Perhaps, it’s because I’m so apolitical, so completely out of the loop, politically speaking, that I’m so highly respected by both Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain. There are other sterling qualities of mine that have led to these two gentlemen holding me in such high esteem, but whatever the case, suffice it to say that they like me…they really like me, so much so, that they asked me to interview them for this highly popular blog, a blog, which I must boast, is read by upwards of a dozen people each day or month or so.
I met with the Presidential candidates recently and here is the result of a very insightful interview:
ME: First, thank you both for allowing me this opportunity
MR. OBAMA: Steve, you’re quite welcome.
MR. MCCAIN: Steve, you’re even more welcome with me.
MR. OBAMA: Steve, I hope you noticed who said “you’re welcome” first. So, Mr. McCain, is simply acknowledging my saying it and agreeing with me.
MR. MCCAIN: Steve, if you’ll look at my record, you will clearly see that I said, “You’re welcome,” back in 1982, which was just a couple of decades after I returned from my imprisonment on behalf of my country.
ME: Well, I think I understand both of your positions on that subject. Let’s move on.
BOTH MEN: Sure
MR. MCCAIN: I said it first.
MR. OBAMA; No, I did.
ME: Both of you said it well, I must admit. But, let’s continue. Mr. Obama, why do you think you should be president?
MR. OBAMA: Well, I think the most important reason that Americans should elect me President, is that I will invite every American to my inaugural party. I seriously doubt that Mr. McCain would do that.
ME: But, sir, you’re talking about inviting millions and millions of people. Where could you hold such a party as that? You don’t have anyplace that would be big enough.
MR. OBAMA: Steve, that sounds like a pretty racist thing for you to say.
ME: Well, the only race I’m interested in right now is the…
MR. MCCAIN: Let me guess this one, Steve. You’re going to say the human race, right?
ME: No, although that would be trite enough, I was actually going to say the race for President.
MR. MCCAIN: (LAUGHING) Oh, that’s a good one. I like a good laugh. You know when I was being tortured, it always helped to have a good laugh. Did you know I was tortured?
ME: Yes, I read that somewhere. But, back to you Mr. Obama. Even if you couldn’t invite everyone in America to your party, what are the chances that editors of local magazines might get to go?
MR. OBAMA: Let me just say that only in America could an editor get an invitation. This is a great country and for the first time in my adult life, I’m proud to say so.
ME: What sort of food do you anticipate serving? Finger sandwiches are always good, and chicken wings, and, oh yeah meatballs.
MR. MCCAIN: Hey, if you’re having meatballs, I might be interested. You know, when I was being held in prison…you did know I was being held in prison, didn’t you?
MR. OBAMA: We know that John, and let me just say that only in America could a former prisoner be defeated by a 50% black man for the position of the highest office in the land.
MR. MCCAIN: Yeah, yeah, sure, okay, good. But, I think we were talking about me and, of course meatballs. Do you think you’ll be serving meatballs? And, if so, do you think you could get some of those multi-colored toothpicks.
MR. OBAMA: Multi-colored, eh? That’s rather racist isn’t it?
MR. MCCAIN: Well, maybe I misspoke. You know, as a result of my years of being tortured, sometimes I say things I don’t mean.
ME: Whoa, you two. I think I’m conducting the interview around here. Mr. Obama, you’ve been dodging any questions about Mr. Ayers. I’ve done a little research and I’d like to ask you a question.
MR. OBAMA: Hold on, young man. I’ll not stand for such racist questioning.
ME: Well, I haven’t actually asked anything yet? And besides, from my research I have discovered that Mr. Ayers is white, isn’t he?
MR. OBAMA: And furthermore, you can leave my wife, Michelle (WAVING TO MICHELLE WHO IS WAITING IN THE WINGS) out of this. I’ll not stand for that, or for any racism. I’m only for change.
MR. MCCAIN: Speaking of which, did you know that because of the severe treatment I received during the war, it’s difficult for me to grasp change?
ME: Huh?
MR. MCCAIN: It’s really very difficult. I can hang on to dollar bills and such, but I can barely pick up a quarter off the floor. But, I was proud to do my part in serving my country.
MR. OBAMA: I was even prouder, Steve. Honest. And, furthermore, I’m not a racist, like some Presidential candidates I could mention (MR OBAMA POINTS AT MR MCCAIN, BUT HIDES HIS POINTING FINGER BEHIND HIS OTHER HAND AS A DIPLOMATIC MEASURE)
MR. MCCAIN: Well, if you’re suggesting I am a racist, I think we have come to a parting of our minds, or whatever. There’s not a racist bone in my previously tortured body. But, I would like to ask just one more question…at this party you’re going to have, you’re not planning on serving chitterlings…are you?
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Thursday, August 07, 2008
I'VE SAID IT BEFORE AND I'LL SAY IT AGAIN. HEY IT BEATS COMING UP WITH SOMETHING NEW
The subject of reparations has, once again, reared its head. And, while you may be surprised to hear this, I’m kind of in favor of it. But, let me explain. I’m only in favor of reparations if it’s done fairly. About three years ago or so, I wrote a column on the subject. And, while I’m extremely humble, I have to say my idea is without a doubt the most brilliantly thought out idea I’ve heard anywhere. So, as a public service, I’m posting my column below. You can tell at the end of the piece that it’s somewhat dated. But hey, pure genius is timeless.
