The pig shank arrived, looking like nothing so much as a miniature suckling pig. Yes it was just a leg, about 12 inches long, but was suspended upon a contraption that looked like a medieval torture device. The meat was nearly falling off the bone, the pork was so tender. I think I was actually drooling. And then I took my gaze from the pig leg to look at Francesca.
Although she’s been (mostly) a vegetarian for years, she is not the squeamish type – rare red meat on a plate for the diner next to her; an ex who lived for barbecued meat – these things do not bother her. She has been an EMT, veterinary assistant, and ambulance driver – not jobs for the squeamish. But the look on her face as she watched me watch the pig leg.... We both started to laugh – we probably looked and sounded like really loud and immature Americans.
Only a few months ago, we were reminiscing about The Pig Leg In Prague, and Francesca asked me if there were any “meats” that I really missed. I considered the question for awhile, not wanting to make a flippant response and also to give myself time to really think about my answer and my reasoning. What it came down to was pork. I think pork chops would be the only thing I could really have any interest in cooking in our home again. I enjoy duck in restaurants, and I never, ever pass up a traditional Thanksgiving turkey dinner. But otherwise, I don’t think I’ll ever really miss beef or poultry (chicken) again.
The pork industry some years ago had an ad campaign about “The Other White Meat.” And I guess that’s why I preferred pork to beef or chicken – I think it’s the most versatile meat, able to be used in myriad ways, with many different sauces, and can be paired with more different side dishes than either beef or poultry.
Pork with a Zinfandel blueberry sauce and a side of red cabbage and apples? Yes with pork, but not, I think, with beef or poultry. Pork baked with tomatoes and onions, and paired with a side of steamed potatoes? Pork talks; beef and chicken walk. Conversely, take most beef recipes – barbecue, shredded in tacos, meatloaf, beef Wellington – and I can probably adapt most of them to work well with pork. Similarly, I’d easily be able to convert a Chicken Cordon Bleu recipe (with cheese and ham) to work with pork. And wine? Pork can go well with a monster Zinfandel, an elegant Pinot Noir, a creamy Chardonnay, or a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Although the rules of wine and food pairing were thrown out years ago, it is harder to match beef or chicken with “any” wine.
Eating In Europe
Europeans sometimes make fun of Americans for switching hands while eating. We start with our fork in our left hand and cut with the knife in our right (if we’re right-handed), then we set the knife down, switch the fork to our other hand, and eat. Europeans never put down either utensil, and don’t switch hands. The knife is constantly used for cutting and pushing (when it’s not being waved in the air to make a conversational point), and the fork (mostly with tines down) is the stabbing and eating implement.
Of course, most food rules are made to be broken. Who cares how you use a fork and knife? Or whether you scoop soup from the bowl with your soup spoon from back to front (as most of us do), from front to back (as many Europeans do), or drink it from the bowl using both hands (as the Japanese do). I found it pretty funny the first time I saw a Chinese soup spoon offered at a Japanese restaurant in the U.S. No sense bucking tradition and making it harder to enjoy your meal.
by Ken Hulick © 2009
I still actually like meat, although I very seldom eat it and we never cook it at home. We recently came close with Escargot (snails), and sometimes our thick, rare tuna steaks are almost meat-like, but I just don’t miss meat or poultry. Much.
Our honeymoon was the first big international trip we took together – about a year after we married. (That’s how it happens when you marry later in life.) Francesca had previously done the hippie-trail travel to New Zealand and Ecuador, and of course the just-out-of-college Western Europe tour too many years ago for her to remember much of any place. I’d been to Europe only once, and really wanted to see Eastern Europe.
We learned about how we travel with each other (we take turns being pissy); about who does the planning (Francesca arranges lodging, I do transportation); and all about our sleep/jet lag/eat/rest schedules (simply too much information).
In Prague, we stayed in a very odd, but nice, “Botel.” This was a floating hotel (a Boat and a Hotel, get it?) built from scratch to look like a large canal boat – porthole windows, dark wood, lots of brass. The Botel Admiral is permanently anchored on the Vltava river, about a 15-minute walk from central Prague across the Charles bridge. We strolled into the city center for sightseeing and dinner several times.
