On those mornings when my creative juices aren't flowing all that well, I simply listen to Jimmy Barrett on WRVA radio. He has more than an ample supply of nutty stories and strange people. Today, however, I heard something during my morning drive in to work that brought out, what I like to think is, the genius in me.
It seems that the neverending search for a state song has taken on renewed energy, what with the Queen of England coming to town this year, and all. I guess Virginians want the not-so-Virgin Elizabeth to know just how talented we are. Do you get the impression that Americans still feel we have something to prove to the British. Hey, just because you guys speak with that hoity-toity accent doesn't make you any better than us. Okay, maybe it does, but at least the guys here in America don't dress up like queens. Okay, maybe some do, but anyway, I don't think we really need to impress the queen...oh, excuse me, the Queen.
However, that being said, I did rush in to the office this morning and write the state song. Listen up Virginia, your search is over. Jimmy Dean and Steve Bassett and all the rest of you guys, including my good friend, the extremely talented Victor Gotlieb, can hang it up. Steve Cook has written a sure bet.
This song has number one on the list of state songs written all over it. So, here, for your reading enjoyment, is the new Official State Song of Virginia. Oh yeah, I haven't come up with a tune yet. So, if you want to write the music, please feel free to do so. I'll even give you some of the credit.
I call my song, "No Matter How You Spell It, It's Still Virginia To Me. Catchy, huh?
Here it is:
"V" simply means you're very, very, very pretty (pronounced Pri-Tee')
"I" refers to who is singing about you and that would be me
"R" stands for Richmond. It's the state capital you see
And when you think about how good you are, you've quickly got your "G"
"I" really do love you Virginia
I love everything that's "N" ya
And "I" have just one more thing to say
Oklahoma may be just okay, but on the state report card, Virginia, you've earned an "A"
No matter how you spell it.
You're always Virginia to me.
And the fact that Virginia you're swell, it
seems perfectly clear to me.
"V" says we welcome the visit of the Queen
"I" is still about me, a person she's never seen
But Liz, I want to ask you, "R" you gonna want to meet
The "G"uy who wrote a song about a state so sweet?
"I" am awaiting for you to come to town
"N" means notify me. I'm sure to be around
There is no "I" or "A" to this verse, so to honor the first Elizabeth, so greatly famed.
If she hadn't been a virgin, I shudder to think what Virginia might have been named.
No matter how you spell it.
You're always Virginia to me.
And the fact that Virginia you're swell, it
seems so perfectly clear to me.
Well, there you have it. I'm just sitting back now, waiting for the cards and letters and emails of appreciation to pour in, and wondering just how rich I might get over this. Feel free to write me and tell me how proud you are of me. I never tire of such correspondence.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
They Don't Know Their Aspartame From A Hole In the Ground
Have you ever had really bad customer service? Just kidding. Of course you have. That is if you ever have the opportunity to leave your house and interact with corporate America.
I had two great examples of miserable customer service Friday night...one at a funeral home, the other at one of those trendy bagel/coffee/menu items you can't pronounce sort of places.
First the funeral home...an elderly long-time friend died and I was trying to help the family with some last minute details of the funeral while at visitation Friday night. I needed to speak with the director on duty. Only one problem...the director on duty was, in effect, the director on the telephone...for two solid hours.
Now, it's true, he was legitimately busy. He was trying to get a dead body picked up. He made that loud and clear, so that anyone standing within 100 feet of him would have known there was a dead body that need moving.
I went to the front desk in order to speak with the director on three occasions during my time in the funeral home. I waited patiently, if you call tapping one's foot and clearing one's throat incessantly patient. He, the director, that is, never even looked up. He kinda reminded me of the woman who used to work the Merit Gas Station at Wistar and Broad. In the ten or so years that I gasssed up there, that woman never got off the phone. Morning, noon, and night, she was on the phone.
And, when you tried to conduct business with her, she'd extracate the phone from her ear long enough to answer your question. She always answered in a whisper. I guess she didn't want to be rude and make the persons on the other end of the phone feel they came secondary to the customers.
They eventually razed that little cashier's booth at the gas station and rebuilt it. I think the woman remained on the spot, cointinuously talking on the phone during the entire renovation process.
Well, Mr. Funeral Director was very much like Ms. Gas Station Attendant, except for the moustache. The funeral director didn't have one. When we first entered the funeral home, he did courteously place his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and mouthed the words, "Can I help you?"
When we told him whom we were there to visit, he just pointed, so as to not interrupt his phone call any more than absolutely necessary. I don't know about you, but to me, that's poor customer service.
After we left the funeral home, my wife and I headed to a little way-overpriced sandwich and coffee shop, recently constructed at Willow Lawn Shopping Center. When we entered the building, there were two cashiers and two lines. Cashier A had a line about ten people deep. Cashier B had only one person in her lane. Putting a curse on the woman in front of me, I got into Cashier B's line.
My wife, knowing my ability to put a curse on cashiers, got in the long line. We were playing "Race to the Register." And, except for the fact that I always get in the line destined to stall, I should have beat her by several minutes.
The woman in front of me ordered two dozen bagels. The cashier's response should have tipped me off that this was no brain surgeon moonlighting at the cafe. "Is that for here or to go," the lovely young moron asked.
"I know I look like I could eat two dozen bagels by myself," the customer responded, "but, it's to go." The customer then told the lady the combination of bagels she desired...you know, so many cinnamon, so many poppy-seed, and so forth.
The cashier rang the order up. Then she asked the lady if she would repeat the order. Then she attempted to repeat the order back to her. Each time she attempted, the cashier called out a different combination. Meanwhile my wife is getting closer and closer to the register in line A.
Finally, Cashier B hands the lady in front of me her receipt and then goes to the bagel bin and starts flinging bagels down some sort of metal chute. I'm guessing it was an automatic cutter. She throws a few bagels down and then she starts looking confused. She asks the customer if she can have the receipt back in order to see what combination the lady wanted. The customer good-naturedly says, "Just give me a combination. I don't care what it is."
I think that only served to confuse the cashier even further. The lady turns to me and tells me that every time she comes into this particular cafe, the service is slow.
"It's the Howard Johnson's of coffee shops," I suggest. We would have continued to enjoy a good laugh remembering the horrible service that one used to get at Howard Johnson restaurants, but my wife has now reached register A. She wins...again.
So, I go on over and join her. She places the order. It goes rather smoothly, except for the fact that the cashier mixes up two to three items. For one thing, I had asked for a diet root beer. It was one of those Jones Soda bottles. I think they're cool, so I don't mind spending four bucks for a fifty cent drink. I get my bottle of root beer, pour it into a cup of ice and begin drinking. This is pretty good for diet, I think, and look at the label to see if they use Splenda. No wonder it tastes so good, it's got 48 grams of sugar. That cashier was so bad, she could have gotten a job at the funeral home.
I started to pretend I had gone into a diabetic coma just to drive home a lesson on the importance of good customer service, but I'm too tired to play the game. I'm just glad I didn't really go into a coma and die. Because then it would have been back to the funeral home for really bad customer service. And, I was way too tired for that.
I had two great examples of miserable customer service Friday night...one at a funeral home, the other at one of those trendy bagel/coffee/menu items you can't pronounce sort of places.
First the funeral home...an elderly long-time friend died and I was trying to help the family with some last minute details of the funeral while at visitation Friday night. I needed to speak with the director on duty. Only one problem...the director on duty was, in effect, the director on the telephone...for two solid hours.
Now, it's true, he was legitimately busy. He was trying to get a dead body picked up. He made that loud and clear, so that anyone standing within 100 feet of him would have known there was a dead body that need moving.
I went to the front desk in order to speak with the director on three occasions during my time in the funeral home. I waited patiently, if you call tapping one's foot and clearing one's throat incessantly patient. He, the director, that is, never even looked up. He kinda reminded me of the woman who used to work the Merit Gas Station at Wistar and Broad. In the ten or so years that I gasssed up there, that woman never got off the phone. Morning, noon, and night, she was on the phone.