A STEVE COOK BLAST FROM THE PAST
PAYBACKS ARE HELLISH
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.
A STEVE COOK BLAST FROM THE PAST
PAYBACKS ARE HELLISH
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.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Is It The Folks at Walgreen's? Or, Is It Just Me?
Hey, it’s time to play America’s number one family-favorite game, “Is It Just Me, Or What!” Today’s subject: The folks at Walgreen’s.
Okay, here’s the way we play, I tell you what happened to me the other night at Walgreen’s and you tell me if it’s just me…or what! Maybe it is just me. But, I don’t think so.
So, I go in to Walgreen’s, make some wise purchasing decisions (based upon sales signage on the products), and take my wise purchases to the not-so-wise guy at the counter.
First item: Two packs of Wal-Sharp razor blades. These sturdy, stainless steel, double-bladed razors normally retail for $4.99 a pack, but the sign says, “Buy one pack at $3.99 and get a second pack free.”
I’m buying. The guy rings up the first pack: $4.99. Before I can gasp, he rings up the second pack: $4.99. “Whoa!” I shout. The sign says, ‘Buy one pack…blah, blah, blah.’”
The guy looks at me as if to say, “Oh boy. Here’s another idiot.” He sighs and asks me to show him. He follows me to the back of the store.
Beaming like a giant beacon in a sea of morons, I point to the sign under the razors.
“Hey,” he says, as if he’s just spotted one of those guys on America’s Most Wanted, “this sale doesn’t start until tomorrow.” He’s proud. He just made $6.00 for Walgreen’s. And, truth be told, in very, very small print under the huge sale print, it lists the dates for the sale. It does start tomorrow, which is about 30 minutes away by this time.
“Well, that’s pretty stupid,” I say. “Why would you announce a sale price that’s coming? If you have the price up there, you should honor it.” Make sense to me. So, first question to you, “Is it just me, or what?”
By this time, the young, assistant manager has arrived on the scene. Maybe the guy pushed some sort of Idiot Alert button. She hears my protestations and says, “That sale starts tomorrow.” I know that…now, but I don’t say anything. Okay, I do say, “Well it seems pretty stupid to have the sign up tonight.”
“You don’t expect us to just slap the signs up in the morning, do you?” she asks me.
“I don’t care when you slap ‘em up,” I say. “But, I do think if they’re up, you’re wrong to not honor the price.”
“Sorreeee!” she says. I think it sounds sarcastic, but, my motto is “Never start an argument you can’t prove.” So I remain quiet. I select a cheaper package of razors and return to the register.
Several other items don’t ring up properly, but the guy makes adjustments, because, in these other instances, I’m totally right. Finally, he gives me my total. It’s over $40.00 bucks. I’m surprised, but I pay it. The guy virtually flings my change at me and doesn’t say a word.
“You’re welcome,” I say cheerily, and, yes, sarcastically. I go home and decide to look at my receipt, because $40.00 bucks does seem high. Sure enough, once again, I’m right. He charged me twice for a $10.00 item.
It’s late, and I’m tired, but I head back over to Walgreen’s. I approach the same clerk. “I know you’re irritated with me,” I say, “but I should be irritated with you. You charged me twice for the bathroom scales.”
He looks at the receipt, calls the dumb, young manager, and goes to get the same pack of razor blades. I guess, despite what I had just pointed out to him, he feels he has a winning argument with the razor blades.
The manager storms over, looks at me as if I’m the most annoying human on the planet and asks the young clerk why I’m still upset about the razor blades.
“It’s not the razor blades!” I shout. I’m exasperated, but, my question to you is, “Is it just me, or what!”
“It’s the bathroom scale. You charged me twice.” She, the manager, peruses the receipt. I know she’s hoping that if she holds it long enough the second charge for the scales will disappear. Finally, she gives up and gets my refund, which she flings on the counter. She then thrusts a form in my face and shouts, “Fill this out.”
"No," I tell her. Of course, I pick up my ten plus tax before I tell her that.
She grabs the form back. She knows she’s lost that one.
“I know you all are irritated with me,” I say again. “But, I’m the one who had to come all the way back here because of your mistake. And besides,” I continue, “you didn’t even apologize.”
I’m almost done, but I have one more point to make. I don’t think I’m wrong to make it, but you tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
“Not only are you totally incompetent,” I tell them both, “but you’re very rude.”
“Incompetent?” the clerk says incredulously. I guess he agrees with the rude part. Or, perhaps he thinks I’ve just made some attack on his manhood. I’m not sure which.
“Yes, totally,” I announce as I walk out. So, was I rude? Or, did I do the right thing? Should I expect more, or should this service be viewed as standard operating procedure these days? You tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
Okay, here’s the way we play, I tell you what happened to me the other night at Walgreen’s and you tell me if it’s just me…or what! Maybe it is just me. But, I don’t think so.