We were dining at an outside table, drinking real Czech Budvar (Budweiser). Francesca had a light Bud (not a "Bud Light"), and I had a dark Budvar (even being a homebrewer, I’d never heard of dark pilsner before). Francesca ordered some oh-so-exciting-looking grilled zucchini and cheese course (yawn), and I decided upon a roast pork dish. I figured, when in Prague, drinking a Czech Bud, well ....
Francesca’s meal came out first, and I was just about to get annoyed about us not being served together. Then I understood – the waiter needed both hands for my dinner. The pig shank arrived, looking like nothing so much as a miniature suckling pig. Yes it was just a leg, about 12 inches long, but was suspended upon a contraption that looked like a medieval torture device. The meat was nearly falling off the bone, the pork was so tender. I think I was actually drooling. And then I took my gaze from the pig leg to look at Francesca.
Although she’s been (mostly) a vegetarian for years, she is not the squeamish type – rare red meat on a plate for the diner next to her; an ex who lived for barbecued meat – these things do not bother her. She has been an EMT, veterinary assistant, and ambulance driver – not jobs for the squeamish. But the look on her face as she watched me watch the pig leg.... We both started to laugh – we probably looked and sounded like really loud and immature Americans.
Only a few months ago, we were reminiscing about The Pig Leg In Prague, and Francesca asked me if there were any “meats” that I really missed. I considered the question for awhile, not wanting to make a flippant response and also to give myself time to really think about my answer and my reasoning. What it came down to was pork. I think pork chops would be the only thing I could really have any interest in cooking in our home again. I enjoy duck in restaurants, and I never, ever pass up a traditional Thanksgiving turkey dinner. But otherwise, I don’t think I’ll ever really miss beef or poultry (chicken) again.
The pork industry some years ago had an ad campaign about “The Other White Meat.” And I guess that’s why I preferred pork to beef or chicken – I think it’s the most versatile meat, able to be used in myriad ways, with many different sauces, and can be paired with more different side dishes than either beef or poultry.
Pork with a Zinfandel blueberry sauce and a side of red cabbage and apples? Yes with pork, but not, I think, with beef or poultry. Pork baked with tomatoes and onions, and paired with a side of steamed potatoes? Pork talks; beef and chicken walk. Conversely, take most beef recipes – barbecue, shredded in tacos, meatloaf, beef Wellington – and I can probably adapt most of them to work well with pork. Similarly, I’d easily be able to convert a Chicken Cordon Bleu recipe (with cheese and ham) to work with pork. And wine? Pork can go well with a monster Zinfandel, an elegant Pinot Noir, a creamy Chardonnay, or a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Although the rules of wine and food pairing were thrown out years ago, it is harder to match beef or chicken with “any” wine.
Eating In Europe
Europeans sometimes make fun of Americans for switching hands while eating. We start with our fork in our left hand and cut with the knife in our right (if we’re right-handed), then we set the knife down, switch the fork to our other hand, and eat. Europeans never put down either utensil, and don’t switch hands. The knife is constantly used for cutting and pushing (when it’s not being waved in the air to make a conversational point), and the fork (mostly with tines down) is the stabbing and eating implement.
Of course, most food rules are made to be broken. Who cares how you use a fork and knife? Or whether you scoop soup from the bowl with your soup spoon from back to front (as most of us do), from front to back (as many Europeans do), or drink it from the bowl using both hands (as the Japanese do). I found it pretty funny the first time I saw a Chinese soup spoon offered at a Japanese restaurant in the U.S. No sense bucking tradition and making it harder to enjoy your meal.
Old Article - Ski Industry Marketing
(Previously published in Ski Area Management)
An Opinionated Inside/Outside View of Ski Industry Marketing
by Ken Hulick
I admit it. I was a short-timer in the industry. I worked as Communications Director for a medium-sized ski resort – Purgatory Resort in Durango, Colorado – for only two winter seasons. But I’ve been in the marketing business my entire professional life. And in skiing I see an industry sorely lacking in hard-core marketing muscle.
