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Story
With shrewd marketing and in-you-face tactics, Bob Parsons made his company the hottest thing in the Internet domain world. Now he's about to see how his act plays on a much grander stage.
(Business 2.0 Magazine) -- To get a sense of how Go Daddy CEO Bob Parsons leads his life, just ask for a ride in Mad Max. That's the vehicle he keeps at his office, deep in a nondescript business park amid the sprawl that is Scottsdale, Ariz. Max, as Parsons affectionately calls it, is a customized Jeep Rubicon Unlimited: Quarter-inch armor lining makes brushes with boulders a nonissue. A steel bar on Max's front end prevents somersaulting on steep drops. Fifty-degree inclines? Bring 'em on.
Parsons is weaving among the evening commuters on a busy Scottsdale thoroughfare when, barely tapping the brake, he swerves off the road, jumps the curb, and swiftly leaves the orderly world in his rearview mirror. "This is Botswana style," mutters the 56-year-old Parsons, in a voice gruff from decades of hard living that include a combat stint in Vietnam. He plows through the shrubs, weaves between patches of mesquite and sage, and then barrels into a ditch before swerving around a 12-foot cactus in search of another path.
With shrewd marketing and in-you-face tactics, Bob Parsons made his company the hottest thing in the Internet domain world. Now he's about to see how his act plays on a much grander stage.
(Business 2.0 Magazine) -- To get a sense of how Go Daddy CEO Bob Parsons leads his life, just ask for a ride in Mad Max. That's the vehicle he keeps at his office, deep in a nondescript business park amid the sprawl that is Scottsdale, Ariz. Max, as Parsons affectionately calls it, is a customized Jeep Rubicon Unlimited: Quarter-inch armor lining makes brushes with boulders a nonissue. A steel bar on Max's front end prevents somersaulting on steep drops. Fifty-degree inclines? Bring 'em on.
Parsons is weaving among the evening commuters on a busy Scottsdale thoroughfare when, barely tapping the brake, he swerves off the road, jumps the curb, and swiftly leaves the orderly world in his rearview mirror. "This is Botswana style," mutters the 56-year-old Parsons, in a voice gruff from decades of hard living that include a combat stint in Vietnam. He plows through the shrubs, weaves between patches of mesquite and sage, and then barrels into a ditch before swerving around a 12-foot cactus in search of another path.
