...and it's a good day to just listen

A dear friend and mentor sent me short poem over the holidays that I’d never heard of before…or at least don’t remember ever hearing. I’m guessing like a lot of people that watch NASCAR, Gold Rush and New Jersey Housewives…I don’t read a lot (any) or know of many (any) poems…so the fact that it wasn’t familiar doesn’t seem too unusual. In all the years I worked in construction, or for that matter in almost any other job (newspaper boy, ski technician (bum), high school football coach and union administrator), I don’t recall anyone ever even referencing a poem, or sonnet or rhyme (OK…there’s the classic Nantucket limerick every construction apprentice should know).  As a matter-of-fact, until that cat I’d also never heard of (Richard Blanco) read that "One Today" sonnet at the recent inauguration of President Obama’s second term…I’m not sure the last time I even heard someone reference a poem.

If you fashion yourself as a learned academic or culturally enlightened type, it’s vogue to gush about the magical beauty of  the Blanco offering. But I just read it again and well…I dozed off before reaching stanza forty seven. To me it was like too many of these blog posts…it was just too long. The great thing about the poem sent by a friend in December is that it was nice and short…and more importantly to someone like me…very easy to understand.

There are multiple versions of this brief and simple old nursery rhyme, including one popularized in WWII which tweaked the last verse in an attempt to tie silence to security. However as best as I tell from a rudimentary internet search (using what I’m told is now the antiquated, assisted-living browser internet explorer), the most recognized version, which plays on the perception of owls as the traditional symbol of wisdom, goes something like this…

“A wise old owl lived in an oak
The more he saw the less he spoke
The less he spoke the more he heard.
Why can't we all be like that wise old bird”

Now, I so want to think this was sent to me because my silence means I remind the sender of the owl…but it’s also possible it was a message to stop talking so much or that I should stop presuming anyone wants to read this nonsense every week. But I’m hoping they sent it because I am quiet a lot.  As an example I routinely sit in silence and don’t say much in groups, but it’s not because I’m like a wise old bird…it’s because I can’t follow much of the conversation. I’ve always had this complex about not measuring up intellectually. It’s not fun to feel dumb, but I routinely sit quietly listening to others while failing to understand much, or at least even some, of what is said.

Sure, much of it is my own fault. If tuning out others was an Olympic sport, my trophy case would reduce Michael Phelps’s gold medal achievements to a mere footnote. But the more alarming problem is that even when I try to listen…I actually feel as if much of what is said is just gibberish. Many times, you could hold a gun up to my forehead and ask me to summarize a recent speaker’s comments…and I’d have nothing. What’s worse…is that while I’m legitimately and completely lost, I often glance around at others that are hearing  the same thing and notice they seem to be actually following the conversation, even nodding occasionally (god…I have trouble spelling that word) as though they understand and are in agreement. Though I want to believe some are faking it…I do think there are those that actually understand. Even more disheartening, there are even a few people that will refer to what an earlier speaker said…as if there was some nugget of wisdom in something I couldn’t even follow.

What’s the point of all this…heck if I know. I guess part of it is that I wish I’d paid more attention in school. I should have exercised my brain better, stayed at UCLA, read more,  learned a couple foreign languages (even gibberish) and focused more on developing my listening and cognitive reasoning skills (you’re right…I really don't know what that means either). But while I’m willing to accept most of the blame here…I don’t want to put this all on me. I still have this visceral sense that many increasingly overvalue talk and undervalue action. We used to have a saying on the jobsite when folks stood around and talked too much. It went something like… “Let’s hear a little less signing and a little more picking.”

I picked up a book (big font and lots of pictures) recently ahead of a flight to Los Angeles entitled “It’s Not What You Say, It’s How You Say It.” Just a few pages in, there’s a quote from English novelist George Eliot that reads “Blessed is the man who, having nothing to say, abstains from giving us worthy evidence of that fact.” I don’t heed that advice near enough…but I’m going to try to apply it more going forward. I’m going to try to be more like that bird.

Have a great weekend. Try to take some time to enjoy the people and pets that matter most to you. Turn off the TV, tune into people and do the things you enjoy.  One phone call, a challenging diagnosis, some unexpected news or one x-ray, can flip your priority list on its head in a heartbeat and instantaneously trivialize the stuff you thought was so worthy of time, attention and stress.

Start the weekend with some music...

...and I just don't get Twitter #overthehill

It’s not a good feeling to wake up one day and realize the game has passed you by. In what seems like a blink of an eye, it feels as if I’ve been transported from a spot at the head of the pack to some inconspicuous viewing position where I’m no more than a casual bystander watching the parade go by. The worst part is that I’m simply not clear on how it all happened so quickly.

