The Observer

High Unemployment: Are IQ Scores to Blame?

2012-01-31T05:20:00.000-06:00

"Someone in America who has a 90-point IQ is qualified for many fewer jobs today than he was 100 years ago." Warren Buffett

I read that quote in a recent edition of Time magazine. It shocked me and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I read it. In a Presidential election year when jobs and the economy are the primary battleground between the candidates, a statistic like this is more than a little bit worrisome. According to the Wechsler Intelligence Scales, an IQ score in the range of 90 to 99 is classified as in the normal intelligence range. A score of 90 has been labeled elsewhere as low average.
According to the Mega Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to developing programs that aid the very gifted, people with IQ's of 90-110 generally occupy semi-skilled positions, including typists, receptionists, assembly line workers, and checkout clerks. People in this category are not usually successful in completing college. Other research indicates about 46% of the public fall into this category.
Is it possible that one reason we are in a period of seemingly intractable unemployment is that there just aren’t enough jobs suitable for the many people who fall into a functional but lower IQ range? Historically, when we had a bustling manufacturing industry, jobs that didn’t require a college degree were plentiful. In the 21st century’s high-tech, instantaneous, information driven global economy, the jobs most readily available for those with a 90 or so IQ would seem to be limited to low paying service jobs like restaurant workers, and retail clerks.
A worrisome development indeed and, I haven’t heard any discussion in the Republican debates or the President’s State of the Union address last week that suggests the problem is being addressed. Massive retraining sounds like a great idea until you realize that many people probably don’t have the wherewithal to fully understand the subject matter, let alone perform work that involves a good deal more than making change –even using a computerized cash register that essentially does it for you.
The economy will certainly recover but it seems entirely possible that all boats will not be lifted when it does. Consider how many jobs are being lost through online ordering from large warehouse-based companies like Amazon.com that drop ship products all over the world. (Think how e-books are reshaping reading habits and affecting even a book selling giant like Barnes and Noble.) Online shopping is making life difficult for many small business owners who employ the very people we are discussing here. And shopping malls, a traditional source of employment in the retail space, are closing in part for the same reason. In the Nashville area alone there have been six closings.
For those of us comfortable in the knowledge that we have higher IQs that should serve us well in the future, consider that Bank of America announced last March that they are shutting down 600 branches, in part because so many people prefer online banking. They don’t need as many people to run their business. Thousands of jobs including professionals in legal, marketing, human relations and finance areas will be lost. Even higher IQ people are not immune to problems created by technology advances. The difference of course is that people with higher IQs are better suited to take advantage of retraining opportunities.
That may be good news for those blessed with a higher functioning IQ but what about the rest of us? What if anything can be done to help otherwise functional people with lower IQs? Thankfully, there may be some good news on that front as well. A study done by the University of Michigan strongly suggests that IQ can be improved upon. Researchers found that exercising the brain through activities like reading, writing, puzzle-solving and taking up new hobbies can improve performance. Parents of children who have lower IQ scores please take note.
More of us have to be trained and ready if America is going to compete successfully in the 21st century. According to Brenda Albright, a well known consultant in the field of higher education, “These issues are being discussed extensively in higher education policy circles. The foundations that support higher education as well as political leaders are actively promoting the idea that many more Americans should go to college and obtain a degree or certificates.”
Warren Buffett is an extremely bright man. Work that demanded less intelligence was easier to find 100 years ago. The task at hand however, is to look ahead and find a way to put people to work who might otherwise not only fall through but demolish the social safety net, taking the rest of us with it.