The ski industry wrings its hands over flat skier numbers; over pricing; over competition from other travel and tourism options. Yet these dilemmas are primarily (but not solely) the symptoms of its underachieving marketing.
Most of the marketing I’ve witnessed coming from the ski industry is either woefully behind the times or consists of jumping on the flash-and-dash bandwagon. The industry seems to not be very aware of the marketing, advertising, and psychological research which has been in existence for decades (David Ogilvy’s books from 40 years ago are excellent examples). Either unaware or unbelieving.
A professional marketer of my acquaintance (who also holds an MBA) once said to me, “most of the marketing I’ve seen in the ski industry lacks the marketing ‘mental horsepower’ that nearly every other industry uses.” Is this because a lot of ski resorts have marketing guys who have risen through the ranks from ski instructor to ski school director to marketing director but who have never been out of Dodge?
My take on the prime reason the ski industry’s marketing seems so limited is – please sit down now – the “we’re so cool” factor. In my short stint in the industry, I was constantly amazed by the attitude expressed within the industry – overtly as well as subtly – that people should be skiing because it’s such a bitchin’ thing to do. That people should be skiing because we’re in such a cool sport that they should be having fun just being associated with us. Every industry event I attended was full of (with exceptions, of course) folks so cocksure of their coolness just because they were in the ski industry.
Folks, wake up. How we think of ourselves has very little to do with how our potential customers view us. This is an insidious trap similar to “marketing to yourself.” In marketing to yourself, we believe that an ad (or web site, promotion program, whatever) works because we like it – “we” being the CEO, ski area marketing director, retail director, sales guy at the consumer ski show. The same goes for our inner coolness. If we expect customers to come skiing because it’s cool (because we think it’s cool and we’ve told them it’s cool), we’ll continue to see flat numbers and flatter profits.
Putting butts on chairlifts is – on many levels – exactly the same as putting butts in airline seats, selling beer and burgers at a NASCAR race, getting new customers to your bank, hawking the latest laptop computer, or selling an extra three cases of Doritos from the grocery store shelves. The recent price wars are illustrative. Bogus Basin in Idaho reduced their season pass prices dramatically and saw a great response. Many Colorado resorts came up with a buddy pass or discounted pricing options. Yet I’d like to ask how many of those resorts actually applied proven pricing strategies and principles when deciding on their pricing structure. Mike Shirley from Bogus Basin said, at the NSAA conference in Snowbird this past January, that they came up with their season-pass price of $199 because (I paraphrase), “it had to be a significant reduction and we thought under 200 was a magic price point.” In their case it’s worked (in the short term), but if you sold motorcycles or cereal would you set your retail price that way?
In a recent Rocky Mountain News article, Sergio Zyman, former chief marketing officer for the Coca-Cola Company, chided the ski industry “as an example of old-style marketing that is no longer effective. It’s no longer good enough to simply make someone feel good about your product. You must give consumers a reason for spending money on it.”
Sponsorships are yet another example. The mountain bike industry, while small compared to skiing, seems much more sophisticated in regard to outside-the-industry sponsorships. (Although the mountain-bike industry’s advertising seems just as clueless.) The ski industry seems to be leaving a lot of marketing power on the table in regards to its outside sponsorships. Our sponsorships should become significant fusion marketing efforts that multiply our reach far beyond what’s currently being achieved.
The basic principals of marketing are the same no matter what your product. Chocolates or chairlifts. Airline seats or snow. Yet how many of you reading this know the five steps the customer goes through in the buying process? How many of you can cite the research about the effectiveness of left-hand vs. right-hand ad pages (don’t assume now!), black-and-white vs. color, frequency vs. size? Who out there knows why the direct marketing industry sends you half-a-dozen separate sheets of paper with little peel-off stickers when it asks you to join the CD club? Who among the marketers in this industry knows what “cognitive dissonance” means and how it applies to advertising?