Sure, I’ve always been an old soul…but at least for most of my professional life, I’d managed to more or less stay ahead of, or at least in, the game. It certainly didn’t hurt that a good part of my career was spent in an organizational culture where being in your 40s was tantamount to being a teenager, but suddenly I woke up at 50, just plain feeling old. The exponential growth of a social media culture that has managed to infantilize younger adults to the point where they almost seem incapable of glancing up from their smartphones hasn’t helped, but sadly whatever caused my rapid decline can’t be blamed on others. This is clearly something that is wrong with me and there is no better manifestation of this swift aging transformation than my inability to understand or even care about Twitter.

The real irony is that at least among my peers, I have one of the oldest Twitter accounts around. I opened it in the Fall of 2006 ahead of a social media presentation I was doing with a colleague to a large group. Most of the folks at the time had never heard of the information network…or even the concept. It took a long time to actually compose my first tweet…I just couldn’t figure out anything that warranted the need to put it down in 140 characters…and more importantly…rose to the level that required sharing. (BTW… u can follow me by clicking here #bored2tears). I don’t check my twitter application on my smartphone too often (can’t read the small print) but when I do, it’s clear to me most others are struggling with the same dilemma…that is…what exactly warrants passing along.

 Sure…there is some value in following groups for breaking news or minute-by-minute updates on public transit or local traffic, but most of the personal tweets I read are mind numbingly boring. Some are interesting or informative, and some are pretty funny. But too often it seems people are trying too hard and that the humor is motivated by some odd need to provide biting comments at the expense of others.

The bigger issue to me though is the odd presumption by habitual tweeters that other people give a rat's ass about where they are, what they're doing or most importantly of all, what they think. This may sound strange coming from someone that hammers out a 20,000 character (that's just a guess) blog most Fridays, but let's put that aside for now (for good). To be honest, reading most of the 140 character or less offerings leads me to believe that most folks are composing messages just because they can…or worse, because they’re in some competition and worried what folks will think if they are not seen as hip tweeters. What else would be the rationale for why some celebrities and high-profile folks need to have their tweets composed by others?

This  phenomenon reminds me of many of the useless conversations you’d hear during the advent of cell phones. My wife and I used to spend a few weeks in Hawaii each winter (staying w/ her brother #freeloading). While siting on the beach each day, we'd observe person after person arriving in the magical tropical setting, putting down their towel and glancing out at the Pacific and Diamond Head in the distance. After a few minutes they'd seemingly get bored, pull out their cell phone and place a call where at least the caller's side of the conversation went something like this.

"Hey...what's up?" "Where are you?" "What are you doing?" "Is it cold  there?" and then came the real intent of the meaningless call “Guess where I am?

Now sadly, I'm old enough to remember when a phone call was a pretty big deal. You could actually tell folks were calling long distance by the crackling on the line...sometimes, there'd even be a delay.  Actually, if there was too much clarity on the line...you might even excitedly (or horrifically) presume the normally long distance caller was in town. After hearing their unusually clear voice you might even ask “are you here?” The point is you had to restrict these calls to instances where you had something of value to say. You usually didn't call just to rub in the fact that you were in some tropical clime while your call recipient was freezing their ass off. The bigger point was there just wasn't the presumption that you mattered that much. So many of the tweets I read now seem to be screaming "I'm important and "I'm doing something you're not." Even many of the hashtags seem to suggest the tweeter is doing something you’re not.

So…I actually took a look at some random personal tweets on my account. Most are retweets of messages from people I don’t know. I know they matter…I’m just begging someone to tell me why.

·         Inaugural parade set to begin. Waiting for Obama. That’s a spine-tingler I needed to be aware of right now…especially since there was absolutely no way to know this by watching the 407 channels of non-stop cable coverage of this snorefest.

·         Aahhhh "I want to look one more time" -BO Really? Nice sentiment sure but does this warrant a tweet? I’m guessing the answer is yes…but again…I’m completely lost as to why?

·         Sound cutting out on speakers on the mall. Ppl listening on their phones. Guy says: "This is what happens in steerage." OK…this is somewhat funny…but again…why do people need to know this and why did this need to be retweeted?

·         It’s reasonable to hope that the images landing on her retinas were influencing the sounds bursting from her throat: http://wapo.st/WVyzST This means something to somebody I’m sure…but not me.

·         "The new status symbol isn’t what you own — it’s what you’re smart enough not to own" http://wapo.st/10oTi47 #SharingEconomy Drats...this was actually pretty interesting.