So, I go in to Walgreen’s, make some wise purchasing decisions (based upon sales signage on the products), and take my wise purchases to the not-so-wise guy at the counter.
First item: Two packs of Wal-Sharp razor blades. These sturdy, stainless steel, double-bladed razors normally retail for $4.99 a pack, but the sign says, “Buy one pack at $3.99 and get a second pack free.”
I’m buying. The guy rings up the first pack: $4.99. Before I can gasp, he rings up the second pack: $4.99. “Whoa!” I shout. The sign says, ‘Buy one pack…blah, blah, blah.’”
The guy looks at me as if to say, “Oh boy. Here’s another idiot.” He sighs and asks me to show him. He follows me to the back of the store.
Beaming like a giant beacon in a sea of morons, I point to the sign under the razors.
“Hey,” he says, as if he’s just spotted one of those guys on America’s Most Wanted, “this sale doesn’t start until tomorrow.” He’s proud. He just made $6.00 for Walgreen’s. And, truth be told, in very, very small print under the huge sale print, it lists the dates for the sale. It does start tomorrow, which is about 30 minutes away by this time.
“Well, that’s pretty stupid,” I say. “Why would you announce a sale price that’s coming? If you have the price up there, you should honor it.” Make sense to me. So, first question to you, “Is it just me, or what?”
By this time, the young, assistant manager has arrived on the scene. Maybe the guy pushed some sort of Idiot Alert button. She hears my protestations and says, “That sale starts tomorrow.” I know that…now, but I don’t say anything. Okay, I do say, “Well it seems pretty stupid to have the sign up tonight.”
“You don’t expect us to just slap the signs up in the morning, do you?” she asks me.
“I don’t care when you slap ‘em up,” I say. “But, I do think if they’re up, you’re wrong to not honor the price.”
“Sorreeee!” she says. I think it sounds sarcastic, but, my motto is “Never start an argument you can’t prove.” So I remain quiet. I select a cheaper package of razors and return to the register.
Several other items don’t ring up properly, but the guy makes adjustments, because, in these other instances, I’m totally right. Finally, he gives me my total. It’s over $40.00 bucks. I’m surprised, but I pay it. The guy virtually flings my change at me and doesn’t say a word.
“You’re welcome,” I say cheerily, and, yes, sarcastically. I go home and decide to look at my receipt, because $40.00 bucks does seem high. Sure enough, once again, I’m right. He charged me twice for a $10.00 item.
It’s late, and I’m tired, but I head back over to Walgreen’s. I approach the same clerk. “I know you’re irritated with me,” I say, “but I should be irritated with you. You charged me twice for the bathroom scales.”
He looks at the receipt, calls the dumb, young manager, and goes to get the same pack of razor blades. I guess, despite what I had just pointed out to him, he feels he has a winning argument with the razor blades.
The manager storms over, looks at me as if I’m the most annoying human on the planet and asks the young clerk why I’m still upset about the razor blades.
“It’s not the razor blades!” I shout. I’m exasperated, but, my question to you is, “Is it just me, or what!”
“It’s the bathroom scale. You charged me twice.” She, the manager, peruses the receipt. I know she’s hoping that if she holds it long enough the second charge for the scales will disappear. Finally, she gives up and gets my refund, which she flings on the counter. She then thrusts a form in my face and shouts, “Fill this out.”
"No," I tell her. Of course, I pick up my ten plus tax before I tell her that.
She grabs the form back. She knows she’s lost that one.
“I know you all are irritated with me,” I say again. “But, I’m the one who had to come all the way back here because of your mistake. And besides,” I continue, “you didn’t even apologize.”
I’m almost done, but I have one more point to make. I don’t think I’m wrong to make it, but you tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
“Not only are you totally incompetent,” I tell them both, “but you’re very rude.”
“Incompetent?” the clerk says incredulously. I guess he agrees with the rude part. Or, perhaps he thinks I’ve just made some attack on his manhood. I’m not sure which.
“Yes, totally,” I announce as I walk out. So, was I rude? Or, did I do the right thing? Should I expect more, or should this service be viewed as standard operating procedure these days? You tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Least Angry Man
I feel that I have, somehow, totally created a false impression of myself. And it’s all due to my charming little stories that I gladly share with you from time to time. It appears that some of you have gotten the impression that I have a mean streak in me. Nothing could be further (or is it farther) from the truth.
For instance, my cousin asked my mother recently, “Is Steve always angry?” I hate that. It’s like when someone says, “Are you in a bad mood.”
I reply, “I am now.” I mean, really, why would anyone suggest that I’m disgruntled. Actually, I prefer to think of myself as totally gruntled. But, nothing puts me in a bad mood like someone asking if I'm in a bad mood.
I was at a wedding this weekend. Now, admittedly, in the past, when I attended weddings, I have shared my observations as to the idiocy of some of the people in attendance. I’m not angry about it. Amused is probably more what I am.
But, anyway, I was sitting with some old friends during the reception and one of them says, “Please don’t say anything ugly about me in your column.” I just stared. I thought she was talking to someone else.
This woman, I’ll call her ‘Donna,’ went on to say, “But, if you do say anything nasty, please don’t use my last name, (Tillett).In fact, don't use my first name either. Just call me ‘DT.' Better yet, just call me ‘D.’”