Take this test. Grab a copy of Ski or Skiing, find some ads which have run several issues, and tape over or crayon out the name of the product, resort, etc. Then ask 10 readers (not the guys on your sales staff or anyone at your resort – ask real customers and folks who read Ski and Skiing) to glance at the ads and tell you who the advertiser is. Or poll the marketing guys in the industry and see how many actually have degrees in marketing; which ones have come from large agencies; or who have managed successful marketing campaigns outside the ski industry.
Marketing by trial-and-error was done decades ago in many industries. Do we in the ski industry really have a clue as to what the customer wants in the way of pass prices, window prices, freebies, specials, deals, packages, snow reports, events? Do we understand how to present and differentiate our USP (unique selling proposition) and do we know what benefit statements connect most deeply with our consumer? Are we packaging lifts, lodging, rentals in the most compelling manner for the consumer, or are we creating our packages by copying what everyone else does? Has anyone asked the customer lately what type of package they want?
At the same NSAA conference cited above, several outside-the-industry presenters (including Nolan Rosall from RRC Assoc. and Rob Smith from Focal Point/Z-Sport) noted that the ski industry is very low on the scale of marketing research; of understanding customers; and of pricing to customers’ desires. These outside experts were surprised that the industry was “shocked” that ski school revenues increased at Northstar after the resort began offering free lessons. Shocked? Has anyone out there been to the grocery store lately? Do sales of Ritz crackers go down when the nice little ladies give away free samples of Ritz in the aisles? Maybe we should give away free ski lessons with every shaped ski rental, and free shaped ski rentals with every lesson. (Actually, we shouldn’t. That would be how ski-industry marketing has been done in the past. What needs to be done first is research into the customer’s wants and needs. Only then should we offer free lessons or rentals or whatever.)
I don’t mean to say there aren’t smart, professional, successful marketers in the industry. Yet I do know that when I chatted with many marketing people in this industry that few seemed to have the basic marketing foundation skills and knowledge usually taken for granted in other fields. Maybe if the ski industry was run by folks more interested in databases than in spreadsheets; by people with backgrounds in direct mail rather than in real estate; then we might see a lot more research-based, targeted, creative, and effective marketing.
The snowsports industry has done some wonderful things. And the industry is moving in some good directions (year-round resorts and activities, selling the overall mountain “experience”), but from this outsider’s view the industry is still treading water, talking to itself, stuck in the past, and too busy being cool. This is a fantastic sport and industry. It still has tremendous untapped potential.
An Opinionated Inside/Outside View of Ski Industry Marketing
by Ken Hulick
I admit it. I was a short-timer in the industry. I worked as Communications Director for a medium-sized ski resort – Purgatory Resort in Durango, Colorado – for only two winter seasons. But I’ve been in the marketing business my entire professional life. And in skiing I see an industry sorely lacking in hard-core marketing muscle.
The ski industry wrings its hands over flat skier numbers; over pricing; over competition from other travel and tourism options. Yet these dilemmas are primarily (but not solely) the symptoms of its underachieving marketing.
Most of the marketing I’ve witnessed coming from the ski industry is either woefully behind the times or consists of jumping on the flash-and-dash bandwagon. The industry seems to not be very aware of the marketing, advertising, and psychological research which has been in existence for decades (David Ogilvy’s books from 40 years ago are excellent examples). Either unaware or unbelieving.
A professional marketer of my acquaintance (who also holds an MBA) once said to me, “most of the marketing I’ve seen in the ski industry lacks the marketing ‘mental horsepower’ that nearly every other industry uses.” Is this because a lot of ski resorts have marketing guys who have risen through the ranks from ski instructor to ski school director to marketing director but who have never been out of Dodge?
My take on the prime reason the ski industry’s marketing seems so limited is – please sit down now – the “we’re so cool” factor. In my short stint in the industry, I was constantly amazed by the attitude expressed within the industry – overtly as well as subtly – that people should be skiing because it’s such a bitchin’ thing to do. That people should be skiing because we’re in such a cool sport that they should be having fun just being associated with us. Every industry event I attended was full of (with exceptions, of course) folks so cocksure of their coolness just because they were in the ski industry.