·         "...The top 1% of income earners took home 93% of the growth in incomes in 2010..." - Joseph Stiglitz, @NYTimes: Zzzz @boringashell #whogivesash*t?

· I'm at Walter E. Washington Convention Center for The Inaugural Ball w/…I’m @ home in my pajamas stoned on my 3rd glass of Malbec…but really…do/should u care?

What’s the point of all this? Not sure…probably just further evidence my weekly rantings about being on the threshold of assisted living are warranted. The perpetual need to tweet however does remind me of a sign that hung over the door of Mr. Piteski’s 7^th Grade band class at Palms Junior High School in Los Angeles. I used to glance up there from the clarinet section each day and it read simply “Silence is the only real substitute for brains.” That advice is golden, and I prove most Fridays why it’s a bad thing to ignore. Seems to me a lot of tweeters could benefit by not making that same mistake.

Start the weekend with some music...

...and here's what you shouldn't do

So…the new year is almost three weeks old and my pledge to try to be a better person, or to at least treat people with a little more consideration is going about as poorly as most of my other failed resolutions (see last post). Because I usually receive abysmally low marks on follow-through with goals of this nature, I can’t be too surprised things aren’t going particularly well. Sure…I’m trying to do it in some small ways…things like unloading the dishwasher without being asked, smiling more, composing better-toned emails, saying please and thank you more and even remembering to walk on street-side of the sidewalk (at least some of the time). So, while my resolution performance has been characteristically unimpressive at best, I did have a particularly un-resolution-like setback last week that bears mentioning. If nothing else, it might serve as yet another good blueprint of something you shouldn’t do.

After a relaxing morning that including a fast-paced (at least by my assisted living standards) 4am 3-mile run, some trash TV reruns and a light breakfast, I left the house and hopped in my car for the short commute to work. As I headed up the narrow street in my urban residential neighborhood, there was a taxi parked in the middle of the street of the next block up which appeared to be waiting for a traveler. The cab was not parked as far to the right as it could have been, and it was questionable at best if I could navigate to the left and make it between the taxi’s driver’s side and the cars parked on the left without significant damage to the cab, my car, and the vehicles parked to my left.

Seeing the inconsiderate taxi in the middle of the street caused the flame on my blood burners to go up a notch....however, I tried to relax by listening to the Pimsleur Italian language CDs and waiting for the cab’s passenger to come out of the house to begin their leisurely cab ride so I might be able to continue my commute to work without scrapping paint off both sides of my automobile.  I waited about 30 seconds (maybe 15) and then decided to inch up to the rear of the taxi in hopes of conveying the urgency for him/her to stop blocking the street. Shortly after working my way just up to the taxi’s rear bumper, the cab driver flipped on his hazard lights. As far as I could discern there was no flat tire, steaming radiator, or any other “hazard” that should require the activation of those lights, so it was hard to interpret the move as anything other than a luminous way of him or her telling me to go fornicate myself.   

Now…at this point I had a couple of more cerebral options. I could just chalk the moron up to a world of wasted-flesh idiots and let it go. I could have put my car in reverse and backed up about 100 feet and then proceeded west toward Reno Road and taken a detour to work. I could have even got out of my car, remembered my Emily Post training,  gently tapped on the driver’s window and politely asked him/her to inch over slightly to the right so that I (and the rest of his/her fellow man commuting on that street) could get around. But comminted to few things with the fervor as I am to proving I’m a painfully slow learner, I chose none of those courses.

Instead, cognizant of my previously simmering blood now transfering to a slow boil, I backed up car, and proceeded to navigate around the left side of the cab. It was tight, and there couldn’t have been room for a gum wrapper on either side of the car as I squeezed by. As I did, the cab made no discernable attempt to move over. Once by the cab, I pulled ahead of the cab, blocking about the same amount of the street as the taxi. Then, I backed up a bit until I was immediately in front of the cab and put my vehicle in park (leaving the engine running).

Shortly after doing so, the cab’s passenger came out of the house and jumped into the waiting taxi. Not long after the passenger’s door closed, the cab driver lightly tapped on the horn apparently informing me he (I know knew it was a male) needed to move forward.  So, thinking like an inconsiderate moronic taxi driver…I flipped on my hazard lights in an attempt to let him know that he too was more than welcome to find another way to continue his journey.