And, when you tried to conduct business with her, she'd extracate the phone from her ear long enough to answer your question. She always answered in a whisper. I guess she didn't want to be rude and make the persons on the other end of the phone feel they came secondary to the customers.
They eventually razed that little cashier's booth at the gas station and rebuilt it. I think the woman remained on the spot, cointinuously talking on the phone during the entire renovation process.
Well, Mr. Funeral Director was very much like Ms. Gas Station Attendant, except for the moustache. The funeral director didn't have one. When we first entered the funeral home, he did courteously place his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and mouthed the words, "Can I help you?"
When we told him whom we were there to visit, he just pointed, so as to not interrupt his phone call any more than absolutely necessary. I don't know about you, but to me, that's poor customer service.
After we left the funeral home, my wife and I headed to a little way-overpriced sandwich and coffee shop, recently constructed at Willow Lawn Shopping Center. When we entered the building, there were two cashiers and two lines. Cashier A had a line about ten people deep. Cashier B had only one person in her lane. Putting a curse on the woman in front of me, I got into Cashier B's line.
My wife, knowing my ability to put a curse on cashiers, got in the long line. We were playing "Race to the Register." And, except for the fact that I always get in the line destined to stall, I should have beat her by several minutes.
The woman in front of me ordered two dozen bagels. The cashier's response should have tipped me off that this was no brain surgeon moonlighting at the cafe. "Is that for here or to go," the lovely young moron asked.
"I know I look like I could eat two dozen bagels by myself," the customer responded, "but, it's to go." The customer then told the lady the combination of bagels she desired...you know, so many cinnamon, so many poppy-seed, and so forth.
The cashier rang the order up. Then she asked the lady if she would repeat the order. Then she attempted to repeat the order back to her. Each time she attempted, the cashier called out a different combination. Meanwhile my wife is getting closer and closer to the register in line A.
Finally, Cashier B hands the lady in front of me her receipt and then goes to the bagel bin and starts flinging bagels down some sort of metal chute. I'm guessing it was an automatic cutter. She throws a few bagels down and then she starts looking confused. She asks the customer if she can have the receipt back in order to see what combination the lady wanted. The customer good-naturedly says, "Just give me a combination. I don't care what it is."
I think that only served to confuse the cashier even further. The lady turns to me and tells me that every time she comes into this particular cafe, the service is slow.
"It's the Howard Johnson's of coffee shops," I suggest. We would have continued to enjoy a good laugh remembering the horrible service that one used to get at Howard Johnson restaurants, but my wife has now reached register A. She wins...again.
So, I go on over and join her. She places the order. It goes rather smoothly, except for the fact that the cashier mixes up two to three items. For one thing, I had asked for a diet root beer. It was one of those Jones Soda bottles. I think they're cool, so I don't mind spending four bucks for a fifty cent drink. I get my bottle of root beer, pour it into a cup of ice and begin drinking. This is pretty good for diet, I think, and look at the label to see if they use Splenda. No wonder it tastes so good, it's got 48 grams of sugar. That cashier was so bad, she could have gotten a job at the funeral home.
I started to pretend I had gone into a diabetic coma just to drive home a lesson on the importance of good customer service, but I'm too tired to play the game. I'm just glad I didn't really go into a coma and die. Because then it would have been back to the funeral home for really bad customer service. And, I was way too tired for that.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Big Bad John
I have a friend (I'll just call him "D.J.") who reminds me so much of the extremely late Robert Kennedy. No, D.J. is not as famous as Bobby Kennedy. But, then again, he's not nearly as dead either. And, I'm betting D.J. would trade the fame for being alive.
D.J. reminds me, I guess, not so much of Bobby Kennedy, himself, but of something Bobby Kennedy said. You may recall his famous line. Or, if you're like some people I know, you may have a pillow on your rocking chair with this statement needlepointed on it.
Of course, I'm referring to this famous statement, "There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why? I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?" Now, before you email me and inform me that Bobby Kennedy never actually said this, remember one important thing...I don't care.
But, getting back to D.J...for years I looked at something and never even had the gumption to ask "why?" Until, D.J. brought it up the other night in a Bobby Kennedy-like way. His question had to do with the doors in public restrooms. I think D.J. has been dreaming up a new way to get out of the restroom. And, his point is well-taken.
"Why is it," he asked wisely, "that you can push your way into a restroom, but you have to grab a handle to get out?" Now, D.J. did not call it a "urine-infested handle," but I'm sure that's what he was thinking.
It's what I think every time I leave a public restroom. I'll usually use my paper towel to grab hold of the handle. Now the trick is to open the door, then run throw the paper towel away, and make it back to the door before it closes. Or else, I'll end up sticking a wet paper towel in my pocket. I have enough bulges from excess poundage. I sure don't want anything else making me look larger than life.
It would seem to me that people with public restrooms would wise up, and reverse the doors. I wish I could be like Bobby Kennedy, and D.J. and ask why not, or even why, depending upon how I phrase the question. But, no, in a very lemming-like way, I just keep opening the doors with paper towels.
Speaking of which, what do you do when the restroom has a hand dryer? I hate hand dryers. Typically, they just blow cold air on wet hands, which doesn't do anything about drying, just makes one's hands colder. You can't open a door with a hand dryer. Well, actually you could, but that would mean ripping the hand dryer from the wall first, and I've always had a feeling that doing that would not be welcomed by most business owners.
I did use a new-fangled hand dryer the other day that was so powerful, it almost blew my hands off my wrists. I feel sure that when no one is using the bathroom, NASA is probably testing their rockets under the dryer. If I could have aimed the blower in the right direction, I probably could have opened the door with the blast, or at least ripped the hinges off the door.
Since we're talking about public restrooms, let me weigh in on a couple of other things. Something that really bothers me in some public restrooms are the detailed instructions posted on the wall, showing the employees of the company how to wash their hands. You've probably seen such. The instructions tell you how to turn the faucet on, how long to run your hands under the water, how to dispense the soap, and so forth. Now, my thinking is that if the employees are too dumb to know how to wash their hands, what must be happening in the kitchen?
There's one more thing that I really hate about some of the fancier public restrooms. It's not all that prevalent, but when I encounter it, I cringe. It's the public restroom attendant. When I was in California a few years ago, it seems all the nice restaurants have them.
These guys just sit there, on their little stool by the door, looking at you, with those begging, pleading, leave-me-a-tip eyes. For starters, I'm not keen on anyone looking at me while I'm using a restroom. I suffer from what they call in the industry, SB Syndrome, or, Shy Bladder Syndrome for short. Even when I'm alone, I have to hum, or do some sort of Kennedy Space Center countdown before I can get the show on the road.
In a public restroom, with others around, it's much harder, and when there is an attendant staring, it's downright impossible. My bladder just kind of twists itself up in a knot.
Secondly, I hate to tip someone for letting me use the bathroom. But, how do you walk past the guy and ignore him? He's standing right at the door, offering me a towel, or soap, or even mouthwash. If I use any of those things, I feel obliged to tip him. Sometimes if I think quickly enough, I'll limp past him. I figure he might think I'm more needy than he is.
I do like those public restrooms that have all the toiletries, as long as there's no busybody begging for tips. I especially like the mouthwash. I think it's nice to leave the restroom with fresher breath than when I went in. Of course, there is a little stigma to drinking in a restroom, but I will use the mouthwash, especially if I've just had a beer. And, yes, I admit, I will drink a beer or two from time to time. I guess I'm more of the Teddy Kennedy type.
D.J. reminds me, I guess, not so much of Bobby Kennedy, himself, but of something Bobby Kennedy said. You may recall his famous line. Or, if you're like some people I know, you may have a pillow on your rocking chair with this statement needlepointed on it.