So, in order to accommodate her, I’ll just say that I had no intention of saying anything bad about D, except that she misjudges me. I would never say anything bad about an old, old friend.
I will say I found her daughter quite charming. She (the daughter) told me how much she enjoys my columns. I didn't hang on her every word like some egomaniac, but it seems she said something like, “I laugh uncontrollably.” I don’t know what it is, but when I’m around people who like me (admittedly, that’s not often), I find them so fascinating. When people are raving about me, I could sit and listen all day. When she changed the subject, I politely said, "Don't stop on my account."
I definitely can’t say anything bad about the wedding either. That’s mainly because it was my boss’ son getting married. Actually, it was a lovely wedding, with great food. I enjoy food. This was the first wedding reception I went to that served Chinese food and fortune cookies. My cookie said, “Avoid the egg rolls.” Unfortunately, I didn’t read it until I had actually eaten one. But, everything else was great.
True, the bride and groom were quite young. I won’t say too young, but I sure would like to have had the Clearasil concession at the event. It was the first wedding I’ve been to where, instead of wedding cake, they served ice cream cones with clown faces on the ice cream. This was the first wedding I went to where the bride and groom were registered for gifts at Toys R Us. I hear they are getting a discount on their honeymoon suite because they were on the honor roll last semester.
But the young couple were quite lovely. They seemed very happy. So happy, that they giggled their vows. But, I’m not saying anything negative. I’m certainly not angry. I mean, after all, these fine folks gave me all the food and grape-flavored Kool Aid I could consume. I was enthralled with the entire event.
So there, to all of you naysayers who besides saying, “Nay,” also say I am an angry man. I guess you all are eating those words this morning, eh?
For instance, my cousin asked my mother recently, “Is Steve always angry?” I hate that. It’s like when someone says, “Are you in a bad mood.”
I reply, “I am now.” I mean, really, why would anyone suggest that I’m disgruntled. Actually, I prefer to think of myself as totally gruntled. But, nothing puts me in a bad mood like someone asking if I'm in a bad mood.
I was at a wedding this weekend. Now, admittedly, in the past, when I attended weddings, I have shared my observations as to the idiocy of some of the people in attendance. I’m not angry about it. Amused is probably more what I am.
But, anyway, I was sitting with some old friends during the reception and one of them says, “Please don’t say anything ugly about me in your column.” I just stared. I thought she was talking to someone else.
This woman, I’ll call her ‘Donna,’ went on to say, “But, if you do say anything nasty, please don’t use my last name, (Tillett).In fact, don't use my first name either. Just call me ‘DT.' Better yet, just call me ‘D.’”
So, in order to accommodate her, I’ll just say that I had no intention of saying anything bad about D, except that she misjudges me. I would never say anything bad about an old, old friend.
I will say I found her daughter quite charming. She (the daughter) told me how much she enjoys my columns. I didn't hang on her every word like some egomaniac, but it seems she said something like, “I laugh uncontrollably.” I don’t know what it is, but when I’m around people who like me (admittedly, that’s not often), I find them so fascinating. When people are raving about me, I could sit and listen all day. When she changed the subject, I politely said, "Don't stop on my account."
I definitely can’t say anything bad about the wedding either. That’s mainly because it was my boss’ son getting married. Actually, it was a lovely wedding, with great food. I enjoy food. This was the first wedding reception I went to that served Chinese food and fortune cookies. My cookie said, “Avoid the egg rolls.” Unfortunately, I didn’t read it until I had actually eaten one. But, everything else was great.
True, the bride and groom were quite young. I won’t say too young, but I sure would like to have had the Clearasil concession at the event. It was the first wedding I’ve been to where, instead of wedding cake, they served ice cream cones with clown faces on the ice cream. This was the first wedding I went to where the bride and groom were registered for gifts at Toys R Us. I hear they are getting a discount on their honeymoon suite because they were on the honor roll last semester.
But the young couple were quite lovely. They seemed very happy. So happy, that they giggled their vows. But, I’m not saying anything negative. I’m certainly not angry. I mean, after all, these fine folks gave me all the food and grape-flavored Kool Aid I could consume. I was enthralled with the entire event.
So there, to all of you naysayers who besides saying, “Nay,” also say I am an angry man. I guess you all are eating those words this morning, eh?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Back In The Day
On occasion, and mainly because I’m a public spirited sort of guy, I’ll gather the children in the neighborhood together, my wife will fix them some knockwurst sandwiches, and I’ll tell ‘em about the good ol’ days.
They seem to enjoy it. “Kids,” I’ll start, “would you like to hear about the good ol’ days?”
“Yippee!” They’ll exclaim. “Please grandpa,” they’ll say. They like to call me “grandpa” because they know how much it hurts me. I try and pretend it doesn’t. But, often, as my tears well up, they can tell. Nevertheless, I continue to regale them with tales of days gone by.
“Okay, kids,” I’ll say, doing my best to hide the tears. “I can remember a time when we could go down to the local filling station…”
“Filling station?” they ask as if they’ve never heard of it.