Now, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I’m not an hot-headed idiot looking for a unnecessary fight that could easily be avoided by a couple of deep breaths and some basic perspective. I wasn’t about to get into a pre-dawn, pre-work altercation with some jackass without reasonable assurances that I might prevail. Though my back window was fogged over, I watched closely out my driver’s side mirror ready to assess the cab driver’s size and perceived fighting ability. If some 6’6”, weight-trained, 240 pound, chiseled golden-glove like young man emerged, I was prepared to be content that I’d made my point and quickly put the car in drive to continue on my merry way (run). However while the man that exited the driver’s side in anger was more like 250lbs, he was also closer like 5’8 and maybe even  balding a bit so I liked my chances. At first glance I saw no sign of a weapon, so being the deep-thinker that I am, I too flung open my car door and jumped out of the car.

By this point the cab driver  and I were nearly face-to-face, and he was screaming in some barely intelligible high-pitched foreign accent. He asked “What are you doing…are you trying to start something?”  “Why do you ask I responded?” The cab driver then shouted that he was simply “waiting for a passenger.”  “Yeah…I’m waiting to pick up someone for work”…I retorted…  “feel free to go around.” He then informed me I was “blocking the street,” to which I replied “yes…I may be…but I flipped on my hazard lights to let you know that your problems didn’t matter to me.” He continued to scream as he walked back to the car, calling me “crazy.” I followed him over to his car door and ask him what the problem was…and then inquired…”what’s wrong… you seem pissed.” “I am” he shouted… “you’re an as$hole.” “Good” I said… “now you know exactly how I feel.” He said some more words...and I responded in a fashion which made it clear he shouldn't get into a cussing match with a product of  the Los Angeles inner-city and the son of a WWII U.S. Navy electrician.

What was accomplished by this? Not a damn thing if I had to guess. I’d like to think the shithe*t cab driver will give a little thought to his actions the next time he double parks, but I’m thinking that’s probably not likely. It would be good to believe the bigger sh*thead would learn a lesson too and just avoid unnecessary altercations going forward, but I’m not liking my chances.  It  was probably a total waste of my energy and just regrettable behavior,  then again, I needed some Friday blog material so risking my life (he could have had a gun…or worse...have been a wrestler) for a relatively uninteresting story wasn’t completely insane.

It’s inauguration weekend so try to have some fun.  If you get Monday’s MLK day off, use the extra time and spend it with the people and pets you love doing the things that matter most. You may want to start the three-day break with a little good music. If you have a chance to chill this weekend, kick back, put on some good tunes, and reach for the high shelf booze.

...and it's resolution time

New Years’ resolutions have never really been my thing. Most years I don’t even bother, knowing full-well my dismal record of throwing in the towel on my latest flavor of the year pledge sometime well-before March demonstrates I won’t have any luck pulling it off for twelve straight months. I’ve tried them all…better diet, learning more Spanish, watching less Housewives’ Reunions, playing the piano better, shedding unwanted pounds, implementing a more rigorous fitness regime, brushing up on German, brushing up on my teeth, learning the Uke, and even just trying to just be a better person (I know what you’re thinking on that last one…low bar). I’ve even tried stuff that’s easy to quantify…like drinking two bottles of water a day, or imbibing alcohol no more than two days a week, taking the metro at least once a month or even just taking at least one shower a week…but nothing seems to stick (except when I don’t regularly bathe).  

This year I considered a couple of things that seemed  pretty attainable. I’d love to cuss a little less, but I had more freakin’ F-bombs than Tannenbaums in December so I’m thinking I’m doomed. I haven’t had a drink of alcohol yet in 2013,  but it’s only January 4^th  (and it’s still early in the day) and I’m not even counting the two beers (which really is the same as nothing for me) I had at Guapo’s on New Years’ Day. Thought about being a little nicer to people, or being a more considerate husband, or being a better friend and spending more time with the people that matter, but even after a year that included the loss of two good friends, an honest glance in the rearview mirror of late shows there’s really not much evidence to expect any perspective gained by those painful experiences are going to hold.

Treating people better in the workplace would be a noble resolution goal, but despite routinely committing to do so, my constant transgressions in that area reveal I’m not liking my chances over the long haul. I could strive to just do my job better, or to serve and support my selfless boss more effectively, but again…I’ve got the mirror problem. Actually just trying to live by the Golden Rule would be a good aim, but if I did onto myself the way I’ve done unto some others of late, I’m not sure I would even like me. This probably seems kind of depressing, but in all candor, I’m just being honest and really can’t really think of anything fresh that might work…and more importantly, that I might be able to apply for 365 straight days.