Of course, I'm referring to this famous statement, "There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why? I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?" Now, before you email me and inform me that Bobby Kennedy never actually said this, remember one important thing...I don't care.
But, getting back to D.J...for years I looked at something and never even had the gumption to ask "why?" Until, D.J. brought it up the other night in a Bobby Kennedy-like way. His question had to do with the doors in public restrooms. I think D.J. has been dreaming up a new way to get out of the restroom. And, his point is well-taken.
"Why is it," he asked wisely, "that you can push your way into a restroom, but you have to grab a handle to get out?" Now, D.J. did not call it a "urine-infested handle," but I'm sure that's what he was thinking.
It's what I think every time I leave a public restroom. I'll usually use my paper towel to grab hold of the handle. Now the trick is to open the door, then run throw the paper towel away, and make it back to the door before it closes. Or else, I'll end up sticking a wet paper towel in my pocket. I have enough bulges from excess poundage. I sure don't want anything else making me look larger than life.
It would seem to me that people with public restrooms would wise up, and reverse the doors. I wish I could be like Bobby Kennedy, and D.J. and ask why not, or even why, depending upon how I phrase the question. But, no, in a very lemming-like way, I just keep opening the doors with paper towels.
Speaking of which, what do you do when the restroom has a hand dryer? I hate hand dryers. Typically, they just blow cold air on wet hands, which doesn't do anything about drying, just makes one's hands colder. You can't open a door with a hand dryer. Well, actually you could, but that would mean ripping the hand dryer from the wall first, and I've always had a feeling that doing that would not be welcomed by most business owners.
I did use a new-fangled hand dryer the other day that was so powerful, it almost blew my hands off my wrists. I feel sure that when no one is using the bathroom, NASA is probably testing their rockets under the dryer. If I could have aimed the blower in the right direction, I probably could have opened the door with the blast, or at least ripped the hinges off the door.
Since we're talking about public restrooms, let me weigh in on a couple of other things. Something that really bothers me in some public restrooms are the detailed instructions posted on the wall, showing the employees of the company how to wash their hands. You've probably seen such. The instructions tell you how to turn the faucet on, how long to run your hands under the water, how to dispense the soap, and so forth. Now, my thinking is that if the employees are too dumb to know how to wash their hands, what must be happening in the kitchen?
There's one more thing that I really hate about some of the fancier public restrooms. It's not all that prevalent, but when I encounter it, I cringe. It's the public restroom attendant. When I was in California a few years ago, it seems all the nice restaurants have them.
These guys just sit there, on their little stool by the door, looking at you, with those begging, pleading, leave-me-a-tip eyes. For starters, I'm not keen on anyone looking at me while I'm using a restroom. I suffer from what they call in the industry, SB Syndrome, or, Shy Bladder Syndrome for short. Even when I'm alone, I have to hum, or do some sort of Kennedy Space Center countdown before I can get the show on the road.
In a public restroom, with others around, it's much harder, and when there is an attendant staring, it's downright impossible. My bladder just kind of twists itself up in a knot.
Secondly, I hate to tip someone for letting me use the bathroom. But, how do you walk past the guy and ignore him? He's standing right at the door, offering me a towel, or soap, or even mouthwash. If I use any of those things, I feel obliged to tip him. Sometimes if I think quickly enough, I'll limp past him. I figure he might think I'm more needy than he is.
I do like those public restrooms that have all the toiletries, as long as there's no busybody begging for tips. I especially like the mouthwash. I think it's nice to leave the restroom with fresher breath than when I went in. Of course, there is a little stigma to drinking in a restroom, but I will use the mouthwash, especially if I've just had a beer. And, yes, I admit, I will drink a beer or two from time to time. I guess I'm more of the Teddy Kennedy type.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Paybacks are Hellish (It's Okay to Say That, Isn't It?)
Here's a little personal tidbit you might not be aware of. I'm a black man. Not 100%, probably less than 5%, but I am. At least I'm pretty sure of that. I'm also a white man, and, I think, just a wee bit Eskimo. I'm not sure about the Eskimo part, but I know I really love their pies.
So, what's my point? It's this...I think it's high time we all stopped making race an issue. That goes for this reparation foolishness. And it really is foolishness when you think about it...I mean really think, not just emote.
First question, who gets repared. I guess that's the word. Or, maybe it's just repaid. But who gets the money? The obvious answer is descendants of slaves get it. Okay. great. I'm for that. At least the black man part of me is for that. The white guy part isn't all that thrilled. But, I have always been a little stingy on my white side.
Consider this, ever since the first Afro-Africans were brought to this country in the early 1600s, there's been a lot of intermingling, if you get my drift. Can anyone today truly claim to be 100% anything? I don't think so.
So, who gets the money? Wouldn't everyone who had an ancestor who was a slave be entitled? That only seems fair. So, where do I line up for my money?
Next question, who pays? Does everyone who has a shred of white blood in him have to pay? Again, I'd think that would be the fair thing to do. So, all the descendants of slaves who want reparations, are you willing to pay it too, because I bet most of you have some white blood in you.
So, I have an idea. I think it would save a lot of time fighting and figuring to do this: Let each of us descendants of slaves decide how much money we'd want in reparations. Then let us have our slave-owner-descendant-side write us a check. I think if we're repaying ourselves, we're going to bend over backwards to be fair to ourselves, and, after all, isn't that what everyone wants...fairness?
Call me the great peace maker, please. Yes, I'm a modern day Rodney King. Can't we all just get along?
I mean aren't there more important things to worry about. For instance, why is it that on one side of the street gas is selling for $1.97 a gallon and on the other side of the street, there's a station selling it for $2.14 a gallon? And furthermore, why are there two guys filling their cars on the $2.14 side?
Now that's the sort of person who needs some sort of reparation.
.
So, what's my point? It's this...I think it's high time we all stopped making race an issue. That goes for this reparation foolishness. And it really is foolishness when you think about it...I mean really think, not just emote.
First question, who gets repared. I guess that's the word. Or, maybe it's just repaid. But who gets the money? The obvious answer is descendants of slaves get it. Okay. great. I'm for that. At least the black man part of me is for that. The white guy part isn't all that thrilled. But, I have always been a little stingy on my white side.
Consider this, ever since the first Afro-Africans were brought to this country in the early 1600s, there's been a lot of intermingling, if you get my drift. Can anyone today truly claim to be 100% anything? I don't think so.
So, who gets the money? Wouldn't everyone who had an ancestor who was a slave be entitled? That only seems fair. So, where do I line up for my money?
Next question, who pays? Does everyone who has a shred of white blood in him have to pay? Again, I'd think that would be the fair thing to do. So, all the descendants of slaves who want reparations, are you willing to pay it too, because I bet most of you have some white blood in you.
So, I have an idea. I think it would save a lot of time fighting and figuring to do this: Let each of us descendants of slaves decide how much money we'd want in reparations. Then let us have our slave-owner-descendant-side write us a check. I think if we're repaying ourselves, we're going to bend over backwards to be fair to ourselves, and, after all, isn't that what everyone wants...fairness?
Call me the great peace maker, please. Yes, I'm a modern day Rodney King. Can't we all just get along?
I mean aren't there more important things to worry about. For instance, why is it that on one side of the street gas is selling for $1.97 a gallon and on the other side of the street, there's a station selling it for $2.14 a gallon? And furthermore, why are there two guys filling their cars on the $2.14 side?
Now that's the sort of person who needs some sort of reparation.
.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Remembering Mary Lynn cooK
They say one should never attempt to write a column when one is filled with grief. But, I say, why not? It might be therapeutic.
I am grief stricken today. I guess you can understand why, when I tell you…I’m left handed.
You did hear the news, didn’t you? They (not the same they that say you should never write a column…) are now saying that left-handed people are left-handed because when we were first conceived we had a twin, who somehow dissolved within us.
