|
|
|
Return to the home page
|
|
|
Education of a Construction Klutz
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
As I've gotten older, I've discovered there aren't as many handy people around as I thought. When I was a kid, everyone I knew could fix things, remodel entire rooms in a weekend, and build a small shed with an axe and three mature pine trees.
Well, almost everyone. My dad wasn't very handy. He could build a few things, but at one point during my childhood, I thought the entire house was held together with duct tape and baling wire. It was only through sheer determination of will, and the fact that the house rattled in a stiff breeze, that my dad finally began calling professionals to fix what he had already fixed.
Unfortunately, I come from a long line of unhandy people. My father's family comes from The Netherlands, and through extensive genealogical research, I've learned that my ancestors have been doctors, engineers, and scientists. According to family legend, there is a statue of one of my relatives near Monnickendam, Netherlands, in commemoration for all his accomplishments as an engineer.
However, none of these men or women were known for being very good with tools, mostly because they were doctors, engineers, and scientists.
Growing up, I thought I had inherited the "complete klutz with tools" gene, recently identified by genetic scientists, one of whom is probably a distant cousin. However, over the years, I've learned how to not only use tools without killing myself or the people around me, but to actually become a halfway-decent builder and woodworker (translation: I still have all my fingers and toes).
Usually this kind of knowledge is passed from father to son. And I did learn quite a few important tips from my dad as I watched him work around the house.
Is the garage door track going to collapse and all you have is baling wire? I can help you with that. Need a temporary fix on a leaky pipe with chewing gum and duct tape? I'm your man. Are you looking for a temporary solution to a problem that actually needs to last for several years? Give me an empty tin can and a hacksaw, and I can fix anything.
Unfortunately, when you have a house of your own and don't have a lot of money, duct tape and steel cans are no way to fix a house AND keep your wife happy. So I had to learn how to be handy. Luckily, I had my father-in-law to teach me all of these things. He was more than happy to help me, despite the fact that I had married his oldest daughter.
All of my knowledge about construction and tools came from him. He took four years to show me how to hammer nails properly, install insulation, wire a house, and hang drywall. He did it with patience, thoroughness, and only had to whack me on the head with a hammer once.
It was a complete accident, of course (although he may not have forgiven me for taking his daughter away from him). We were working on the upstairs of my house. He was standing on a stool, hammering over his head. I walked past him just as he was lowering the hammer.
I quickly had a new respect for nails as the metallic clunk rattled my head. My eyes crossed and my vision went white, like I was staring into a searchlight. I was vaguely aware of my father-in-law apologizing profusely and asking me if I was okay.
But despite the whack on the head, my only thought was "what's the best reaction I could make to get a big laugh?" I wracked the portion of my brain that was still functioning and tried to come up with the funniest response.
"I could fall down. No, that would give him a heart attack. Wait, I could shake my head and make that noise like they do on cartoons. No, my head hurts too much. I could tell him he'll never get rid of me that easily. No. . ." And so on.
I finally realized he was staring at me and trying to get me to answer. I mumbled that I was okay and sat down on a milk crate, disappointed that I couldn't come up with a witty remark, despite my near concussion.
But at the same time, a tiny -- unconcussed -- part of my brain was celebrating. Thanks to all of my construction education, I knew exactly what happened: I had just been whacked with a 16 ounce Estwing claw hammer. I was no longer a "complete klutz with tools."
Of course, everything tasted like apples for a month, but there's usually a trade off with these sorts of things.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of March 4th, 2005)
- Return to the top of the page
- Return to the home page
|
|
|
Guy Injuries: Fact or Fiction?
Laughing Stalk syndicate
Erik Deckers
Copyright 2005
As a Guy, I've always done typical Guy things. I know how to build houses, cook large slabs of meat with fire, and play several different high-impact sports. And like a typical Guy, I've smashed my thumbs, burned my hands, twisted my ankles, and even broken a finger playing football.
"Will I still be able to play the piano?" I asked my doctor.
"Only if you could play it before," he answered.
Nobody likes a smart-aleck, especially one who steps on somebody else's punchline.
Guys take pride in explaining their injuries. We love showing off our battle scars and recounting every bloody detail of how we scored the winning touchdown, despite the fact that our ankle had snapped on the previous play, and we were getting a little light-headed as the blood spurted from our shoulder laceration with every step.
"That was the hardest game of pickup tackle football I've played in years," we boast. "We had two former All-Americans and a retired NFL player."
Our listeners ooh and ah in amazement. Women want us, and mere mortal men want to be us. But they wouldn't if they knew the truth: Guys are notorious liars when it comes to explaining their injuries.
If people really knew how we injured ourselves, not only would they laugh in our faces, they would probably chase us with pitchforks and torches.
While it's true that we played football last weekend, it was flag football at the church picnic. And while we did twist our ankle during the game, it was actually during halftime when we were racing that jerk Pastor Winthrop for the last piece of cherry pie. And the shoulder laceration was actually just a minor scrape you got when the selfish creep chop-blocked you into the picnic table.
But Guys lie about these kinds of things all the time. A Guy will stagger to work, stooped over with a sore back, and groan every time he gets up or sits down. And when he's asked about his injury, he'll say, "I was chopping wood over the weekend, and I tried to lift a tree that was too heavy." What he means is, "I was washing dishes at the sink, and bent over funny to pick up my 17 pound son."
A Guy will show up to work on crutches and tell you he twisted his knee when he crashed his mountain bike. What he means is that he was screwing around with his kid's bike in the front yard and fell when he nearly hit the dog.
