The Death of a Salesman

My suggestion: Stan Feldberg, self-proclaimed king of industrial magnet sales.

The Death of a Salesman
Stan Feldberg, owner and founder of Feldberg Magnetics, dies.

By Stacy Beckman
Tribune Staff Reporter
Published July 2, 2006

CHICAGO, Ill. – A man who often called himself – in jest – the king of industrial magnet sales passed away on June 27th.  On July 1st Stan Feldberg's funeral was held at St. Patrick's Catholic Church.  The legendary cathedral was not large enough to hold all of the mourners who wished to attend.  Stan Feldberg, Jr. delivered the eulogy, reprinted below.

My father gave me his name.  A name he made famous.  I've spent my life trying to live up to that name.  It is no small task.  The evidence is in front of me today.  I look around and I see powerful businessmen, influential politicians and loving family.  Mostly, I see people who cared about my dad.

My dad, Stan Feldberg, started Feldberg Magnetics from the ground up and it grew into the nation's leading industrial magnet company.  Now that he's gone, Feldberg Magnetics will be his legacy but it won't be his biggest accomplishment.  His biggest accomplishment is all of the people gathered here today mourning his death.  He's proof that you don't have to be ruthless to be a good businessman. 

My first memory of my father may not even be a memory.  It may just be a story retold enough that I've made it my earliest memory.  Regardless, it stands as the one story that defines who my father is and his outlook on life. 

As many of you may know, my father battled Hodgkin's disease many years ago.   I was about four years old.  My mom would take me to the hospital to visit him.  I hated going to the hospital.  I did not like the way it smelled.  I was frightened by all of the machines and the sick people.  I also hated the idea of my father being in a place like that.  As a huge Star Wars fan, I wanted to believe that my dad was Luke Skywalker and Luke Skywalker did not belong in a hospital.

During one of our many visits to the hospital, we arrived in my dad's room to find him sitting in a wheelchair next to a large machine that was connected to him through a series of tubes and electrodes.  I immediately began to cry. 

I didn't know what the tubes and machine were doing to my dad, but I could only imagine that they were part of the reason that my dad was sick.  I began to cry even harder.  I was afraid to go into the room.  My mom tried to coax me into the room, but I refused. 

My dad turned to me and said, "Junior, what's wrong?"  I just continued to cry.  He smiled at my mom, pointed to the machine beside him and said to me, "Junior, don't worry.  Everything's going to be okay.  They've got R2-D2 taking care of me."  I looked at the machine, stopped crying and jumped up in my dad's lap.

And that's my dad for you.  Even though he was battling cancer, he still found time to make me feel better.  His focus was always outward, never inward.  That's probably why he was such a great salesman.  That's definitely why he was such a great father.


Your suggestion: The girl with dark glasses.

Is it the safety phrase?

My suggestion: Ponies, Ponies, Posy!

"Jenkins, I don't have a problem with the fact that you and your team have created a S&M toy kit for children under the age of 14, but why call it 'Ponies, Ponies, Posy'"

"That's a good question, Chief. But I would like to first point out, that it is not an ordinary S&M kit for children...its a amateur serial rapist kit for children. We think its a winner with our target market. "

"Did you have any other names...and who is the target audience?"

"Well in terms of an audience, we are targeting disillusioned runaways and of course, Catholic Priests."

"Obviously."

"As for names, P.P.P. was our second choice. We wanted to name the product 'Ranger Randy's Randy Rape Kit.' We opted not to use that for two reasons, getting the rights from Fox were...."

"I'm sorry, who is 'Ranger Randy?'"

"He is a cartoon British Kuala bear that gets into adventures throughout the sex clubs of Thailand. Its on Saturday mornings on Fox. Its very popular with the kids."

"I'll have to watch it sometime with my granddaughter. Proceed."

"So we are having trouble with Fox. They insist that the kit include a bottle of 'Ranger Randy' brand chloroform."

"So what's the problem?"

"Well, they are asking that we pay a premium on the chloroform. We figure that we could get chloroform from our own subsidiary, Happy Fun Toys Chemical and Biological Agent Lab, located in India for at least half the cost."

"Hmmm....I can see the dilemma. So why 'Ponies, Ponies, Posy?' or, how did you put it 'P.P.P.?'"