First of all, I say, “Yuck!” But then I reflect on my grief. I think of the implications. There must have been two of me. Well, actually not two of me, because I think when I do my reflecting that this dissolved twin theory answers a lot of other questions I’ve had in my life.
For instance, if I’m in a large group and I hear someone yell, “Hey, Mary Lynn,” I always turn my head. Do you suppose my dissolved twin was a beautiful little baby girl, named Mary Lynn. Makes sense to me.
I know you’re hoping for some sort of sick confession from me that, as a child, I liked to play with dolls. Nothing like that. But, I always did enjoy the smell of fingernail polish remover. Still do, as a matter of fact.
I think that’s Mary Lynn speaking. And, as much as I would have loved my little sister, I have a feeling she would have been the evil twin. It is my understanding that in all twin relations, there’s a good twin and an evil twin. I learned that from watching soap operas as a child.
Just like on every police force, there is a good cop and a bad cop. Only sometimes the good cop becomes the bad cop and the bad cop the good cop, but I digress.
Mary Lynn must have had a very evil side to her. I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dissolved, but I have to face facts. That was one evil little girl. Or how else can you explain that someone as kind and loving and thoughtful as I can sometimes think such evil thoughts?
For instance, have you ever been driving down the road and passed a student-driver? And, did you ever have a desire to ram that car off the road, just to let the student driver know how dangerous it can be on the highway? If so, then, you’re either an evil twin, or you’re left-handed. Up til now, I mistakenly thought I was evil.
I didn’t want to think evil of myself, but sometimes I say things to people that I know are not polite. For instance, just this weekend, I phoned a local cab company and asked the guy how much to take a cab from one place to another.
He answered in some sort of a terrorist dialect. It made me (really, Mary Lynn) so mad, I (she) said, “I can’t understand a word you said.” And I hung up. I was blaming myself for that, but now, it would appear I’ve been too hard on myself. Mary Lynn deserves every bit of the blame.
I’m not glad she dissolved, but to be honest, the poor thing would have had a hard row to hoe in life, what with her evilness and all. But, still, perhaps with my good example as her big brother, she would have come around.
One more thing…I asked my mother if she knew about Mary Lynn. She feigned ignorance. But, how else could you explain her wanting me to wear a strapless gown to my senior prom? It’s all making a lot of sense to me now.
I wish I’d known about my twin years ago. But, better late than never. Mary Lynn, I’m going to spend this day remembering you.
I am grief stricken today. I guess you can understand why, when I tell you…I’m left handed.
You did hear the news, didn’t you? They (not the same they that say you should never write a column…) are now saying that left-handed people are left-handed because when we were first conceived we had a twin, who somehow dissolved within us.
First of all, I say, “Yuck!” But then I reflect on my grief. I think of the implications. There must have been two of me. Well, actually not two of me, because I think when I do my reflecting that this dissolved twin theory answers a lot of other questions I’ve had in my life.
For instance, if I’m in a large group and I hear someone yell, “Hey, Mary Lynn,” I always turn my head. Do you suppose my dissolved twin was a beautiful little baby girl, named Mary Lynn. Makes sense to me.
I know you’re hoping for some sort of sick confession from me that, as a child, I liked to play with dolls. Nothing like that. But, I always did enjoy the smell of fingernail polish remover. Still do, as a matter of fact.
I think that’s Mary Lynn speaking. And, as much as I would have loved my little sister, I have a feeling she would have been the evil twin. It is my understanding that in all twin relations, there’s a good twin and an evil twin. I learned that from watching soap operas as a child.
Just like on every police force, there is a good cop and a bad cop. Only sometimes the good cop becomes the bad cop and the bad cop the good cop, but I digress.
Mary Lynn must have had a very evil side to her. I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dissolved, but I have to face facts. That was one evil little girl. Or how else can you explain that someone as kind and loving and thoughtful as I can sometimes think such evil thoughts?
For instance, have you ever been driving down the road and passed a student-driver? And, did you ever have a desire to ram that car off the road, just to let the student driver know how dangerous it can be on the highway? If so, then, you’re either an evil twin, or you’re left-handed. Up til now, I mistakenly thought I was evil.
I didn’t want to think evil of myself, but sometimes I say things to people that I know are not polite. For instance, just this weekend, I phoned a local cab company and asked the guy how much to take a cab from one place to another.
He answered in some sort of a terrorist dialect. It made me (really, Mary Lynn) so mad, I (she) said, “I can’t understand a word you said.” And I hung up. I was blaming myself for that, but now, it would appear I’ve been too hard on myself. Mary Lynn deserves every bit of the blame.
I’m not glad she dissolved, but to be honest, the poor thing would have had a hard row to hoe in life, what with her evilness and all. But, still, perhaps with my good example as her big brother, she would have come around.
One more thing…I asked my mother if she knew about Mary Lynn. She feigned ignorance. But, how else could you explain her wanting me to wear a strapless gown to my senior prom? It’s all making a lot of sense to me now.
I wish I’d known about my twin years ago. But, better late than never. Mary Lynn, I’m going to spend this day remembering you.
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Rest of the STORY
I’m somewhat of a motivational guru. But then, I really don’t have to tell you that. I’m sure my abilities to motivate shine through quite clearly. I thought it might be nice for me to use this space today to share a heartwarming tale, which I personally believe will teach you a thing or two about life. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy telling it.
You probably have never heard of Ronnie Everwood. There’s a reason for that. Let me tell you about him.
Back in Jayhawk, Kansas, in the early fifties, there probably wasn’t a faster runner in town than fifteen-year old Ronnie Everwood. “Ronnie never walked, he always ran,” his mother, Edna Middleton, recalls.
“That boy was a runner, alright,” his stepfather, Earl Middleton agrees.
What Ronnie had in running ability, though, he lacked in self-confidence. However, after much encouragement from his friends, the school track coach, and his parents, Ronnie Everwood agreed to join his high school track team.
Ronnie did quite well in practice, but come the day for the big track meet, as the teams gathered, along with a sizeable crowd of high school track enthusiasts, Ronnie was nowhere to be found.
Finally, just before the match was to begin, the likeable kid was discovered hiding in a toilet stall in the boy’s locker room. “What’s wrong,” Coach Danielson asked, tussling the youngster’s hair.
“I just don’t believe I can win,” Ronnie said.
“You can only do what you believe you can do,” the coach said wisely. “You have to believe in yourself first.”
After much coaxing, Ronnie suited up and ran to the track. His parents, who had been nervously scanning the field, breathed sighs of relief.
Moments later the starter’s gun fired and the boys were off. Ronnie got off to a great start. After the first lap, he led by about ten yards. By the end of lap number two, he had about doubled that, and he’d virtually doubled it again after lap three.
But then something happened. Ronnie simply quit running. Why? No, it wasn’t an injury. He wasn’t winded. He simply gave up because he didn’t believe in himself. And, there, the story of Ronnie Everwood ends.
Half a century later, has anyone ever heard of Ronnie Everwood? Go ahead, and do a search on the name in Google. You won’t find it. There’s a good reason for that. Perhaps, you’ve already guessed it.
You see, the truth is there never was a Ronnie Everwood. Edna and Earl Middleton? Figments of my fertile imagination. Heck, for all I know, there is no Jayhawk, Kansas. I made the entire story up.
Did you learn a thing or two, as I predicted you would? Hopefully, you’ve learned never to trust anyone. I sincerely hope you realize how easily you can be duped. I could have used this outright fabrication to try and motivate you. But, no, I’m too decent a guy for that.
But beware. There are people out there, in this cold, hard world, even some parents, who will lie to you just to make you a better person. Will you fall for it? Will you better yourself based on some lie? It’s something to think about.