“Well, that’s what I call ‘em,” I’ll say, with a twinkle in my eye.
“Yeah, he still says, ‘icebox,’” Jimmy Witherspoon will pipe up. I don’t know why I keep inviting Jimmy. He’s obnoxious. But, hey, that’s the sort of guy I am. All the kids get a good laugh over my calling the refrigerator an icebox.
“Jimmy, you’re not only obnoxious, but you’re also fat,” I’ll laugh. I think my scorn will, one day, make a man out of the little brat.
Anyway, by this time, I will have forgotten what we were talking about. “What were we talking about?” I ask the kids.
“The good ol’ days,” they sing together.
“That’s right,” I say, beaming, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s the good ‘ol days.
“Where were we?” I inquire. I’m not that old, but memory is among my souvenirs, so to speak.
“The filling station, Gramps,” Jimmy says. Sometimes when he walks past me, I’ll “accidentally” knee him in the head.
“Yes we were,” I agree vigorously, and continue. “Well, back in the day…” I say before I’m quickly interrupted.
“What day?” Sally Kimchuck asks. Sally’s a sweet little girl, but, well, she is blonde.
“Huh?” I ask, scrunching up my nose in a way that still makes me look rather cute.
“What day?” Sally repeats. “What day are you talking about?”
“No particular day,” I’ll say.
“Well, what did you mean when you said, ‘back in the day’?”
“He doesn’t know what he means,” Jimmy interjects. “He still calls the refrigerator an ‘icebox.’”
“That wasn’t funny when you told it two minutes ago,” I say, somewhat educatingly. But, interestingly, all the kids still laugh. Why can’t I seem to remember before I call the kids and invite them over, just how obnoxious kids can be?
“Back in the day,” I say, continuing to educate, “simply means in a time gone by, a bygone era, if you will.”
“If we will what,” Sally asks?
“Sally, did your mom drop you on your head when you were a baby?” I’ll ask inquiringly. Now the kids are all laughing. I do so love children.
“’If you will’ is just an expression,” I say. “It means, that, well…It’s kind of like saying, ‘if you…’ well, I don’t exactly know what it means. But regardless…”
“Don’t you mean ‘irregardless’?” Billy Wells asks innocently.
“No, there’s no such word as ‘irregardless,’” I say, thinking this must be how a college professor feels. “Sometimes people use that word…”
“Use what word?” Sally asks.
“Irregardless,” I answer.
“I thought you said there was no such word as ‘irregardless,” Billy says.
“Well, there isn’t really.” I’m getting somewhat frustrated by this point.
“Well, why did you call it a word?” Billy asks.
“He still calls a refrigerator…”
“Shut up or go home, Porky,” I snap
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. Jimmy starts to cry.
Trying to change the subject, I speak up, “Let’s all sit back down and let me tell you about the good ol’ days.”
“Oh boy,” they all kinda say, or something to that effect. Anyway, I go to the ice box and pour them some milk. I get the Oreo cookies out. As the kids start to pull their Oreos apart, licking the creamy center filling in a way that reminds me of the time when I didn’t have diabetes, I start my story again.
“Back in the good ol’ days," I say, "I could go down to the local filling station and the gasoline only cost three dollars a gallon.”
“Wow!” they’ll shout in disbelief. “Really?”
“Really!” I answer them, knowing they’re looking at me admiringly. I think they think it’s cool that they know someone who can remember those good ol’ days. “Why, I could fill my car up and drive a whole week for less than sixty dollars.” I know this impresses them.
“Gee, Grandpa,” they’ll say, “Do you think we’ll ever return to those good ol’ days of yesteryear?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Life just keeps on changing. Now, take my cell phone,” I say, pulling my cell phone out my pocket.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sally says, grabbing my phone.
“What the hey,” I shriek, grabbing the phone back from her sticky little hands. “Leave my phone alone.”
“But you said take it,” she wails.
“Yeah,” I say, “but I didn’t mean ‘take it.’”
“Well, what did you mean?” she asks.
“I just mean consider it. I mean think about cell phones. Used to be…”
“You mean back in the day,” Sally asks, smiling because she’s learned something new, and, for that, I’m proud.
“Exactly,” I smile. “Back in the day, a cell phone was only good for making phone calls.
“That’s all it would do?” Bobby Barry asks in total shock and disbelief.
“Well, you could also use it as a flashlight,” I say, “but other than that, it didn’t do much else.”
“Wow, you are old,” Bobby says.
“And, you have a big ugly birthmark on your arm,” I remind him. “But, anyway, take this cell phone I have now. Leave my phone alone, Sally,” I yell.
“But…” she starts to explain.
“Shut up,” I remind her.
“My new-fangled phone shows TV programs. It has games. It plays music. It sends text messages. I can check my email and get the sports scores and keep appointments. It’s marvelous. I just wonder one thing,” I say. “Do you think one of you could show me how to make a phone call?”
They seem to enjoy it. “Kids,” I’ll start, “would you like to hear about the good ol’ days?”
“Yippee!” They’ll exclaim. “Please grandpa,” they’ll say. They like to call me “grandpa” because they know how much it hurts me. I try and pretend it doesn’t. But, often, as my tears well up, they can tell. Nevertheless, I continue to regale them with tales of days gone by.