"Well, P.P.P. is another children's television show distributed by Disney via Nickelodeon. Its not nearly as popular as 'Ranger Randy,' but they are practically giving away the license. When I asked if they would be interested in having the P.P.P. gang appear embroidered on a leather hood, they were thrilled! It was an easy sell."

"OK, so what was the other problem with the 'Ranger Randy' people?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"You said you had two problems."

"Oh right, they wanted us to package the product in 100% recyclable material."

"Absolutely not!"

"I figured you would have an objection."

"Damn right I would. This company was founded by my grandfather who expected two things: 1.) We provide fun toys for the non-Jewish children of this earth and 2.) that the toys we make come in non-environmentally friendly packaging."

"Yes sir. I see his statute every morning when I enter the office. His defiant anti-semitism and hatred of the planet is truly missed in this crazy world of tolerance and increasingly more responsible corporate behavior."

"Its a fad. This 'don't pollute the earth' business."

"I agree sir. Not like the good old days."

"No sir, not in the slightest."

Your suggestion: nomenclature

Ponies, Ponies, Posy

My suggestion: Ponies, ponies, posy!

Ponies, ponies, posy
And the mop tee diddly dop
If the nerp tilly sop and plan milly crop
Then smirt de nerdily frop

Ponies, ponies, posy
But sal der mantag in bang
Why krumen sa tang or siggle urn sang
Have chut tol berfen sa kang

Ponies, ponies, posy
For the tuck ree samertal cruck
Will ratten fal puck and dorman sey huck
With tom bal fracken be druck

Ponies, ponies, posy
This rhyme will save you in time
It’s sweet as a lime and soft as a dime
And kills the ninetieth time

Your suggestion: sequential

Key Might Be an Understatement

My suggestion: Kilograms were key

Kilograms were key in my relationship with my husband. My weight constantly fluctuated, based solely on him. Gaining kilograms, and losing them again, all so that he could keep loving me. Don't worry – this isn't that kind of story – the story of a woman who cannot find value in herself, and relies on a man's opinion to determine her self-image. I am not one of those women. I hate those women. Because they have a choice where I do not. Perhaps I should explain, instead of leaving you, patient reader, to flounder in my vagaries, wondering if this will be yet another story of a foolish woman's battle with an eating disorder. Well, I suppose you could call it that. You wouldn't be wrong.

Adam and I met at a support group for people called “Learning to Live Alone”, for people who, well, want to learn to live alone, usually because they are huge losers and can’t find anyone to put up with them for very long. Adam would have seemed wonderful to me even if he hadn't been surrounded by the derelicts that made up the group. There was Dan; mulleted and surly, with a penchant for licking the right corner of his mouth, causing it to be raw and cracked. Gerald had eczema, a short temper, and the simultaneously unexplainable and unmistakable scent of wet cardboard. Ellen S. boasted a superfluous two hundred pounds and a year-round love for wool sweaters, making for quite an impressive display of perspiration and therefore a constant brow-swabbing with the tiny paper napkins provided to us with our snack. Ellen G. was just a bitch. A huge bitch encased in a tiny, pointy body, which was in turn forever encased in a brushed cotton sweater-set. This group led me to a thus-far undisputed theory that all people named Ellen are inherently unlovable. Then there was me, Helen, (barely dodged that bullet) and finally, Adam. He was handsome, sweet, and unendingly patient with the dregs of society, who, every Tuesday, sat on folding chairs in the basement of Emmaus Lutheran Church clutching Styrofoam cups of generic lemon-lime soda, and in one particular case, a handful of wet napkins.

So, why couldn't either one of us, two seemingly normal people, stay in a relationship? As it turns out, it was for the same reason: Pocrescophilial Obsessive Disorder. Pocrescophilial Obsessive Disorder, or P-POD, is an incredibly rare disease which makes you believe that you can’t be in a relationship unless the sum of the two people’s weights remains at a specific number. If one person loses a kilogram, the other has to gain one, and vice versa. Believe me, it’s easier to stay single. It is more than likely that you will go through your entire life never meeting a pocrescophiliac. If you do meet one, you probably won’t know it. So, knowing how rare it is to meet a P-POD sufferer, you’ll appreciate the pure kismet of me meeting one who had the same number as me, (136) and perhaps even be astonished at the fact that he wasn’t a jerk, and we liked each other before we even knew about our little coincidence.