Folks, wake up. How we think of ourselves has very little to do with how our potential customers view us. This is an insidious trap similar to “marketing to yourself.” In marketing to yourself, we believe that an ad (or web site, promotion program, whatever) works because we like it – “we” being the CEO, ski area marketing director, retail director, sales guy at the consumer ski show. The same goes for our inner coolness. If we expect customers to come skiing because it’s cool (because we think it’s cool and we’ve told them it’s cool), we’ll continue to see flat numbers and flatter profits.
Putting butts on chairlifts is – on many levels – exactly the same as putting butts in airline seats, selling beer and burgers at a NASCAR race, getting new customers to your bank, hawking the latest laptop computer, or selling an extra three cases of Doritos from the grocery store shelves. The recent price wars are illustrative. Bogus Basin in Idaho reduced their season pass prices dramatically and saw a great response. Many Colorado resorts came up with a buddy pass or discounted pricing options. Yet I’d like to ask how many of those resorts actually applied proven pricing strategies and principles when deciding on their pricing structure. Mike Shirley from Bogus Basin said, at the NSAA conference in Snowbird this past January, that they came up with their season-pass price of $199 because (I paraphrase), “it had to be a significant reduction and we thought under 200 was a magic price point.” In their case it’s worked (in the short term), but if you sold motorcycles or cereal would you set your retail price that way?
In a recent Rocky Mountain News article, Sergio Zyman, former chief marketing officer for the Coca-Cola Company, chided the ski industry “as an example of old-style marketing that is no longer effective. It’s no longer good enough to simply make someone feel good about your product. You must give consumers a reason for spending money on it.”
Sponsorships are yet another example. The mountain bike industry, while small compared to skiing, seems much more sophisticated in regard to outside-the-industry sponsorships. (Although the mountain-bike industry’s advertising seems just as clueless.) The ski industry seems to be leaving a lot of marketing power on the table in regards to its outside sponsorships. Our sponsorships should become significant fusion marketing efforts that multiply our reach far beyond what’s currently being achieved.
The basic principals of marketing are the same no matter what your product. Chocolates or chairlifts. Airline seats or snow. Yet how many of you reading this know the five steps the customer goes through in the buying process? How many of you can cite the research about the effectiveness of left-hand vs. right-hand ad pages (don’t assume now!), black-and-white vs. color, frequency vs. size? Who out there knows why the direct marketing industry sends you half-a-dozen separate sheets of paper with little peel-off stickers when it asks you to join the CD club? Who among the marketers in this industry knows what “cognitive dissonance” means and how it applies to advertising?
Take this test. Grab a copy of Ski or Skiing, find some ads which have run several issues, and tape over or crayon out the name of the product, resort, etc. Then ask 10 readers (not the guys on your sales staff or anyone at your resort – ask real customers and folks who read Ski and Skiing) to glance at the ads and tell you who the advertiser is. Or poll the marketing guys in the industry and see how many actually have degrees in marketing; which ones have come from large agencies; or who have managed successful marketing campaigns outside the ski industry.
Marketing by trial-and-error was done decades ago in many industries. Do we in the ski industry really have a clue as to what the customer wants in the way of pass prices, window prices, freebies, specials, deals, packages, snow reports, events? Do we understand how to present and differentiate our USP (unique selling proposition) and do we know what benefit statements connect most deeply with our consumer? Are we packaging lifts, lodging, rentals in the most compelling manner for the consumer, or are we creating our packages by copying what everyone else does? Has anyone asked the customer lately what type of package they want?
At the same NSAA conference cited above, several outside-the-industry presenters (including Nolan Rosall from RRC Assoc. and Rob Smith from Focal Point/Z-Sport) noted that the ski industry is very low on the scale of marketing research; of understanding customers; and of pricing to customers’ desires. These outside experts were surprised that the industry was “shocked” that ski school revenues increased at Northstar after the resort began offering free lessons. Shocked? Has anyone out there been to the grocery store lately? Do sales of Ritz crackers go down when the nice little ladies give away free samples of Ritz in the aisles? Maybe we should give away free ski lessons with every shaped ski rental, and free shaped ski rentals with every lesson. (Actually, we shouldn’t. That would be how ski-industry marketing has been done in the past. What needs to be done first is research into the customer’s wants and needs. Only then should we offer free lessons or rentals or whatever.)