“Okay, kids,” I’ll say, doing my best to hide the tears. “I can remember a time when we could go down to the local filling station…”
“Filling station?” they ask as if they’ve never heard of it.
“Well, that’s what I call ‘em,” I’ll say, with a twinkle in my eye.
“Yeah, he still says, ‘icebox,’” Jimmy Witherspoon will pipe up. I don’t know why I keep inviting Jimmy. He’s obnoxious. But, hey, that’s the sort of guy I am. All the kids get a good laugh over my calling the refrigerator an icebox.
“Jimmy, you’re not only obnoxious, but you’re also fat,” I’ll laugh. I think my scorn will, one day, make a man out of the little brat.
Anyway, by this time, I will have forgotten what we were talking about. “What were we talking about?” I ask the kids.
“The good ol’ days,” they sing together.
“That’s right,” I say, beaming, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s the good ‘ol days.
“Where were we?” I inquire. I’m not that old, but memory is among my souvenirs, so to speak.
“The filling station, Gramps,” Jimmy says. Sometimes when he walks past me, I’ll “accidentally” knee him in the head.
“Yes we were,” I agree vigorously, and continue. “Well, back in the day…” I say before I’m quickly interrupted.
“What day?” Sally Kimchuck asks. Sally’s a sweet little girl, but, well, she is blonde.
“Huh?” I ask, scrunching up my nose in a way that still makes me look rather cute.
“What day?” Sally repeats. “What day are you talking about?”
“No particular day,” I’ll say.
“Well, what did you mean when you said, ‘back in the day’?”
“He doesn’t know what he means,” Jimmy interjects. “He still calls the refrigerator an ‘icebox.’”
“That wasn’t funny when you told it two minutes ago,” I say, somewhat educatingly. But, interestingly, all the kids still laugh. Why can’t I seem to remember before I call the kids and invite them over, just how obnoxious kids can be?
“Back in the day,” I say, continuing to educate, “simply means in a time gone by, a bygone era, if you will.”
“If we will what,” Sally asks?
“Sally, did your mom drop you on your head when you were a baby?” I’ll ask inquiringly. Now the kids are all laughing. I do so love children.
“’If you will’ is just an expression,” I say. “It means, that, well…It’s kind of like saying, ‘if you…’ well, I don’t exactly know what it means. But regardless…”
“Don’t you mean ‘irregardless’?” Billy Wells asks innocently.
“No, there’s no such word as ‘irregardless,’” I say, thinking this must be how a college professor feels. “Sometimes people use that word…”
“Use what word?” Sally asks.
“Irregardless,” I answer.
“I thought you said there was no such word as ‘irregardless,” Billy says.
“Well, there isn’t really.” I’m getting somewhat frustrated by this point.
“Well, why did you call it a word?” Billy asks.
“He still calls a refrigerator…”
“Shut up or go home, Porky,” I snap
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. Jimmy starts to cry.
Trying to change the subject, I speak up, “Let’s all sit back down and let me tell you about the good ol’ days.”
“Oh boy,” they all kinda say, or something to that effect. Anyway, I go to the ice box and pour them some milk. I get the Oreo cookies out. As the kids start to pull their Oreos apart, licking the creamy center filling in a way that reminds me of the time when I didn’t have diabetes, I start my story again.
“Back in the good ol’ days," I say, "I could go down to the local filling station and the gasoline only cost three dollars a gallon.”
“Wow!” they’ll shout in disbelief. “Really?”
“Really!” I answer them, knowing they’re looking at me admiringly. I think they think it’s cool that they know someone who can remember those good ol’ days. “Why, I could fill my car up and drive a whole week for less than sixty dollars.” I know this impresses them.
“Gee, Grandpa,” they’ll say, “Do you think we’ll ever return to those good ol’ days of yesteryear?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Life just keeps on changing. Now, take my cell phone,” I say, pulling my cell phone out my pocket.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sally says, grabbing my phone.
“What the hey,” I shriek, grabbing the phone back from her sticky little hands. “Leave my phone alone.”
“But you said take it,” she wails.
“Yeah,” I say, “but I didn’t mean ‘take it.’”
“Well, what did you mean?” she asks.
“I just mean consider it. I mean think about cell phones. Used to be…”
“You mean back in the day,” Sally asks, smiling because she’s learned something new, and, for that, I’m proud.
“Exactly,” I smile. “Back in the day, a cell phone was only good for making phone calls.
“That’s all it would do?” Bobby Barry asks in total shock and disbelief.
“Well, you could also use it as a flashlight,” I say, “but other than that, it didn’t do much else.”
“Wow, you are old,” Bobby says.
“And, you have a big ugly birthmark on your arm,” I remind him. “But, anyway, take this cell phone I have now. Leave my phone alone, Sally,” I yell.
“But…” she starts to explain.
“Shut up,” I remind her.
“My new-fangled phone shows TV programs. It has games. It plays music. It sends text messages. I can check my email and get the sports scores and keep appointments. It’s marvelous. I just wonder one thing,” I say. “Do you think one of you could show me how to make a phone call?”