You see, I could have told you to think of Ronnie Everwood the next time you were ready to give up. But that would be like telling you to think about Hansel and Gretel the next time your parents ask you to go with them for a walk in the woods. Why waste your time thinking about fairy tales and other assorted lies.
Thankfully, you were in safe hands with me today. The next time some motivational speaker approaches you; you just might not be so lucky.
You probably have never heard of Ronnie Everwood. There’s a reason for that. Let me tell you about him.
Back in Jayhawk, Kansas, in the early fifties, there probably wasn’t a faster runner in town than fifteen-year old Ronnie Everwood. “Ronnie never walked, he always ran,” his mother, Edna Middleton, recalls.
“That boy was a runner, alright,” his stepfather, Earl Middleton agrees.
What Ronnie had in running ability, though, he lacked in self-confidence. However, after much encouragement from his friends, the school track coach, and his parents, Ronnie Everwood agreed to join his high school track team.
Ronnie did quite well in practice, but come the day for the big track meet, as the teams gathered, along with a sizeable crowd of high school track enthusiasts, Ronnie was nowhere to be found.
Finally, just before the match was to begin, the likeable kid was discovered hiding in a toilet stall in the boy’s locker room. “What’s wrong,” Coach Danielson asked, tussling the youngster’s hair.
“I just don’t believe I can win,” Ronnie said.
“You can only do what you believe you can do,” the coach said wisely. “You have to believe in yourself first.”
After much coaxing, Ronnie suited up and ran to the track. His parents, who had been nervously scanning the field, breathed sighs of relief.
Moments later the starter’s gun fired and the boys were off. Ronnie got off to a great start. After the first lap, he led by about ten yards. By the end of lap number two, he had about doubled that, and he’d virtually doubled it again after lap three.
But then something happened. Ronnie simply quit running. Why? No, it wasn’t an injury. He wasn’t winded. He simply gave up because he didn’t believe in himself. And, there, the story of Ronnie Everwood ends.
Half a century later, has anyone ever heard of Ronnie Everwood? Go ahead, and do a search on the name in Google. You won’t find it. There’s a good reason for that. Perhaps, you’ve already guessed it.
You see, the truth is there never was a Ronnie Everwood. Edna and Earl Middleton? Figments of my fertile imagination. Heck, for all I know, there is no Jayhawk, Kansas. I made the entire story up.
Did you learn a thing or two, as I predicted you would? Hopefully, you’ve learned never to trust anyone. I sincerely hope you realize how easily you can be duped. I could have used this outright fabrication to try and motivate you. But, no, I’m too decent a guy for that.
But beware. There are people out there, in this cold, hard world, even some parents, who will lie to you just to make you a better person. Will you fall for it? Will you better yourself based on some lie? It’s something to think about.
You see, I could have told you to think of Ronnie Everwood the next time you were ready to give up. But that would be like telling you to think about Hansel and Gretel the next time your parents ask you to go with them for a walk in the woods. Why waste your time thinking about fairy tales and other assorted lies.
Thankfully, you were in safe hands with me today. The next time some motivational speaker approaches you; you just might not be so lucky.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Alexander Graham Bellyaching
I haven’t slept a wink in two nights? I’m sure you are as excited as am I with regards to Apple’s new IPhone. This is perhaps the most important event in the history of mankind. It’s unbelievable. Just imagine…you are imagining, aren’t you? It’s a phone, an ipod, a movie viewer, it’s a computer, it’s a pda. The deluxe version even comes with a bottle opener attached.
Do you know what this means? It means that ultimately the average American can receive horrible customer service for everything they ever need and all from the same provider. It means that we can be put on hold for upwards of six to twelve hours a day. It means new customer service jobs for millions of non-English speaking citizens of the world’s smaller nations.
And that’s just for starters. Just imagine (keep imagining) the technological implications. Everyone who is walking around with those Bluetooth thingamabobs in their ears today, will one day, in the not too distant future, be walking around with a satellite dish hanging out their pants.
And speaking of Bluetooth…have you noticed how ridiculously ridiculous these morons look whom you see in the grocery stores and malls? At first glance, I think they’re just deviants who talk to themselves. But, as they get closer, and I can see the Bluetooth, I realize they’re far worse than your typical mental cases of yesteryear. This is a new breed of idiot…someone not just crazy, but also impressed with himself and his technology.
Something else that doesn’t make sense to me is that for years people, especially the more mature (sometimes pronounced “elderly”), clamored for hearing aids that were undetectable. Hearing aid manufacturers labored to reduce what once looked like a transistor radio down to the point that today a hearing aid merely looks like a grotesque ball of earwax.
And now, these techno-freaks walk around with what could easily be mistaken for harmonicas hanging out of their ears. And they’re proud of it!
It doesn’t make sense. On one hand, you have people who will deprive themselves of the enjoyment of actually understanding what other people are saying because they don’t want the stigma of having a hearing aid, and, on the other hand, you have those who will stick a big metal box in the side of their head so that, God forbid, they don’t miss out on any opportunity to tell Aunt Betsy what Rosie O’Donnell said this morning, or to find out about Aunt Betsy’s latest tattoo.
Of course, there are also those wannabe high-power, business-people types…the ones who are so impressed with themselves and who love to walk through a crowd pretending to be making deals via their cell phone. These obnoxious boors are the first to click their cell phones on as soon as the airplane hits the ground and, speaking loudly enough for all on the plane to hear them, start scheduling appointments and conferences and the like.
I’m sure these will be among the first to have the new IPhones.
When you think about it, modern technology is wonderful. It’s a great equalizer, in a way. Trailer park trash (not to be confused with any of my wonderful readers who live in mobile homes) and egomaniacal yuppies have become somewhat co-mingled in their use and misuse of this technology. And now, thanks to the new IPhone, the TPT can get in the pick-up and head down to Aunt Betsy’s without having to miss a moment of professional wrestling, while the suits can listen to their latest motivational recording and make million dollar deals while shopping in their favorite gourmet boutique.
And when you think about it, isn’t that what makes life so great on this big blue ball that I like to call earth?
Do you know what this means? It means that ultimately the average American can receive horrible customer service for everything they ever need and all from the same provider. It means that we can be put on hold for upwards of six to twelve hours a day. It means new customer service jobs for millions of non-English speaking citizens of the world’s smaller nations.
And that’s just for starters. Just imagine (keep imagining) the technological implications. Everyone who is walking around with those Bluetooth thingamabobs in their ears today, will one day, in the not too distant future, be walking around with a satellite dish hanging out their pants.
And speaking of Bluetooth…have you noticed how ridiculously ridiculous these morons look whom you see in the grocery stores and malls? At first glance, I think they’re just deviants who talk to themselves. But, as they get closer, and I can see the Bluetooth, I realize they’re far worse than your typical mental cases of yesteryear. This is a new breed of idiot…someone not just crazy, but also impressed with himself and his technology.
Something else that doesn’t make sense to me is that for years people, especially the more mature (sometimes pronounced “elderly”), clamored for hearing aids that were undetectable. Hearing aid manufacturers labored to reduce what once looked like a transistor radio down to the point that today a hearing aid merely looks like a grotesque ball of earwax.
And now, these techno-freaks walk around with what could easily be mistaken for harmonicas hanging out of their ears. And they’re proud of it!
It doesn’t make sense. On one hand, you have people who will deprive themselves of the enjoyment of actually understanding what other people are saying because they don’t want the stigma of having a hearing aid, and, on the other hand, you have those who will stick a big metal box in the side of their head so that, God forbid, they don’t miss out on any opportunity to tell Aunt Betsy what Rosie O’Donnell said this morning, or to find out about Aunt Betsy’s latest tattoo.
Of course, there are also those wannabe high-power, business-people types…the ones who are so impressed with themselves and who love to walk through a crowd pretending to be making deals via their cell phone. These obnoxious boors are the first to click their cell phones on as soon as the airplane hits the ground and, speaking loudly enough for all on the plane to hear them, start scheduling appointments and conferences and the like.