This news came out in the middle of group discussion time, when we pull our semi-padded aluminum chairs into a circle, and attempt some sort of discourse until Ellen G. calls Dan “Jeff Foxherpes” and Ellen S. starts to cry. On that day, however, Adam told his story before the usual melee could ensue. Once I relayed my own similar tale, it was next to impossible to stay seated, listening to Gerald bemoan the superficiality of women who could not see past his flaky red face. (Presumably they would somehow also miss the fact that he was a creep. A creep who smelled like an old box.) I kept glancing at the old scale in the corner, under an outdated poster detailing the four food groups. I’m, pretty sure Adam was doing the same. When, by some miracle, group finally ended, I leapt up and headed across the circle toward him. Unfortunately, Ellen S. beat me there, and proceeded to bawl uncontrollably and clutch his shirt. He patted her back awkwardly and glanced at me helplessly over her heaving, mountainous shoulder.

Not wanting to intrude, I walked over to the scale as slowly as my waning self-discipline would allow, and weighed myself. Removing my “Hello! My name is…” tag, I added on my weight and phone number. Adam was still in the clutches of Ellen S., so I peeled it off and stuck it on his sleeve as I passed by.

Six days later, I got a call. “Sorry it took so long,” he told me. “I had to lose 2 kilograms.” Things moved quickly from there, and before long, we were happily married. Just like any other couple, except we never got to eat together, and we watched the scales as religiously as some couples watch “24.”

So, great, “the end,” right? Close. There was a hitch first.

One Tuesday when Adam came home, I had some news for him.

“Hold on a second, Honey,” he told me, “let me run to the bathroom first.”

“Sure,” I called as he shut the bathroom door. “Number one or number two?”

“Two!”

I scurried over to the pantry and pulled out a bag of pretzels. After a handful, I wrapped it back up, and replaced it, impatient for him to come out. “It’s a big one!” came a muffled call.

I sighed and pulled down the pretzels again. I really wasn’t hungry, and my stomach was already a little queasy. Finally, a flush and running water. Adam came out and gave me a kiss.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurted.

“That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up. Then it darkened. “Oh. That’s bad.”

“Well, what do you want to do? Should we… have it? I don’t think you can lose that much weight.”

“I guess I’ll have to. We’re having this baby.”

Over the following months, as I got all plump and glowy, Adam grew gaunt and pasty. Morning sickness was a blessing because he got to eat a little extra, but that soon went away. Adam, frail and gray, would lie on the couch daydreaming about the feast he would have to have the second I gave birth. Once I had gained upwards of 11 kilograms, Adam got much worse. We talked to a couple of doctors about the possibility of an early induction, but it was unanimously frowned upon. And so, he died.

Soon the baby will be here, and we’ll find out whether or not P-POD is genetic. People say that I’ll love the baby even more because it will be my own little piece of Adam to keep forever and ever. They say that I’ll always be reminded of him, and of the sacrifice that he made for us. I hope they’re right. Because right now, I hate that kid. I really, really hate it.

Your suggestion: Ponies, ponies, posy!

My neighbor writes fan fiction...and after drinking a six-pack of Mountain Dew and stuffing my food portal with Hot Pockets, so could I.

My suggestion: stolen clocks

The once magnificent buildings and landmarks were laid to ruin by bloodshed, famine, and the savages of genetic mutation caused by the solar flare of 2136. All that was left, were roaming gangs of mutated street thugs clinging on to the once beacon of civilization and moral turpitude that was Chicago. This is what Hannibal had to cross in order to recover the last of the highly sought after Flava Flav clocks that had been stolen and distributed throughout the former United States after the Scientology Uprising of 2117. According to legend, whomever reunited the clocks would return peace to the Kingdom of Zorblath.

After surveying the land one last time, Hannibal activated the Geosynchronous Eatanium Pellets and fired up his rickety old hover sphere. It was a good ship. She had seen him through the food riots in New Pilsen and the Ryborg infestation three months later. Her name, the Lamisil AT, had originally been commissioned by the Denver Mint to combat the cycloptic cave people of Tessian 6. If she could handle an armed horde of Tessians with limited depth perception, she could handle the city of angels…but her success in Chicago was not likely.