Monday, May 19, 2008
My Wait Problem
CONTINUED
Okay, so where were we? That’s right. I had spent about an hour of my morning drive into work waiting for someone at Sprint to help me. Little did I know that waiting would be the order of the day.
I bet I have lost several years of my lifetime just waiting...waiting in lines, waiting on the phone, waiting for someone to assist me. For instance, later that same day, I headed over to Best Buy. I needed to find some kind of connector to tie my XM Radio in with my new receiver.
Before I even got there, I encountered a stop light, out on Hull Street near our office. This stoplight works about as well as the customer service reps at Sprint. Or else, I’m just so skinny that my car fails to trip the light. I sat through three changes of the light before I got my left turn arrow.
Finally, I get to Best Buy. Talk about service with a stall. I think the company should change its slogan to “The K-Mart of Home Electronics.” I honestly feel that my body puts off some sort of magnetic interference that not only disables stoplights, but also renders me invisible when I enter a store. I stood around looking like I was anxious to buy something for about 60 minutes. I’d go from sales associate to sales associate. I did my best to give an appearance of part helpless and part very wealthy and ready to spend.
No one even looked at me. I know how Jimmy Stewart felt in that Wonderful Life movie. But just let me try to sneak out carrying a home theater in my arms and bells and whistles will go off all over the place. I’ll get some attention then. As I found out.
Finally, I tired of Best Buy and decided to head over to the Chinese Restaurant for lunch. Usually my waiter, a pleasant, older, Chinese gentleman is overly attentive. He can’t stop filling my water glass. He’ll even follow me out to the parking lot and hose down my car as I drive away.
But, on this particular day…the day of waiting…he was nowhere to be found. I kept waiting for him to bring my bill and he never came. I figured if I shook my waterless water glass, the sounds of clinking ice would summon him. But nope.
I was in a hurry to get back to work. Finally he happened by, totally oblivious to me or my empty glass. “Hey,” I shouted, “stop bowing to everyone in the building and bring me my check.”
He bowed, and went to get my check. I was feeling pretty badly. I hate being rude, and this guy is so nice. Anyway, he brings me my check and my fortune cookie. Although I was in a hurry, I’m never too busy to stoop to open a fortune cookie. I pulled my cookie apart and read my “fortune.”
It really got to me. For there on my cookie fortune, this little, old gentleman had given me, was this sentence: “People are drawn to you because of your charm and courtesy.”
Despite my ill temperedness, I had to smile. I guess I’m not so bad after all.
Okay, so where were we? That’s right. I had spent about an hour of my morning drive into work waiting for someone at Sprint to help me. Little did I know that waiting would be the order of the day.
I bet I have lost several years of my lifetime just waiting...waiting in lines, waiting on the phone, waiting for someone to assist me. For instance, later that same day, I headed over to Best Buy. I needed to find some kind of connector to tie my XM Radio in with my new receiver.
Before I even got there, I encountered a stop light, out on Hull Street near our office. This stoplight works about as well as the customer service reps at Sprint. Or else, I’m just so skinny that my car fails to trip the light. I sat through three changes of the light before I got my left turn arrow.
Finally, I get to Best Buy. Talk about service with a stall. I think the company should change its slogan to “The K-Mart of Home Electronics.” I honestly feel that my body puts off some sort of magnetic interference that not only disables stoplights, but also renders me invisible when I enter a store. I stood around looking like I was anxious to buy something for about 60 minutes. I’d go from sales associate to sales associate. I did my best to give an appearance of part helpless and part very wealthy and ready to spend.
No one even looked at me. I know how Jimmy Stewart felt in that Wonderful Life movie. But just let me try to sneak out carrying a home theater in my arms and bells and whistles will go off all over the place. I’ll get some attention then. As I found out.
Finally, I tired of Best Buy and decided to head over to the Chinese Restaurant for lunch. Usually my waiter, a pleasant, older, Chinese gentleman is overly attentive. He can’t stop filling my water glass. He’ll even follow me out to the parking lot and hose down my car as I drive away.
But, on this particular day…the day of waiting…he was nowhere to be found. I kept waiting for him to bring my bill and he never came. I figured if I shook my waterless water glass, the sounds of clinking ice would summon him. But nope.
I was in a hurry to get back to work. Finally he happened by, totally oblivious to me or my empty glass. “Hey,” I shouted, “stop bowing to everyone in the building and bring me my check.”
He bowed, and went to get my check. I was feeling pretty badly. I hate being rude, and this guy is so nice. Anyway, he brings me my check and my fortune cookie. Although I was in a hurry, I’m never too busy to stoop to open a fortune cookie. I pulled my cookie apart and read my “fortune.”
It really got to me. For there on my cookie fortune, this little, old gentleman had given me, was this sentence: “People are drawn to you because of your charm and courtesy.”
Despite my ill temperedness, I had to smile. I guess I’m not so bad after all.
Friday, May 16, 2008
And You Think You Have Problems
You don’t want to hear about the day I had yesterday. Don’t even get me started. Okay, I’ll tell you.
It was frustration personified. To start it off, let me say that my wife just bought me a new Touch phone. That’s the name. It’s through Sprint. This phone has so many bells and whistles. I just wish I knew how to operate it.