There is one reason to be optimistic though, and while I don’t like my chances to stick to anything new in 2013, there is always the chance (and even the likelihood) I can keep the streak going I’ve managed to maintain every work day for three straight years. In late December 2009, I committed to walking up the stairs from the parking level (9 floors) every day for one year. Amazingly, and quite out of character, I was able to pull it off. Just as a side note I also committed to lose 10 pounds in 2010, but I recall ending the year heavier than I started it…so the stair thing didn’t seem to help in fat reduction department (probably all muscle weight in my quads). I was so emboldened by the first year stair performance that I continued it in 2011…and then again in 2012. So far, at least for the 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th of January, I managed to walk up all flights in 2013 too (mostly while cussing in pain in English, and thinking about consuming red wine while watching the NJ Housewives when I got home after skipping my evening speed-bag workout).

What’s the point of all this? If you know, you must have resolved to decode more drivel in 2013.  It isn’t easy coming up with meaningful content every  week, and if you don’t believe that, just subscribe to this blog. Enjoy the first weekend of the New Year and if you have any resolutions, do your best to stay with them (unless it’s to be an even bigger A-Hole). If you don’t, feel free to grab any of the ones where I’ve miserably failed. For what it’s worth…you may want to start with the “spending time with the people that matter most” pledge. Just like the people, at the end of the game, it is that kind of time that will matter the most.

See you in the stairwell…or at least at the wine store.          

As always…sorry for the poor writing, typos, bad grammar and misspellings. No time to proofread…too busy providing links to good music.

Remember those days hanging out at the Village Green...

...and if you have to book an airline ticket soon, keep this in mind

My 83 year-old mother has been in town for about a week over the Christmas holiday, but on Thursday it was time to take her to the airport for her flight back to Los Angeles. She was on a United flight that was scheduled to leave at 8:35am, but in typical fashion we arrived at the airport well-before 6am to ensure all would go OK. I dropped her off on the departure level of and made sure she made it the 50 or so yards over to a chair by the window. I then rushed back to the car, drove around and re-entered the terminal eventually parking in the hourly area. I grabbed her bag and when up to the ticketing area where mom was comfortably seated. I used my preferred status to go into the shorter Premium level ticketing line and walked up to the counter and paid $25.00 for her bag while retrieving her boarding pass. We alerted the ticketing agent that my mother needed a wheelchair, and within five or so minutes they came for her.  After I gave her a hug and said goodbye, they whisked her away to the security line.

I arrived at my office in downtown DC about 6:45am or so, and while sitting there sifting through holiday related mail and such, I received an email from United saying the flight had been delayed due to mechanical problems and was now scheduled to take off 2 1/2 hours later at 11am. My mom amazingly navigated her old-school cell phone and called me noting her flight had been delayed. She seemed fine though, and being the trooper she is stated that she’d be OK. About 10:45 United sent an email saying the flight was delayed another ½ hour and would now take off at 11:30. Shortly before 11:30, they sent another email saying the flight was pushed back another half hour to 12:00 noon. Sometime after noon, as I sat and enjoyed lunch with my boss at a downtown restaurant, United sent another email saying the flight was delayed another hour to 1pm. Not long before 1pm, they sent another message saying the flight was now delayed until 6pm, this time due to “Aircraft Change.”

By now my elderly mom had been sitting in the at the gate in a wheelchair for over 7 hours. She called again (two cell calls in a day is equivalent to a trip to the moon for her) in good spirits a little after 1pm, saying she was planning to wait it out. I offered to come get her, but I guess when you’ve lived through a Depression and a world war, airport delays don’t seem like that big of a deal. My boss being the mensch that she is suggested I go to the airport to see what I could do, so I schlepped the 30 plus miles back out to Dulles about 1:30 and arrived there shortly after 2pm.

The unfriendly ticket supervisor, who appeared to have done most of her undergraduate customer service training at McDonalds or some other high-caloric establishment, reluctantly provided me a security entrance pass so I could go see if my mother might need anything after her now eight hour airport stay. I found her in the gate area slumped in a chair with her head down sleeping, sitting along-side some other older passengers who seemed among the few to be waiting out what would be a scheduled 10 hour delay in the gate area. I fetched a cart driver and had him drive my mom and I over to the Red Carpet lounge on the other end of the D Terminal. It was a treat for my mom to enter the secret world of airport lounges, and as we sat kibitzing over complimentary screw-top wine and individually wrapped processed cheeses, I couldn’t get over the fact that she was in such good spirits. I asked her about it, and she simply replied “what are you going to do?...some things you just have to deal with and it’s not going to get any better by getting mad.” Well, that could be true, but when the next email arrived about 5pm stating the flight had been delayed again (now due to crew) until 6:45pm, my blood started to boil.