Hannibal’s plan was simple. Rocket his way across the city’s south side and land in the culturally deprived area formerly known as Wrigleyville. He figured he could stock up on provisions from a contact he had in the Vablathian Empire, a sinister organization interested in only one thing….being sinister.

His trip into Wrigleyville was fairly uneventful. After locating an abandoned improvisational theater, Hannibal sought the greedy swine known as Grumlot, his contact in the Vablathian Empire. Hopefully Grumlot would be interested in accepting the ligocot addicted cyborg Xeci as payment for the provisions he desparately needed.

Grumlot was a bumbling Vablathian Orc with a penchant for misplaced arrogance. He was tall for an Orc, standing around 3’11” with purple eyes and jaundiced scales. His tentacles were not nimble like the other Orcs and he lumbered due to an old war wound. He was by no means trustworthy; unfortunately Hannibal needed him for more GE Pellets and a new particle cloud-emulsifying unit. His current PCEU had been on the fritz since Xambeion and he couldn’t risk a fusion accelerant destabilization when he faced off against Txazor the chief protector and guardian of the last Flava Flav clock.

Your suggestion: Stan Feldberg, self-proclaimed king of industrial magnet sales

Of Nipples and Women's Underwear

My suggestion: resulting in a hastily pierced third nipple

“Hey, dude, you’re bleeding through your shirt.”

“Oh, shit. I need to change my gauze.”

“Are you okay, man? What did you do?”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Come on, man. You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

“Yeah. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Don’t want to talk about it? I just admitted to you that I like to wear women’s underwear to work.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to get that image out of my head.”

“I’m just saying that we can tell each other anything, man.”

“Not this. It’s too stupid.”

“Women’s underwear, man. Right now. Behind this thin layer of denim.”

“Jesus.”

“Just laying it all out there, man. You can trust me, you’ve got something on me.”

“Okay. But this is against my better judgment.”

“So is wearing women’s underwear.”

“Okay, I get it.”

“Finally.”

“First of all, you should know that I have a third nipple.”

“What? You’re not serious.”

“Dead serious. I have a third nipple.”

“Can I see it?”

“Do you want to hear the story?”

“Not as badly as I want to see the nipple.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to see it. Not right now.”

“Come on.”

“I’m done. I’m not telling you this story.”

“Okay, okay. You can show me later.”

“So I have a third nipple. When you have a third nipple, you have a choice. You can embrace it or you can reject it.”

“Which did you do?”

“At first I decided to reject it.”

“Reasonable move.”

“But then I saw how much it would cost to have it removed.”

“Yeah, I would expect a nipple amputation to be expensive.”

“It was.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, I decided to embrace it.”

“Good call, man. Good call.”

“Put your camera phone away.”

“Just one picture?”

“No.”

“You suck.”

“Anyway, I decided to embrace the nipple. I mean, it was the one thing that set me apart. It made me unique. How many people do you know with three nipples?”

“Including you, one.”

“Right. So I started thinking about what ‘embracing’ the nipple really meant.”

“You said, ‘Embracing the nipple.”

“And I thought that simply letting it exist wasn’t enough.”

“What?”

“Well, just having it was what made me different. If I was to embrace it, I had to do something more.”

“Something more?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

“Like a piercing.”

“Ouch.”

“Just wait.”

“With my new-found self confidence, I ran off to find a tattoo place that also does nipple piercing.”

“That’s not a sentence you hear every day.”

“I found a couple of places, but they wouldn’t do it.”

“Why not? You can’t tell me that people that work in a tattoo shop were freaked out by a third nipple.”

“Nope. There was even one guy who had a tattoo of a third nipple.”

“Then what was it?”

“Well, it’s a third nipple, so it isn’t as well formed as the first two.”

“I see.”

“So it would be a bit tricky to pierce.”

“Are you sure it’s even a nipple?”

“Yeah, it’s definitely a nipple. It’s just not your standard nipple.”

“And these places only do standard nipples?”

“Basically. They told me that it wouldn’t be safe to pierce that nipple. They didn’t want to take the risk.”

“Oh man, I really want to see the nipple now.”

“No you don’t. Let me finish.”

“Go ahead.”

“I didn’t really see how piercing my third nipple could be dangerous, so I kept looking.”

“Good call.”

“Right. This is where I kinda lost my mind.”

“Because you were thinking rationally up to this point.”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, I found a place that would do it.”