I don’t mean to say there aren’t smart, professional, successful marketers in the industry. Yet I do know that when I chatted with many marketing people in this industry that few seemed to have the basic marketing foundation skills and knowledge usually taken for granted in other fields. Maybe if the ski industry was run by folks more interested in databases than in spreadsheets; by people with backgrounds in direct mail rather than in real estate; then we might see a lot more research-based, targeted, creative, and effective marketing.
The snowsports industry has done some wonderful things. And the industry is moving in some good directions (year-round resorts and activities, selling the overall mountain “experience”), but from this outsider’s view the industry is still treading water, talking to itself, stuck in the past, and too busy being cool. This is a fantastic sport and industry. It still has tremendous untapped potential.
23 February 2010
09 February 2010
06 February 2010
Capitalism
It’s hard to believe that I’ve never seen this quote before. Now, I don’t know if it’s prescient, scary, crazy, or makes me want to live in Uruguay.
“Capitalism is the extraordinary belief that the nastiest of men, for the nastiest of reasons, will somehow work for the benefit of us all.” – John Maynard Keynes
“Capitalism is the extraordinary belief that the nastiest of men, for the nastiest of reasons, will somehow work for the benefit of us all.” – John Maynard Keynes
30 January 2010
Photo Manipulation
I always insisted I was a “purist” with film photography. I never wanted to do any photo manipulation, enhancing, or even cropping in most cases. Whatever Kodak or Fuji delivered was what I accepted. Yet with digital, I’m slowly beginning to experiment with image modifications.
For example, the color of light is very blue in open shade – is it wrong to remove some of that blue with a computer to make the scene look as I “saw” it? Likewise, in deep shadows, I want an image that looks like it’s in deep shadow – is it OK to darken/modify an image to convey that impression?
I sure don’t have an answer. Here are two examples from the last couple of days. The top image of each pair is the original; the lower image shows my modifications. I'm definitely a babe-in-the-woods so far with image modification.
For example, the color of light is very blue in open shade – is it wrong to remove some of that blue with a computer to make the scene look as I “saw” it? Likewise, in deep shadows, I want an image that looks like it’s in deep shadow – is it OK to darken/modify an image to convey that impression?
I sure don’t have an answer. Here are two examples from the last couple of days. The top image of each pair is the original; the lower image shows my modifications. I'm definitely a babe-in-the-woods so far with image modification.
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28 January 2010
Haiti, Charity, Aid, Life
A few days ago, travel guru Rick Steves posted a blog entry titled “No Aid for Haiti.” He has since taken down the post, saying the removal wasn’t over any sense of political correctness, but rather that the piece was going to be published in a newspaper and he didn’t want to usurp their readers.
I’ve read the original post (it’s still available online by searching for the title phrase), and it really isn’t at all inflammatory. Nor are most of the comments reactionary (in either direction). His post is actually about the culture of “helping,” especially from a Big Brother attitude (my phrase, not Rick’s) so prevalent with governments around the world.
On some levels, I totally agree. Jumping on the Disaster Relief bandwagon every time something goes awry in the world makes us feel good as individuals, yet as individuals our efforts are generally so diluted as to be nearly meaningless (except to our sense of doing good), lost among the vast sums coming from governments and large, established charity organizations. (Many journalists and other observers have felt that all the aid that has been poured into Africa – as an example – simply helps the corrupt governments stay in power and makes the aid organizations feel good about driving around in brand-new white SUVs.)
I’ve contributed to charitable causes throughout my life. I’ve also supported many other types of non-profits with time and contributions. And I’ve settled into a stage in life where I’m not really “cynical” (a word Rick uses in the first paragraph of his piece; saying he’s not cynical, but...), but rather that I’ve come to believe in the “teach-a-man-to-fish” philosophy of help for those less fortunate.