Shortly before 6pm we received another email saying the flight had been delayed until 7:30pm (again due to crew)…so I walked up to the ticket agent in the lounge and calmly explained that my mom had been there for 12 hours and that she was fading. I politely asked if we could re-book to a different day, and was matter-of-factly told that they could not rebook without a fee unless the delay was weather related. Determine to prove my mom’s theory about not getting mad wrong, I hit the ticket agent in the face with my clinched fist. I’d never hit anybody that hard before…especially directly in the face. When my fist sank deeply into his facial flesh…there  was a certain momentary satisfaction that is hard to…OK wait…that’s not really what happened…that’s only what I wanted to do. Instead, I politely re-explained that my 83 year-old mother had been sitting in the terminal for over 12 hours, and that it would be nice if United could find their way to booking on another day. I then suggested that even if they could not, it would be smart for the agent to pretend that he gave a rat’s ass and at least go through the charade of looking as if he was searching for availability before apologetically telling me he’d tried valiantly, but that it just wasn’t possible.

A nearby agent overheard the conversation and graciously offered to help. She politely and professionally rebooked my mom for Saturday, called to have her bag retrieved, and arranged for a wheelchair porter to take my mom back to baggage claim to get her bag. When we arrived in the United baggage claim area, there was no bag, but after the rigmarole to end all rigmaroles, the bag amazingly showed. An hour later we were back in DC sitting fireside, recounting the drama over a glass of corked wine as additional emails from United kept coming, announcing the flight was delayed until 8pm and then again ‘til 8:15pm, and then 8:30pm. Shortly after 8:30pm, United sent out an email notifying us that the 8:30am flight, now delayed a full 12 hours, had been canceled. In some ways it was validation that we’d made the right call, and I went to bed feeling good about the decision to rebook to Saturday.

At 4am on Friday I awoke to let the cat out and start my workout. When checking my emails I noticed an early morning email from United stating my mom had been re-booked on a 7am Friday flight…not the Saturday flight we had arranged in the lounge (and I had a ticketed receipt for). I could tell you about my next call to the airline, but that wouldn’t really serve any purpose. What’s the point of all this? Well, unlike most of the drivel that appears here the point to me seems to be to fly U.S. Airways or some other competent carrier. However what is amazing to me is that for the most part the United employees seemed to be trying, but the company just couldn’t seem to get it right. Seems to me when you’ve been in business as long as United, you should just be better at this whole flying game. I mean, I’ve been playing golf for over 40 years. I still shoot far from par…but I’ve gotten better and no longer shoot in the 120s. If I did, I’d just quit. To me, United just seems like they’re not getting any better, and for the sake of the airline industry, I really wish the company would try.

What’s the real point of all this? Hug your mother…however taxing on your nerves. The people that matter to you won’t be around forever (nor will you), so take some time this weekend and devote it to the people and pets that matter the most in your life. Have a good weekend…and start is with a little good music.

 

Happy New Year

 

BTW...Sorry for all the mispellings and typos. Didn't have time to proof this even once today. Spent the morning on the phone with the airline.

...and I need to find some good gifts soon

For more than a few years now, my mom has run a small antique business in the Scandinavian themed city of Solvang, California. The quaint town which was the area that served as much of the setting for the wine movie Sideways, sits inland on California’s famed Highway 101 about 60 miles north of the seaside hamlet of Santa Barbara. Specializing in antique smalls (jewelry, cut glass, china and such), Helen’s Precious Things in the Solvang Antique Center has been a fairly successful small business endeavor. Sure…it’s certainly not Fortune 500 material, but from its modest hobby origins the recreational business had turned into a pretty nice side income. More importantly, the antiques hobby has provided thousands of hours of enjoyment for my mom who at 83, still thoroughly enjoys scouring antique shops, thrift sales and just about any other venue searching for bargain treasures to add to her inventory.

About 15 years ago, when she move her antiques operation from Ojai, California to Solvang, I got the brainstorm that some nifty ink-pens marketing the name of her business (“Helen’s Precious Things”) would make a cool Christmas gift. I was actually referred to a woman named Janie that lived in my area that had just such a business, so when given her number by a colleague I contacted her and placed the order. I remember being somewhat alarmed because Janice seemed a little dense when I gave her the information. I wanted the pens to have the name of the business (Helen’s Precious Things) and the telephone number and address of the Solvang Antique Center. As I recall I ordered about 300 pens…and if I remember correctly the cost of this purchase at the time was somewhere in the neighborhood of $150.00.