“Of course you did.”

“It wasn’t the best place in the world, but it looked like they kept their equipment clean so I figured it would be okay.”

“Just like a Kia dealership.”

“So I had it done. It was pretty painful, but I had never had a nipple pierced before so I just thought that was how it was supposed to go.”

“Did the guy that pierced you at least speak English?”

“Yes. As a second language.”

“You should have just slammed it in a car door, man.”

“Shut up. I’m not proud of this.”

“Okay, go on.”

“It was fine for a few days, but then it started getting red and puffy and tender.”

“Don’t take any offense if I puke.”

“I iced it and put some antibiotic cream on it, but it didn’t seem to help.”

“So you went to the doctor?”

“Not yet. One night I rolled over on it and it felt like it exploded.”

“Oh my God. I’m going to vomit.”

“I looked down and it pretty much had. Like a pimple. It was obviously infected.”

“Then you went to the doctor?”

“Yes. I went to the doctor.”

“And what did he say?”

“That he needed to remove the nipple.”

“So you removed the nipple?”

“Yes. I came straight here afterwards.”

“So you’re bleeding from what used to be your third nipple?”

“Yes.”

“I guess your first instinct was right.”

“Reject the nipple.”

“Reject the nipple, man.”

“Yeah.”

“You should get that as a tattoo.”

Your suggestion: stolen clocks

Kilograms are Key and So is the Wine Selection

It had been an especially long day at the Industrial Machinery and Technology Conference. I had peddled an obscene amount of catalogs and pamphlets regarding of our new industrial sealer called “Excelsior” to a bunch of stodgy purchasing managers for a good twelve hours. Many of them were interested in the new product and its reduced friction coefficient, but with the economic downturn and never ending corporate belt tightening, I was still worried about meeting my annual quota. Alas, the day was over and I’d be returning to home the next morning. I collected my various sales materials and demonstration video and headed back to my “suite” on the fourth floor.

As I entered my tastefully decorated, albeit hypoallergenic room, at the Courtyard Marriott, Tucson I began to turn my attention away from work and to Ryan and Sarah’s upcoming “Wine and Cheese Soiree” on Saturday. I fished through my briefcase to find the cutesy invite that Sarah had assembled out of construction paper and some sort of wine bottle shaped confetti to verify the time.

Apparently, the party was at 7 p.m. and I was supposed to bring “something to share.” Christ, as if not meeting my quota for the year wasn’t enough to worry about, now I had to buy some fancy cheese at Whole Foods for $23.50 per kilogram (because kilograms are key with the socialistic, vegan granolas that work there) to share with her judgmental friends who will measure my worthiness based on the stinky bacteria loaf I present for consumption. Why couldn’t Ryan have married Julie, she was ten times more fun than Sarah and would have never subjected anyone to a “Wine and Cheese Soiree.”

I was distracted thinking about Julie when I reexamined the invite. Upon further review, I began to suspect Sarah had worked hard on all of the invites...except mine. It was clearly an afterthought, the handwriting was a smidge better than illegible and her normally masterful work with a glue gun and glitter seemed rushed. I suspect she wasn’t going to invite me because of the incident at their wedding, but Ryan must have insisted upon my presence.

Truth be told, I can’t really blame her for hating me...finding her much younger sister giving her new husband’s best man a drunken blowjob in the coatroom of Shenanigans Bar and Grille during the reception was probably a good reason to hate someone. Especially when I drunkenly and sarcastically muttered, “your sister is SOOO much better at this than your Aunt Claudia.” Naturally Sarah gasped in horror and my sardonic Cheshire Cat grin began to emerge in the dimly lit coatroom just as she slammed the door.

As I considered not going, I realized that Ryan probably went through hell in order to get me on the guest list. Sarah was known to inflict unreasonable suffering upon Ryan when he wanted something for himself, so I figured I would have to go...even though it would ruin a perfectly good Saturday night.

Feeling distraught about the whole affair, I laid on the bed and begin to ponder what sort of “something to share” should I bring to this potential suckfest. I considered smoked salmon or some prosciutto from my Uncle’s deli. Then I smirked as I thought to myself, “fuck it, bring some Velveeta and Boone’s Farm, maybe the sister will be there.”

Your suggestion is: resulting in a hastily pierced third nipple