Where this all is going is that while my wife and I have made a few specific contributions toward the relief efforts in Haiti (buying bread from our local baker who was holding a fund-raiser; donating artwork for a Haiti charity auction), we’ve primarily simply added more funding to our Kiva account. Kiva makes loans to people attempting to better their lives. Nearly all of Kiva’s loan recipients repay the loans in full. Then, when our Kiva account balance is refilled, we can designate another loan to another individual. (Kiva’s website – kiva.org – doesn’t even have Haiti information on its front page. It does note that this week alone, the organization made more than $1.2 million in new loans, funding 3,400 new individuals, and that their to-date repayment rate was above 98%. To me this represents sustainable support for the needy.)
This is the kind of ongoing help for others that makes the most sense to me as a form of individual giving. In the past we also supported Heifer International, which purchases farm animals, seed, plants, etc. so people can raise more and better food. Yet to us, while commendable, Heifer still “gives” to others – a subtle difference from “supporting” others. It’s not quite the same as Kiva, which tries to create an environment where the recipients want to succeed and repay their loan and become self-sufficient and self-supporting.
There is no wrong or right way to help other people in need, but for me it’s about making my contributions count. And about helping others obtain a better life – no matter how they define that “better life” nor where in the world they live.
(An aside: I very briefly visited Haiti in the mid 1970s, when Baby Doc was in power. Many homes and businesses had two photos hanging on their walls – weirdly, of Papa Doc and of JFK. The country was a study in contrasts: Ancient women selling coal from donkeys below windows whose shutters displayed posters of blond American models advertising Clairol hair products and Colgate toothpaste. Yes, the poverty was pervasive.)
Malawi Africa, 2007. Photo © Francesca Campbell Hulick
I’ve read the original post (it’s still available online by searching for the title phrase), and it really isn’t at all inflammatory. Nor are most of the comments reactionary (in either direction). His post is actually about the culture of “helping,” especially from a Big Brother attitude (my phrase, not Rick’s) so prevalent with governments around the world.
On some levels, I totally agree. Jumping on the Disaster Relief bandwagon every time something goes awry in the world makes us feel good as individuals, yet as individuals our efforts are generally so diluted as to be nearly meaningless (except to our sense of doing good), lost among the vast sums coming from governments and large, established charity organizations. (Many journalists and other observers have felt that all the aid that has been poured into Africa – as an example – simply helps the corrupt governments stay in power and makes the aid organizations feel good about driving around in brand-new white SUVs.)
I’ve contributed to charitable causes throughout my life. I’ve also supported many other types of non-profits with time and contributions. And I’ve settled into a stage in life where I’m not really “cynical” (a word Rick uses in the first paragraph of his piece; saying he’s not cynical, but...), but rather that I’ve come to believe in the “teach-a-man-to-fish” philosophy of help for those less fortunate.
Where this all is going is that while my wife and I have made a few specific contributions toward the relief efforts in Haiti (buying bread from our local baker who was holding a fund-raiser; donating artwork for a Haiti charity auction), we’ve primarily simply added more funding to our Kiva account. Kiva makes loans to people attempting to better their lives. Nearly all of Kiva’s loan recipients repay the loans in full. Then, when our Kiva account balance is refilled, we can designate another loan to another individual. (Kiva’s website – kiva.org – doesn’t even have Haiti information on its front page. It does note that this week alone, the organization made more than $1.2 million in new loans, funding 3,400 new individuals, and that their to-date repayment rate was above 98%. To me this represents sustainable support for the needy.)
This is the kind of ongoing help for others that makes the most sense to me as a form of individual giving. In the past we also supported Heifer International, which purchases farm animals, seed, plants, etc. so people can raise more and better food. Yet to us, while commendable, Heifer still “gives” to others – a subtle difference from “supporting” others. It’s not quite the same as Kiva, which tries to create an environment where the recipients want to succeed and repay their loan and become self-sufficient and self-supporting.
There is no wrong or right way to help other people in need, but for me it’s about making my contributions count. And about helping others obtain a better life – no matter how they define that “better life” nor where in the world they live.
(An aside: I very briefly visited Haiti in the mid 1970s, when Baby Doc was in power. Many homes and businesses had two photos hanging on their walls – weirdly, of Papa Doc and of JFK. The country was a study in contrasts: Ancient women selling coal from donkeys below windows whose shutters displayed posters of blond American models advertising Clairol hair products and Colgate toothpaste. Yes, the poverty was pervasive.)