At that point in my early 30s, it was more than a little out-of-character for me to be that prepared and to have it together enough to order the pens with enough lead time to arrive ahead of the holiday. I eagerly anticipated receiving the pens knowing my mother would probably be thrilled to have something promoting her business. The package was delivered to my home well-ahead of the specified time, and I remember thinking that Janice was obviously better than I’d initially assessed. I opened the box to look at the forest green and white pens and immediately knew I’d hit a gift home run. They were pretty cool looking, and as I scrutinized them more closely I noticed that Solvang was spelled Solvant…and just to put me further in the holiday spirit, Janice the monumental moron had also managed to muck up the address.

Thankfully, my time going through an electrical apprenticeship and coaching inner-city high school football in rough-n-tumble Los Angeles meant I was fully fluent in both Building and Construction Trades language and general male locker room exchanges. Though I knew the calendar meant there was no time to correct Janice’s galactic blunder in time to save the Christmas gift, I looked forward to calling the idiot and unloading with both barrels. The pen idea had been a rare show of creativity for me, and to have such uncommon gift genius (what does it mean that I had to spellcheck genius?) undone by an idiot that theoretically worked in the pen providing business…well…let’s just say I was looking forward to verbally tearing her a new one.

Well, given that you’re already bored with the story, I won’t make it worse by giving you the profane details of the call. But after her unenthusiastic husband answered the phone and transferred me to Janice (who almost sounded drunk), I clearly conveyed my displeasure with her piss-poor performance. She was profusely apologetic, but I was unrelenting, and because she’d essentially ruined a good gift plan, I really did skewer her. She made some feeble attempt to make it right, but I remember knowing it wouldn’t make much difference and pretty much hung up in disgust. Her mistake had been inexcusable, and her sorry attempt to remedy her unforgivable faux pas was all the more unsatisfying. It was yet another experience that vividly revealed that despite God’s omnipotent power, he (or she) really does see fit to routinely literally waste humane flesh.

About a week and a half later, on about the 23^rd I called Janice back to get some idea of when my next shipment of screwed up pens might show. Her nitwit husband again picked up the phone with the enthusiasm and clarity of someone undergoing a root canal and when I asked to speak to his wife, his voice kind of cracked and he said she had passed away about a week ago. She had been very sick for a long time, but that now “she’s finally done suffering.” I said that is all well and good, but that I had a pen order and needed to check the status of my delivery. Actually, I capable of some amazingly stupid behavior, but that’s not really what I said. I feebly offered my condolences and hurried to get off the uncomfortable call as quickly as possible.

Thankfully I don’t remember thinking much about being out $150 clams and having 300 useless pens (actually, they still provided a useful writing utensil). I remember being horrified by the way I treated this woman, and haunted by the fact that her medical condition surely contributed to the incorrect order. I remember feeling horrible about the awful things I said to her…just days before she passed away. I remembered too that she never fired back, took the high road, apologized and never complained about her illness or cited it as an excuse for the mix up.

Sometime in the forenoon on Christmas Eve, there was a knock on the door from a UPS man. He handed me a small rush package and inside the box were 600 (a double order) perfectly stenciled pens with Helen’s Precious Things and the correct address and phone number. There was also a check for a full refund made out to me for the first order and a handwritten note of apology from Janice for the mistake and any inconvenience caused me. Putting the time-lime together, she appeared to have taking care of all of this the day before she passed away.

You never know what somebody is going through or how long they’ll be around. You might just want to treat them a little better…or at least think about doing so.

Hope you have a tremendous holiday weekend. Remember to do something relaxing and fun, and to hug the people and pets that you love…and maybe even a few that you don’t.   

 

Sorry for all the typos, misspellings, bad writing and poor grammar.

 

...comfort and joy

...and some stranger needs to buy me a drink

A work valued colleague and one of my best friends in the world has this remarkable ability to get a variety of stuff provided to her for free. Oddly, it usually happens on Fridays…and often takes the form of some stranger buying her lunch or perhaps an adult beverage. Sometimes, if she’s dinning out when her better-half is on the road, she even gets a complimentary dinner. As a matter of fact, having an unfamiliar person or random bartender provide something gratis has become such a common occurrence for her, she’s taking to referring to the last day of the work week as “free Fridays.” She was bragging to a fellow male coworker and me this past Wednesday about her special skill, when the sheer inequity of her talent for receiving complimentary food and drink really started to get under my skin.

You see, here’s the deal. One of this individual’s most admirable characteristics is that I’m convinced she’s incapable of telling a lie. Much to my dismay…she doesn’t use profanity and always refrains from saying even the slightest mean-spirited thing about any fellow human being (even when she has the luxury of doing it behind someone’s back…I so don’t get that). So…it’s not like she’s embellishing her ability to have people buy her stuff…it just seems to happen and she’s just telling it like it is. As a matter of fact, just last Friday…the bartender at a swanky local restaurant picked up her lunch…and I believe a couple or beverages to boot.  