I’m sure these will be among the first to have the new IPhones.
When you think about it, modern technology is wonderful. It’s a great equalizer, in a way. Trailer park trash (not to be confused with any of my wonderful readers who live in mobile homes) and egomaniacal yuppies have become somewhat co-mingled in their use and misuse of this technology. And now, thanks to the new IPhone, the TPT can get in the pick-up and head down to Aunt Betsy’s without having to miss a moment of professional wrestling, while the suits can listen to their latest motivational recording and make million dollar deals while shopping in their favorite gourmet boutique.
And when you think about it, isn’t that what makes life so great on this big blue ball that I like to call earth?
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Buy It By the Gross
I received an email this morning from one of my readers. Wow! I’ve never used that term before. I have a reader, a real honest to goodness reader. You tolerate me. You really tolerate me.
Anywho, she (the reader) makes some interesting points about a new era of grossness in advertising. First, let me share her thoughts:
"Hey, Steve, I've been reading your blog as often as I can (one of your "handful" of friends who is addicted to it), and I thought maybe if you wanted to do a column with a gross subject, I had an idea. I was walking around in Wal-Mart the other night and was struck by how some new cold remedies had the word "mucus" in their names. The commercials are gross, too. They have blubbery little green men (and little mucus kids, too) waddling around and setting up housekeeping in your lungs, until someone takes their mucus remedy and the little mucus people are forcefully ejected. Euuuw, thank heavens they never show you on the commercials where the little mucus people end up after the cough.
Another gross commercial is the one where the little fungus people lift some poor guy's toenail up as if it were a lid and then starts digging away in the skin under the toenail along with hundreds, maybe thousands of his buddies. Then the fungus remedy comes by and saves the day and scares the little buggers off. The first commercial had the remedy actually run over and squish the little fungus guy, but I guess they thought it was too violent and gruesome, what with the cute little fungus laying there dead with his tongue hanging out. In the newer commercials, the fungus remedy just looks threateningly at the fungus person who then runs away."
I agree with the reader. I prefer not to think about the word “mucus.” “Snot” is a much more dainty term, don’t you think?
The thing that really bothers me about those commercials, though is that it humanizes fungi and mucus and the like. When the little fellow under the toenail goes to his reward, so to speak, I’m devastated. Fungy, we hardly knew ye.
It’s the same way with the Raid commercials. I hate cockroaches in the flesh, but the cartoon roaches are just so darn cute that I’m sad to see them get it. I find myself sometimes rooting for the roach. That sounds like a lyric from a 60s rock song, doesn’t it?
Speaking of gross, I had a great idea for a toilet paper commercial a few years back, but everyone I pitched it to thought it was too gross. The commercial showed two people sitting on toilets (nothing revealing, just from the waist up). Anyway, one of the guys is looking disgusted and you see his finger has ripped through the toilet tissue.
The other guy is holding his wad of toilet tissue in the air proudly. His finger has not ripped his paper. The announcer says, “BRAND NAME is proud to announce no new breakthroughs.
Pretty clever, eh? Would you believe no one wanted to use my idea? Me either.
One more commercial that disgusts me is the toilet paper spot showing bears in the woods, with their roll of toilet paper attached to a tree. It creates a visual image that I’d rather not have.
Speaking of bears, today’s the day Governor Mayor Wilder announces the name of the second Maymont bear. I’m so excited I can hardly think straight. I had been thinking that the name Bobby the Baby Biting Bear would be good, but after rereading my column today, I’m going to make a last minute suggestion…Grunty.
Anywho, she (the reader) makes some interesting points about a new era of grossness in advertising. First, let me share her thoughts:
"Hey, Steve, I've been reading your blog as often as I can (one of your "handful" of friends who is addicted to it), and I thought maybe if you wanted to do a column with a gross subject, I had an idea. I was walking around in Wal-Mart the other night and was struck by how some new cold remedies had the word "mucus" in their names. The commercials are gross, too. They have blubbery little green men (and little mucus kids, too) waddling around and setting up housekeeping in your lungs, until someone takes their mucus remedy and the little mucus people are forcefully ejected. Euuuw, thank heavens they never show you on the commercials where the little mucus people end up after the cough.
Another gross commercial is the one where the little fungus people lift some poor guy's toenail up as if it were a lid and then starts digging away in the skin under the toenail along with hundreds, maybe thousands of his buddies. Then the fungus remedy comes by and saves the day and scares the little buggers off. The first commercial had the remedy actually run over and squish the little fungus guy, but I guess they thought it was too violent and gruesome, what with the cute little fungus laying there dead with his tongue hanging out. In the newer commercials, the fungus remedy just looks threateningly at the fungus person who then runs away."
I agree with the reader. I prefer not to think about the word “mucus.” “Snot” is a much more dainty term, don’t you think?
The thing that really bothers me about those commercials, though is that it humanizes fungi and mucus and the like. When the little fellow under the toenail goes to his reward, so to speak, I’m devastated. Fungy, we hardly knew ye.
It’s the same way with the Raid commercials. I hate cockroaches in the flesh, but the cartoon roaches are just so darn cute that I’m sad to see them get it. I find myself sometimes rooting for the roach. That sounds like a lyric from a 60s rock song, doesn’t it?
Speaking of gross, I had a great idea for a toilet paper commercial a few years back, but everyone I pitched it to thought it was too gross. The commercial showed two people sitting on toilets (nothing revealing, just from the waist up). Anyway, one of the guys is looking disgusted and you see his finger has ripped through the toilet tissue.
The other guy is holding his wad of toilet tissue in the air proudly. His finger has not ripped his paper. The announcer says, “BRAND NAME is proud to announce no new breakthroughs.
Pretty clever, eh? Would you believe no one wanted to use my idea? Me either.
One more commercial that disgusts me is the toilet paper spot showing bears in the woods, with their roll of toilet paper attached to a tree. It creates a visual image that I’d rather not have.
Speaking of bears, today’s the day Governor Mayor Wilder announces the name of the second Maymont bear. I’m so excited I can hardly think straight. I had been thinking that the name Bobby the Baby Biting Bear would be good, but after rereading my column today, I’m going to make a last minute suggestion…Grunty.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
A Kinder, Gentler Steve
I don’t know if this constitutes a medical emergency or not, but my anger level is way down. I was thinking about it this morning. There are very few things I really hate right now.
That has me worried. They say that when you run out of things to scream about, you just slowly fade away. Well, they don’t say it. I do, but I believe I know as much as they do anyway.
Even my experience with Sprint Telephone customer service yesterday didn’t reach the ranting and raving stage. True, I did call the guy an idiot. But, if you’d been there you’d have done the same.
I didn’t even scream it at the top of my lungs. I just sort of matter-of-factly said, “Hey, you are an idiot.”
Let me tell you what happened. I couldn't make a call on my cell...kept being told my account could not be validated. So, I call customer service. They say my account looks fine, and that they will transfer me to technical support. I was then put on hold for fifty minutes waiting for technical support and then technical support comes on and tells me, “Oh yeah, there’s nothing wrong with your phone, we’re having a problem on the East Coast.”
“Well, why couldn’t you let your customer service people know that so I wouldn’t have had to wait so long,” I asked meekly.
His reply was one that in the old days would have had my arm reaching into the phone in order to throttle some neck, even if said neck was attached to a head in Bombay. But, rather than becoming hostile, I just quietly suggested that he might be an idiot.
What’s happening to me? Even this morning I had an experience that should have sent me over the edge. I should have run screaming through the house, but instead, I just said to myself, “Oh well. That’s life.”