Malawi Africa, 2007. Photo © Francesca Campbell Hulick
27 January 2010
24 January 2010
Photo January 24, 2010
When you really can't decide what you want. Discovery Bay, Olympic Peninsula, Washington.
20 January 2010
18 January 2010
Photography Again
Many years ago – far, far too many, actually – I was a photo nerd. Obsessed. For fun; for profit; for... I don’t know what. I loved photography. (I remember an old line: When photographers get together, they talk about lenses and film and cameras. When writers get together, they don't talk about pencils or typewriter ribbons or computer programs.)
Then, film died. Kodachrome was my middle name, and when film started to evaporate I grew despondent. I was probably the last person to actually buy two APS cameras (look it up on Wikipedia).
Nonetheless, in the “old days” I sold quite a few photos as a minor-league, semi-pro photographer. To small- and medium-sized magazines such as Chevy Outdoors, Explore, Westways, Mountain Biking UK, Climbing, Mountain, and quite a few others. Back then, editors of smaller magazines actually appreciated a writer who could take photos. It made their lives easier. Besides, who else even had photos of the Agua Tibia Wilderness to go with my article?
Anyway, it seems like I’m revisiting my youth (or at least my young-middle-age). I finally got a fairly good digital SLR, and am having so much fun with it. Of course, my greedy side is trying to figure out how to make some money from photography again, but....
Despite the fact that I bought my wife a nice Nikon DSLR and several lenses a couple of years ago before her trip to Africa, for myself I still only had a couple of cheap (but decent) “point-and-shoot” digital cameras. But with the new camera, I’ve set myself a challenge. Over the course of a year, I want to take at least one photo a day with the new camera that might be good enough for publication – or good enough for someone to maybe, maybe, maybe want to buy a print.
I’m going to post these photos the day they were taken – maybe not every day, maybe not all of them; but no old stock pix; no images from previous trips (or a previous life) that might have produced some good shots. Just a (maybe) daily photo from the new camera.
Today, a shot from our house on the east side of the Cascade Mountains, Washington.
Then, film died. Kodachrome was my middle name, and when film started to evaporate I grew despondent. I was probably the last person to actually buy two APS cameras (look it up on Wikipedia).
Nonetheless, in the “old days” I sold quite a few photos as a minor-league, semi-pro photographer. To small- and medium-sized magazines such as Chevy Outdoors, Explore, Westways, Mountain Biking UK, Climbing, Mountain, and quite a few others. Back then, editors of smaller magazines actually appreciated a writer who could take photos. It made their lives easier. Besides, who else even had photos of the Agua Tibia Wilderness to go with my article?
Anyway, it seems like I’m revisiting my youth (or at least my young-middle-age). I finally got a fairly good digital SLR, and am having so much fun with it. Of course, my greedy side is trying to figure out how to make some money from photography again, but....
Despite the fact that I bought my wife a nice Nikon DSLR and several lenses a couple of years ago before her trip to Africa, for myself I still only had a couple of cheap (but decent) “point-and-shoot” digital cameras. But with the new camera, I’ve set myself a challenge. Over the course of a year, I want to take at least one photo a day with the new camera that might be good enough for publication – or good enough for someone to maybe, maybe, maybe want to buy a print.
I’m going to post these photos the day they were taken – maybe not every day, maybe not all of them; but no old stock pix; no images from previous trips (or a previous life) that might have produced some good shots. Just a (maybe) daily photo from the new camera.
Today, a shot from our house on the east side of the Cascade Mountains, Washington.
14 January 2010
Haiti Earthquake Relief
If you’re concerned for the people of Haiti, you’re also probably wondering how best to help. Organizations world-wide will be pouring money and resources into the country. Our suggestion is to support Kiva.org, which helps people all over the world become more self-sufficient with micro loans. See Kiva’s comments about the Haiti earthquake relief here. A loan (much more valuable than just a donation) through Kiva can be made in amounts as small as $25.
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