So…you’re probably asking yourself…what’s the problem? Well, it’s really pretty simple. You see, I just turned 51 and I typically eat out a minimum of about 7 or 8 times a week (5 lunches and two weekend dinners). I’m guessing I’ve dined out with basically this same frequency since the time when I transitioned from my construction electrician’s job to a largely office gig about 15 years ago. So…while I’m not real great at math, it seems to me that’s 7 meals a week times 52 weeks a year makes for about 364 restaurant meals a year. If you multiply that over the last 15 years (15 x 364), that comes to roughly 5,460 restaurant experiences since the late 90s alone. Prior to that, from the time I was 18 years old to the age of about 36 while I worked as an electrician, a very conservative estimate was that I ate out at least 5 times a week (usually more dinners). If you multiply the 5 times 52 weeks a years, I think that comes to approximately 260 times a year. Multiply that by the 18-year span from 18 to 36 (or however many freaking years that is), and you’ve got another 4,680 meals to add to the 5,460 modern era dinning visits. If you add those two totals together, it’s clear I’ve dined out well over 10,000 times from the time I was 18 years old. To be honest I’m quite certain the number is considerably higher…but for the sake of argument…let’s stick with the 10,000 figure.

So, over the last 33 years, I’ve been in restaurants a minimum of 10,000 times. Now, while I’m never confused for Brad Pitt or Denzel Washington (actually not true…but that’s another Friday story) or Aston Kutcher in manpris, I’m not exactly Quasimodo either. Sure, I could have hipper clothes, a six pack instead of a keg or a more stylish haircut, but aside from my frumpy clothing and deteriorating physique, it’s not like I’m chopped liver either. There have been ample opportunities for some stranger sitting across the restaurant to pick up my meal or send over a free drink, but the fact-of-the-matter is I’m zero for 10,000. Not one time in the span of 18 to 51 has anybody ever randomly bought me a drink or picked up my lunch. No waiter has ever said “this one’s on the mysterious lady in red in the booth by the window” or “compliments of Mr. Soros” or even “this ones on the masked man with the white horse.” Sure…a litany of cherished friends and valued colleagues have generously taking me to lunch or provided me with very nice restaurant gift cards, but with respect to random buys…I’ve got nothing…zero, zilch, nada.

As my work colleagues mulled this over last Wednesday in the conversation alluded to above, we began to explore some possible explanations for her prowess and my dismal 51-year dry spell. My fellow male coworker theorized that at least part of the reason for my drought was due to my gender, and there were various other hypotheses offered about body language and facial expressions. I logically reasoned that it could be that I’m just too cool, or that I exude too much confidence. Maybe it’s that I just ooze some level of class or telegraph some extraordinary station of success that leaves folks feeling absolved from any need to randomly extend me charity. Then, amidst this exploration of these increasingly likely explanations, my dear friend with the amazing knack for getting her meals and drinks paid by strangers matter-of-factly offered this straightforward explanation. “Maybe people think you’re an A-hole.”

Now…usually it’s tough to follow up on a gem like that, but as if that wasn’t insightful enough…she continued by noting there is actually a new book that might offer some insight into my dilemma entitled “Assh#le.” Convinced to prove the “good things come in threes theorem,” she then closed with (I swear on a bible I’m not making this up), “maybe you just need to smile more.”

So the day started with 290 folks on my holiday card list…and ended with 289.

It’s Friday and I’m determined to solve this confounding mystery. I’m going to hit some bars and restaurants and get at least one random jackass to buy me one stinking drink…or at least pick up my usual side of brussels sprouts. I’m going to disprove this A-Hole theory and force my myself to chat up every simple-minded waiter or mind-numbingly boring bartender. Instead of rolling my eyes and shaking my head in disgust, I’m going to return any stranger’s inviting brief smile with a mildly pleasant manufactured expression. And when some nitwit tries to start a random buzz-killing conversation about the warm December weather or the Redskins playoff hopes, I’ll stay clear of my standard “hey no offense… but I came in here alone for a reason” response and attempt to feign some level of interest. Someway, somehow, I’m going to get to the bottom of this 51-year shutout. I swear…I just don’t get it.

Have a great free Friday and a wonderful weekend. If you can, enjoy the near 70-degree Washington holiday season weather and go out and do something really nice just for you.  Sorry for all the typos, poor grammar, improper use of words like “literally” and the many misspellings. I know this is a mess. Listen to some music…it will make it all better...or at least a little better. 

If you really love me so...