That’s life? How could I have remained so calm? Oh, yeah, you don’t know what happened do you? I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I got the tube. It’s one of these new-fangled flip-top caps that the toothpaste people are so excited about. The problem is that these big dad-blasted caps simply create a receptacle for toothpaste to harden in. So, after one or two squeezes, the opening becomes scabbed over, as it were, making squeezing toothpaste on one’s brush nearly impossible.
Even though I didn’t go ballistic over the tube problem, which any normal human would have done, I do have a question or two I’d like to ask a customer-service rep with the toothpaste company about. I'm not upset. I just kinda would like to know.
First of all, were the old screw-off caps so much of a problem that they needed to create a new cap? I mean, I’m as lazy as they come, but I never really minded a couple of twists of the old cap.
Personally, I’d prefer they spend more time on new flavors than on new caps. For instance, what about a hamburger flavored toothpaste? Now, that would be a great way to start my day. Or devil's food cake with white icing. Now that would be a flavor.
When I was a kid, someone gave my father a bourbon-flavored toothpaste. It didn’t contain alcohol, just the taste. But, I was sneaking into the bathroom and brushing my teeth eight to ten times a day. Whatever happened to those good old days?
My second question, getting back to toothpaste tube caps, is this, do you guys ever stop to actually “test-drive” your caps before you start putting them on tubes and selling them? I’m sure that if anyone in R&D had taken that flip top tube home and used it a few days, the fool thing would never have gotten out the door. What’s wrong with you people?
Hold on. Do I seem to be getting irritated? Yes! Yes, I do, in fact. This is great. I’m actually getting mad just thinking about that stupid toothpaste tube. Every day or two I have to clean that scummy dross out. (I don’t know what scummy dross is, but I’ve always wanted to use the term). It’s not a pleasant job. It’s thick and hard and icky. And I hate it.
Gee, my blood pressure is soaring over this. I’m feeling giddy. Of course, I know that’s just the diabetes speaking, but hey, I feel alive again.
Life is great. Let me call that Sprint guy back and tell him what I really think of him.
That has me worried. They say that when you run out of things to scream about, you just slowly fade away. Well, they don’t say it. I do, but I believe I know as much as they do anyway.
Even my experience with Sprint Telephone customer service yesterday didn’t reach the ranting and raving stage. True, I did call the guy an idiot. But, if you’d been there you’d have done the same.
I didn’t even scream it at the top of my lungs. I just sort of matter-of-factly said, “Hey, you are an idiot.”
Let me tell you what happened. I couldn't make a call on my cell...kept being told my account could not be validated. So, I call customer service. They say my account looks fine, and that they will transfer me to technical support. I was then put on hold for fifty minutes waiting for technical support and then technical support comes on and tells me, “Oh yeah, there’s nothing wrong with your phone, we’re having a problem on the East Coast.”
“Well, why couldn’t you let your customer service people know that so I wouldn’t have had to wait so long,” I asked meekly.
His reply was one that in the old days would have had my arm reaching into the phone in order to throttle some neck, even if said neck was attached to a head in Bombay. But, rather than becoming hostile, I just quietly suggested that he might be an idiot.
What’s happening to me? Even this morning I had an experience that should have sent me over the edge. I should have run screaming through the house, but instead, I just said to myself, “Oh well. That’s life.”
That’s life? How could I have remained so calm? Oh, yeah, you don’t know what happened do you? I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I got the tube. It’s one of these new-fangled flip-top caps that the toothpaste people are so excited about. The problem is that these big dad-blasted caps simply create a receptacle for toothpaste to harden in. So, after one or two squeezes, the opening becomes scabbed over, as it were, making squeezing toothpaste on one’s brush nearly impossible.
Even though I didn’t go ballistic over the tube problem, which any normal human would have done, I do have a question or two I’d like to ask a customer-service rep with the toothpaste company about. I'm not upset. I just kinda would like to know.
First of all, were the old screw-off caps so much of a problem that they needed to create a new cap? I mean, I’m as lazy as they come, but I never really minded a couple of twists of the old cap.
Personally, I’d prefer they spend more time on new flavors than on new caps. For instance, what about a hamburger flavored toothpaste? Now, that would be a great way to start my day. Or devil's food cake with white icing. Now that would be a flavor.
When I was a kid, someone gave my father a bourbon-flavored toothpaste. It didn’t contain alcohol, just the taste. But, I was sneaking into the bathroom and brushing my teeth eight to ten times a day. Whatever happened to those good old days?
My second question, getting back to toothpaste tube caps, is this, do you guys ever stop to actually “test-drive” your caps before you start putting them on tubes and selling them? I’m sure that if anyone in R&D had taken that flip top tube home and used it a few days, the fool thing would never have gotten out the door. What’s wrong with you people?
Hold on. Do I seem to be getting irritated? Yes! Yes, I do, in fact. This is great. I’m actually getting mad just thinking about that stupid toothpaste tube. Every day or two I have to clean that scummy dross out. (I don’t know what scummy dross is, but I’ve always wanted to use the term). It’s not a pleasant job. It’s thick and hard and icky. And I hate it.
Gee, my blood pressure is soaring over this. I’m feeling giddy. Of course, I know that’s just the diabetes speaking, but hey, I feel alive again.
Life is great. Let me call that Sprint guy back and tell him what I really think of him.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
A Wrinkle In Time
I was talking to my oldest and, yes, dearest, friend, Jon Pope this morning. Okay, I barely know the guy, but he laughs at my jokes, which not only makes him my best friend, it also proves to me the guy's a genius.
Anyway, I have Jon convinced I'm a successful songwriter, and that I'm only working for this company as a community service sort of thing in order to make restitution for an armed robbery a couple of years back.
So, this morning Jon tells me he has an idea for a song. He thinks I should write a song about how when you're having fun, time goes by so quickly, but when you're bored, it just drags slowly by. He's right.
I've often thought that one of the true benefits of my boring existance is that it makes it feel like I'm living longer. But, anyway, I digress. I liked Jon's idea. And, I have to humor him with this songwriting pretense.
So, I sat down and I wrote a little song I like to call, "A Wrinkle In Time." Here, for your listening enjoyment is that song. You'll have to make up your own tune, of course.
I was watching the sci-fi channel just the other night
And they was talking about a subject that to me just don’t seem right
So, I thought I’d sit me down and put my thoughts in rhyme
And try to figger out that thing they call a wrinkle in time
A wrinkle in time. A wrinkle in time
Just the thought has me scratching my head
I don’t xactly know what they was a talking about
But I sure know that I’m mighty afraid.
You see the truth is there’s always been those wrinkles in time
It’s not science fiction. It’s really more like a crime
It’s like when you’re watching your favorite TV show
And your wife starts in to talking about what her days been like, don’t you know.
You’re trying to hear what they’re saying on the TV set
But your wife’s a chattering, she hasn’t taken a breath yet.
How come fore you know it the show’s almost done
And Bertha the missus, well she’s just begun
The thirty minute TV show breezed right past your ears
But your wife’s thirty minutes, well, they seemed like years
Yet it’s the same thirty minutes. Folks, I gotta tell you that I’m
Awfully confused about that dad blasted wrinkle in time.
Anyway, I have Jon convinced I'm a successful songwriter, and that I'm only working for this company as a community service sort of thing in order to make restitution for an armed robbery a couple of years back.
So, this morning Jon tells me he has an idea for a song. He thinks I should write a song about how when you're having fun, time goes by so quickly, but when you're bored, it just drags slowly by. He's right.
I've often thought that one of the true benefits of my boring existance is that it makes it feel like I'm living longer. But, anyway, I digress. I liked Jon's idea. And, I have to humor him with this songwriting pretense.
So, I sat down and I wrote a little song I like to call, "A Wrinkle In Time." Here, for your listening enjoyment is that song. You'll have to make up your own tune, of course.