A Guy will wear a bandage the size of a baseball and tell you he smashed his thumb while building his new bi-level deck with built-in grill. What he means is his kid smashed his thumb in the toilet seat during potty training.
Guys will even lie to each other about the degree of past injuries. I know this, because I've done this myself on occasion. After bike training, soccer practice, or Ultimate Frisbee, several of us would sit around, drink beer, and recount our past painful, yet manly injuries and try to top each other in terms of severity as well as willingness to play through the pain.
"I once played an entire season of college soccer with tendonitis in my ankle," I would brag. "I went through an entire case of athletic tape in a 13 week season just to be able to practice every day."
One of the Guys in our little injury scrum responded, "Oh yeah? That's nothing. Did I ever tell you about the time my head was knocked off during a soccer game? I kicked it in for the winning goal before I was rushed to the hospital and had it reattached."
Of course, as Guys, we all know the other person is lying (except for me. I really did play for an entire college soccer season with tendonitis). But we'll never acknowledge it. It's all part of the dance of being a Guy. We know the other one is lying, but we can't say anything about it, because he knows we're lying. It's a Sports Injury Stalemate. We can't point out the lie, because it means having to admit to our own lie.
If you thought trying to understand your wife or girlfriend was complicated, try making sense of a Guy Sports Injury Battle Royale. No one really understands what it is we're doing, or why we do it. Even the Guys don't understand it. It's just one of those mysterious Guy activities. Just accept it and move on,
But to set the record straight. I was really the one who kicked that other Guy's head in for the winning goal.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of March 18th, 2005)
- Return to the top of the page
- Return to the home page
|
|
|
Love Letter Marketing 101
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
One day last summer, I was lying in my hammock, drinking a beer and relaxing. I was starting to nod off, when I heard a quiet "ahem."
I opened my eyes and spotted my young neighbor, Jeremy, who had just started the 6th grade a couple weeks earlier.
"Hey, Mr. Deckers," he said. "Taking a nap, huh?"
I congratulated the lad on his keen powers of observation, although I wished he had a better sense of timing.
"What services may I bestow upon you, young Jeremy?" I inquired.
"Huh?"
"What do you want?"
"I need some advice. Mrs. Deckers said you were pathetic with girls when you were my age."
"Oh she did, did she?"
"Yeah. She said you were pretty hopeless until you met her. I figured that if you were as dorky as she said, but you still got married, you must have done something right. So I thought you were probably the best person to help me."
I couldn't fault the little blighter for his logic, but felt I should have a word with Mrs. Deckers later.
"So what do you need?"
"I need some help with a love letter. I'm trying to get Susie Capstone to like me." He held out a neatly folded piece of paper. I looked it over and immediately identified his problem. It looked like what I would have written when I was his age: 'Dear Susie, I like you. Do you like me? Sincerely, Jeremy.'
I turned it over. "Where's the rest of it?"
"That's it. It's short and to the point."
"It needs serious help. It needs the delicate touch of a marketer."
I grabbed a pen from my pocket -- we writers are always prepared -- and started scribbling notes on his paper.
"First you need a USP."
"What's that?"
"Universal Selling Proposition. It's what sets you apart from your competitors."
"My what?"
"Your competitors. Let me ask you this, is Susie pretty?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Do other boys like her too?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, lad, say yes. Speak clearly. Now, these other boys are your competitors. Your USP tells Susie why she should pick you over them." I scribbled a few more notes.
"Now what about an Attention Getter and Benefit Statement?"
Jeremy's glazed look told me he had no clue what this was.
"What's one positive thing that Susie would get by choosing you?"
"I have my own bike. It's a ten speed."
"Good, but that's a feature. A benefit is what she gets. So how does your bike help her?"
"I could give her a ride somewhere."
"Excellent." I scribbled a few more notes. "Now we need a call to action, something for her to do. Research shows that giving a respondent a call to action increases your response rate."
Jeremy could only nod silently. I wrote down one last thing. "What do you think of this?"
'Dearest Susie, You have captivated my heart with your eyes that sparkle like dew on a red rose in the early dawn. Come be my love and we can fly anywhere your heart desires. If you will be mine, please respond with a resounding yes, and pass this note back to Gretchen. I yearn for you, Jeremy."
He looked at me suspiciously. "Are you sure about this?"
"Absolutely."
"Is this how you got Mrs. Deckers?"
"No, that's a whole different story. Now rewrite this in your own handwriting and give it to Susie."
Jeremy still looked unsure, so I started to launch into a lecture about the importance of word of mouth marketing when he said he heard his mother calling and ran off.
A few days later, Jeremy interrupted another nap.
"So what was the final return?" I asked. "Did it work?"
"Well, yes and no. No, Susie is already going with Tyler Marlowe and he nearly beat me up."
I started to offer my condolences, but he held up his hand.
"But," he continued, "she showed it to her friends, and now three girls like me."
"Wow, Referral Marketing. That's really great. I'll bet you're pretty excited about that, huh?"
Jeremy whipped out a pair of sunglasses and stuck them on his face. "You bet. Now I want to create a few different versions of the letter so I can start testing them on different markets. I figure I can improve my customer retention rate by 20% if I pump up the copy and leverage my brand buzz in other schools. Do you know any good freelance copywriters?"
I think I've created a monster.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of March 25th, 2005)
- Return to the top of the page
- Return to the home page
|
|