Copyright 2012, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

The Elevator Speech

2012-01-09T06:20:00.001-06:00

I read recently that business people are in need of a better elevator speech. For the uninitiated, an elevator speech is what you should be ready to say should you find yourself on an elevator standing next to someone who might do business with you or offer you a job. The idea is you should be able to tell the person how wonderful you are and what’s in it for him to hire you. You must be able to do this in 118 seconds, the average length of an elevator ride.
You have to admit that a tiny, enclosed, rapidly moving, windowless room is an excellent spot in which to hold someone conversational hostage. The elevator speech has become a sort of conventional wisdom. If you’ve been in the business world for a while you have no doubt been made to feel inferior by someone who sniffs that you MUST have an elevator speech ready at all times. You feel inferior because even if you have one you know it isn’t good enough. In just 118 seconds you have to grab the prospect’s attention, tell her who you are, what you or your business has to offer and exactly how you can improve this stranger’s life beyond her wildest expectations. If you can do that, you might as well run for Congress. You’d be perfect.
But let’s give this a try: “Forty-sixth floor please. Imagine; 46 floors! Looks like a vertical roulette table doesn’t it? Say, my name is Vito Corleone. I sell imported olive oil by the truck load with an easy -you never miss a payment plan. If you buy your oil from me, you will be my friend and people will fear you.”
Okay, Vito’s elevator speech needs a little work. But I wonder if it’s worth the time. Conventional wisdom notwithstanding, I suspect that proponents of the need for an elevator speech are the same kind of people who told us the world was flat, that Y2K was the next apocalypse and that everything happens for a reason. Conventional or fanciful, wisdom isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be.
For starters, the vast majority of us don’t even live or work anywhere near a building that has an elevator; certainly not one that would take an average of 118 seconds to ride. A better term for elevator speech might be waiting area speech, since most of us actually do spend hours waiting to see the doctor, waiting for a table at the Bonefish Grill or waiting at the Wal-Mart checkout line. Just like elevators, waiting areas like these have at least a few people who might buy from us.
On the other hand, considering how wrapped up we are in our techno-gadgets these days, can you really get someone’s attention in one sentence without a snub nose 38 and words like “Your watch and your wallet now?” Please, it takes about seven sentences to get the kid at the fast food counter to pay attention to you. And how do you get the Donald Trumps of the world to remember your name when they are so hypnotized by the sound of their own names?
Then there’s the fact that very few of us are actually involved in a business that can be adequately explained in mere seconds. Anybody who’s ever read a company mission statement knows that. It takes about a hundred and eighteen minutes to read one of those. Being succinct about what you do sounds great in theory but in practice it’s not easy. Not if you want to impress your quarry. After all, an elevator speech without terms like osmosis marketing, B2C and a perennial favorite, synergy, will brand you as someone who lacks gravitas.
The one thing we are all good at though, is explaining why our new friend and potential benefactor can’t live without us. That is a lesson we are fated to revisit every election cycle. You know the formula: Big promises no cost to you. Works ever time.

Copyright 2012, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Why Time Moves Faster Than It Used To

2011-12-29T08:53:00.000-06:00

As I get older I get the feeling that time is moving by much faster than it did when I was younger. As a child for example, I always thought that the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas morning was the equivalent of the entire time I had been alive up to that point. And Christmas Eve was always the longest night of the year!
Remember when summer lasted forever? Nowadays summer feels like a long weekend. The time between Memorial Day and Labor Day, once a sweet eternity, is now a madcap rush, not unlike the feeling one gets while racing down the freeway to the airport. With one eye on the road the other looking for state troopers, your hope fades that you will ever make the last flight home on a Friday evening. And so it is with summer. Why does time seem to go by so much faster now? Some say it’s because we are much busier than our ancestors ever were. No doubt farmers living in the pre-industrial age, tilling their fields with a horse drawn plow had loads of time to spare. Imagine how much time housewives had on their hands in the days before dishwashers, washing machines, dryers and microwaves. Yeah, leisurely lives they led. They had it made.
There are some theories floating in cyberspace about the likelihood that time is actually speeding up. One theory suggests that something called the Schumann Resonance or heartbeat of Earth used to be 7.83 cycles per second. Apparently it’s been rising since 1980. It is now over 12 cycles per second, leaving us with the equivalent of about 16 hours per day instead of 24. Note to theorists: The missing 8 hours might be the ones that occur while you’re sleeping which would make them hard to track. The more I dig into the “Schumann Resonance” though, the more convinced I am that it has merit in at least one respect. A smart candidate for the Presidency could score serious points making 24 hours an issue. Promising to restore time to its original and rightful place in our system of government could win votes, no? Republican candidates can assign blame to the Carter Administration by suggesting that he wasted so much time that time itself started to slip away. A wily Democrat like President Obama could point to The Resonance as what the so-called Reagan revolution was really all about.
But I digress.
The fact is that man came up with the concept of time. It was man who decided that 60 seconds equals a minute and 60 minutes equals an hour. These units still exist and can be measured.
So why do we feel like time is going by faster than it used to? I am pleased to report that yesterday, December 28, 2011, I found the answer. I was shopping in a Target store in Franklin, Tennessee. As I meandered through the aisles, I happened upon a row of Hallmark and other greeting cards six feet high and fifteen feet long. Remember the date, December 28th, still 3 days before New Year’s Eve and just 3 days after Christmas. Now which greeting cards do you think I saw completely dominating the racks? If you said Valentine’s Day cards treat yourself to a Be Mine candy heart. Valentine’s Day is seven weeks away! Yet, by the time it arrives we will have been completely inundated by retail displays, advertisements and junk mail from jewelers reminding us to buy something special for that someone special in our lives. What galls me is that by the time the day arrives, by no later than 6:00 p.m. on the day itself, retailers will be restocking their shelves with St. Patrick’s Day paraphernalia.
No wonder time seems to fly by. Living in the present these days is hard work. We are always being pushed ahead to the next holiday, the next season. Does rushing each holiday really work? Is anyone reading this post ready to forget the Christmas or Hanukkah holidays? It occurs to me that I’m asking a foolish question since the business version of the Christmas season now lasts so long that one is tempted to not bother taking down the tree at all. Still are you actually ready to focus on Valentine’s Day? If you have already bought your Valentine’s Day cards, have you also mailed them? Please let me know. And while you’re at it, send me your menu for the 4th of July barbecue.