I was watching the sci-fi channel just the other night
And they was talking about a subject that to me just don’t seem right
So, I thought I’d sit me down and put my thoughts in rhyme
And try to figger out that thing they call a wrinkle in time
A wrinkle in time. A wrinkle in time
Just the thought has me scratching my head
I don’t xactly know what they was a talking about
But I sure know that I’m mighty afraid.
You see the truth is there’s always been those wrinkles in time
It’s not science fiction. It’s really more like a crime
It’s like when you’re watching your favorite TV show
And your wife starts in to talking about what her days been like, don’t you know.
You’re trying to hear what they’re saying on the TV set
But your wife’s a chattering, she hasn’t taken a breath yet.
How come fore you know it the show’s almost done
And Bertha the missus, well she’s just begun
The thirty minute TV show breezed right past your ears
But your wife’s thirty minutes, well, they seemed like years
Yet it’s the same thirty minutes. Folks, I gotta tell you that I’m
Awfully confused about that dad blasted wrinkle in time.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
I Only Complain As a Last Resort
You know how much I hate to complain. But sometimes things happen that force me to air my grievances. For instance, my wife and I spent a couple of nights in a relatively nice hotel recently. Actually, it is a very resort-like facility. You’d think that I wouldn’t be able to find anything about which to complain. Think again.
This resort, like so many of the upscale hotels, are using so-called environmental issues as an excuse to not have to do laundry. You probably know what I’m talking about.
They have this little sign in the bathroom. It reads something like this:
In an effort to conserve the natural resources of this big dying planet, earth, we will only wash towels if you demand it. Now, if you don’t care if our home becomes uninhabitable…if you’re all in favor of seeing you and your family dead, then go ahead and put your towels in the basket, and begrudgingly, we’ll wash them. If you, on the other hand, want to see your kids grow up, we’d suggest you just keep using the same towels day in and day out.
Now, normally, I’ll use the same towel at home for a year or more. After all, I reason, it’s only used to dry off my already clean body, so why replace it? But, there’s something about going to a hotel that makes me want to use a fresh towel every day. In fact, I’d like them to come in and replace the towel after I dry my back and before I dry the front side.
So, I throw all caution to the wind and throw my towel in the basket. Actually, I don’t. I just throw my towel on the floor. That’s another perk of staying in a hotel. You can toss your towels anywhere you wish, and then walk all over them. And, voila, the next day, you have clean towels neatly folded on the rack.
This hotel also has an aversion to changing sheets. I’m wondering how many other guys may have been lying under the same sheets as I, just because none of us took the time to take the “Change the Sheets” card and place it at a 45 degree angle on the desk. Because if you don’t do that, the same ol’ sheets go right back on the bed. Pretty disgusting, eh?
There was something else I didn’t like about my hotel room…horseshoe toilet lids. You know the sit down/stand up lid? I like my lid to go all the way around. I never understood this open-ended lid mentality. My biggest concern is that it provides some wanna be sharpshooters too much of a temptation to try and do the job without lifting the lid.
I hate lifting the lid in a public restroom as much as the next guy. In fact, I’d say if there was one real benefit to being a woman, it’s that you never have to lift the lid. But, my good manners move me to always lift the lid. Oops, I guess I’ve kind of gotten off the subject at hand.
There were other things I didn’t especially care for at this so-called resort. For instance, they use that stupid faucet in the shower that is designed to scald you. You’ve probably seen them. It’s almost impossible to tell which end is the pointer. Is the fool thing pointing to hot or pointing to off?
I always choose the wrong way, and I always get burned. I know the inventor of this faucet is a sadist. I hope he’s getting his jollies knowing what he’s done to me, on more than one occasion.
And, one more thing I didn’t like…The hotel has these really fancy white bath robes you can put on. I never wear robes, unless I’m staying in a hotel that has them. There’s something just kinda luxuriant about the whole thing.
However, the hotel has a little card hung up by the robes that says, “Luxurious to wear, Soft to hold. If it leaves the room, Consider it sold."
What’s with that? They don’t put similar warnings on the TV or the lamps or the chairs, or even the pillows. Obviously the robes are not like the shower caps. No one is his or her right mind would think they’re a giveaway item. I think it’s just sad that people pay big bucks to spend the night in this resort and then they’re made to feel like a criminal.
Hey, if I wanted to be treated like a criminal, I’d go to Sam’s Club. Anyway, I wrote a card of my own which I hung up next to the robes. It read:
"Scratchy to my skin. Puts me in a bad mood. If I get a rash, Consider yourself sued."
Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Anyway, my mini-vacation is over. I’m back home. And now I have nothing about which to complain. But, don’t worry. I’ll think of something.
This resort, like so many of the upscale hotels, are using so-called environmental issues as an excuse to not have to do laundry. You probably know what I’m talking about.
They have this little sign in the bathroom. It reads something like this:
In an effort to conserve the natural resources of this big dying planet, earth, we will only wash towels if you demand it. Now, if you don’t care if our home becomes uninhabitable…if you’re all in favor of seeing you and your family dead, then go ahead and put your towels in the basket, and begrudgingly, we’ll wash them. If you, on the other hand, want to see your kids grow up, we’d suggest you just keep using the same towels day in and day out.
Now, normally, I’ll use the same towel at home for a year or more. After all, I reason, it’s only used to dry off my already clean body, so why replace it? But, there’s something about going to a hotel that makes me want to use a fresh towel every day. In fact, I’d like them to come in and replace the towel after I dry my back and before I dry the front side.
So, I throw all caution to the wind and throw my towel in the basket. Actually, I don’t. I just throw my towel on the floor. That’s another perk of staying in a hotel. You can toss your towels anywhere you wish, and then walk all over them. And, voila, the next day, you have clean towels neatly folded on the rack.
This hotel also has an aversion to changing sheets. I’m wondering how many other guys may have been lying under the same sheets as I, just because none of us took the time to take the “Change the Sheets” card and place it at a 45 degree angle on the desk. Because if you don’t do that, the same ol’ sheets go right back on the bed. Pretty disgusting, eh?
There was something else I didn’t like about my hotel room…horseshoe toilet lids. You know the sit down/stand up lid? I like my lid to go all the way around. I never understood this open-ended lid mentality. My biggest concern is that it provides some wanna be sharpshooters too much of a temptation to try and do the job without lifting the lid.
I hate lifting the lid in a public restroom as much as the next guy. In fact, I’d say if there was one real benefit to being a woman, it’s that you never have to lift the lid. But, my good manners move me to always lift the lid. Oops, I guess I’ve kind of gotten off the subject at hand.
There were other things I didn’t especially care for at this so-called resort. For instance, they use that stupid faucet in the shower that is designed to scald you. You’ve probably seen them. It’s almost impossible to tell which end is the pointer. Is the fool thing pointing to hot or pointing to off?
I always choose the wrong way, and I always get burned. I know the inventor of this faucet is a sadist. I hope he’s getting his jollies knowing what he’s done to me, on more than one occasion.
And, one more thing I didn’t like…The hotel has these really fancy white bath robes you can put on. I never wear robes, unless I’m staying in a hotel that has them. There’s something just kinda luxuriant about the whole thing.
However, the hotel has a little card hung up by the robes that says, “Luxurious to wear, Soft to hold. If it leaves the room, Consider it sold."
What’s with that? They don’t put similar warnings on the TV or the lamps or the chairs, or even the pillows. Obviously the robes are not like the shower caps. No one is his or her right mind would think they’re a giveaway item. I think it’s just sad that people pay big bucks to spend the night in this resort and then they’re made to feel like a criminal.
Hey, if I wanted to be treated like a criminal, I’d go to Sam’s Club. Anyway, I wrote a card of my own which I hung up next to the robes. It read:
"Scratchy to my skin. Puts me in a bad mood. If I get a rash, Consider yourself sued."
Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Anyway, my mini-vacation is over. I’m back home. And now I have nothing about which to complain. But, don’t worry. I’ll think of something.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