Even more so, I wish either the manufacturer (HTC) knew how to write a manual to explain how to operate it, or that Sprint would hire people that knew anything at all.
I called Sprint. They must hold classes showing their customer service people how to deliver absolutely miserable customer service. No one could be that bad by accident.
The first person I got had a lovely Bangladesh accent. And, I’m sure that if I spoke her language, I would have understood every word she said. I was trying to find out how to make something on the phone work.
Finally she said (in that lovely accent), “You mooost hive eee take-nee-kool proh-blem. I wheel kewnect you.
“Hold on,” I screamed as she went, “Click.” I didn’t have a technical problem, but I guess I’d have to wait and tell the person in the Technical Problem department that. I looked around the house while I waited to see if I had an English to Swahili translation book, just in case.
While I waited, I got to listen to the lovely hold music Sprint uses. I guess the same people who write instruction manuals on delivering horrible customer service, must also produce CDs of one tone hold music. Actually it was about 3 or 4 notes, repeated constantly during my fifteen minute (by my watch), three minute (by their calculation) wait. The music just kept going “Diddle-lee dop,” diddle-lee dop, diddle-lee dop.”
Finally someone who spoke English came on line. Hey, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Can I get the mobile phone number you are having a problem with,” she asked in about the same tone as the music.
“Didn’t the woman I just spoke with give you that?” I asked good-naturedly.
“No sir,” she responded in a way that suggested I was keeping her from her cigarette break.
So, I give her the number.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“I just gave that to the last person,” I informed her.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“Don’t you people have enough sense to let each other know when you’ve already qualifed someone?” I asked sincerely.
“No sir,” she answered honestly.
I gave her the password and started to explain that I didn’t have a technical problem, I just wanted some information.
“What is the problem with your phone?” she interrupts to ask.
“May I speak with someone who is not a moron?” I ask.
“Sir, I want to help you.”
“I don’t want you to help me. Let me speak with a manager.” I’m getting ticked.
Finally the manager comes on the phone.
“When my wife bought this Touch phone,” I say, “I should have right then and there slashed my wrists. It would have been quicker and less painful.”
He actually laughed. Hey, I’m thinking, I like this guy. Anyway, he puts me on hold and goes to find his Touch book. He tells me how to solve the problem.
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll call you back,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to have to call us back,” he laughs.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’d rather be pecked to death by geese than call Sprint.”
Anyway I do what he says. It doesn’t work.
TO BE CONTINUED
It was frustration personified. To start it off, let me say that my wife just bought me a new Touch phone. That’s the name. It’s through Sprint. This phone has so many bells and whistles. I just wish I knew how to operate it.
Even more so, I wish either the manufacturer (HTC) knew how to write a manual to explain how to operate it, or that Sprint would hire people that knew anything at all.
I called Sprint. They must hold classes showing their customer service people how to deliver absolutely miserable customer service. No one could be that bad by accident.
The first person I got had a lovely Bangladesh accent. And, I’m sure that if I spoke her language, I would have understood every word she said. I was trying to find out how to make something on the phone work.
Finally she said (in that lovely accent), “You mooost hive eee take-nee-kool proh-blem. I wheel kewnect you.
“Hold on,” I screamed as she went, “Click.” I didn’t have a technical problem, but I guess I’d have to wait and tell the person in the Technical Problem department that. I looked around the house while I waited to see if I had an English to Swahili translation book, just in case.
While I waited, I got to listen to the lovely hold music Sprint uses. I guess the same people who write instruction manuals on delivering horrible customer service, must also produce CDs of one tone hold music. Actually it was about 3 or 4 notes, repeated constantly during my fifteen minute (by my watch), three minute (by their calculation) wait. The music just kept going “Diddle-lee dop,” diddle-lee dop, diddle-lee dop.”
Finally someone who spoke English came on line. Hey, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Can I get the mobile phone number you are having a problem with,” she asked in about the same tone as the music.
“Didn’t the woman I just spoke with give you that?” I asked good-naturedly.
“No sir,” she responded in a way that suggested I was keeping her from her cigarette break.
So, I give her the number.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“I just gave that to the last person,” I informed her.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“Don’t you people have enough sense to let each other know when you’ve already qualifed someone?” I asked sincerely.
“No sir,” she answered honestly.
I gave her the password and started to explain that I didn’t have a technical problem, I just wanted some information.
“What is the problem with your phone?” she interrupts to ask.
“May I speak with someone who is not a moron?” I ask.
“Sir, I want to help you.”
“I don’t want you to help me. Let me speak with a manager.” I’m getting ticked.
Finally the manager comes on the phone.
“When my wife bought this Touch phone,” I say, “I should have right then and there slashed my wrists. It would have been quicker and less painful.”
He actually laughed. Hey, I’m thinking, I like this guy. Anyway, he puts me on hold and goes to find his Touch book. He tells me how to solve the problem.
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll call you back,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to have to call us back,” he laughs.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’d rather be pecked to death by geese than call Sprint.”
Anyway I do what he says. It doesn’t work.
TO BE CONTINUED
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