Copyright 2011, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

A Christmas Tradition Gone Wrong

2011-12-20T08:45:00.000-06:00

I got my Christmas shopping done early this year. I even wrapped my gifts. Judging by the heavy traffic I see near the mall, I should be feeling pretty good about not procrastinating this year. Truth be told though, I miss the hustle and bustle, mingling with the crowds, the touch of nippy weather and the devilish excitement of being the guy who got the last Xbox 360.
Christmas shopping is a chore for most of us but there is a touch of romance in the delicate art of finding something unique, desirable, and affordable for that someone special. Yes, there aren’t enough good parking spaces and by the time the Holidays arrive, thanks to retailers’ penchant for starting the season just after Memorial Day, we’re tired of Christmas decorations and Christmas music.
Nowadays you can do all of your Christmas shopping on line without even leaving the house once! It certainly has changed Christmas shopping hasn’t it? What with shipping though, you can’t wait until the last minute to shop. I waited until the very last minute one year. I decided to do all my Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. Ed McMahon, Johnny Carson’s sidekick on the Tonight Show, told Johnny that doing all his shopping on Christmas Eve was one of his favorite Christmas traditions. If it was good enough for Ed, wasn’t it good enough for Len? So I waited. Black Friday came and went, the short daylight days of December quickly rolled by. Of course my wife, being so much smarter than I am, got the shopping done for the kids early. She shopped for me too. I’m sure she tried to reason with me. After all, she would be the one receiving the gifts I found during my magical mystery Christmas Eve shopping tour. Regardless, I was determined to give Ed’s tradition a go.
On the afternoon of December 24th I set out for the mall. It was a bitter cold day, some scattered snow flurries made the roads just a bit slick. As I recall, parking was a problem. After circling the parking lot for an hour, I found a space about 20 miles from the mall. The stiff wind blowing in my face probably made the walk to the mall seem longer.
I knew the mall would be crowded but I have to say I never guessed that a huge mall, complete with three anchor stores, could be so jammed packed with people. If you’ve ever been sandwiched into a telephone booth trying to break the record for the Guinness Book, you’ll know exactly how I felt.
I was on a tight budget but I was determined to find something special, something that had somehow escaped the eyes of the teeming hordes of desperate shoppers. I inched my way to a discount women’s clothing shop and started going through the racks of clothing. I felt a surge of excitement when I snatched the perfect skirt and blouse combination just as a girl who looked to be about 14 reached for it. I waited in line for an hour and a half to pay for my lucky find. When I finally got to the register though, I noticed that the woman behind the counter was giving me a funny look. She said, “Is this supposed to go together?” It was then that I noticed that the blouse was orange with white polka dots and the skirt was rainbow stripes. It didn’t matter. Surely my wife would love this symbol of my adventurous spirit.
I was able to get a few other items on my list including a calendar, something my wife asks for every year to this day. Usually the theme would be the works of an artist like Renoir.
There wasn’t anything quite like that left so my wife’s calendar that year had a spectacular, full color, chicks on a Harley theme.
Exhausted, I finally finished my shopping at 8 o’clock. As I stepped out of the warm confines of the mall and into the frigid, as in single digit, night air, it suddenly occurred to me. I still had to wrap all these gifts. By the time I got home in my unheated Chevette, would I still be able to feel my fingers?
As I sat on my living room floor just a few hours before dawn, wrapping the last gift with the only thing I could find, a brown grocery store bag, I watched a Tonight Show rerun. And I had a revelation of sorts. Ed McMahon could do all his shopping on Christmas Eve for two reasons. He wasn’t living on a budget. The limo he rode in was nice and warm.

Copyright 2011 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

An Average American Citizen for President

2011-12-02T20:09:00.002-06:00

Suppose an average citizen decided to run for President of the United States. Could he or she win? Conventional wisdom says surely not! How could an average citizen raise enough money to buy votes for example? And without proper schooling in the political arena how in the world would our everyday candidate know how or when to utilize spin, the most important political skill of all? Can you imagine this poor guy being quizzed by a moderator like Wolf Blitzer during a nationally televised debate?
Still, looking at the crop of Republicans seeking the highest office in the land and lamenting over the guy who sits in the Oval Office now, how wrong could we go by plucking an average Joe or Jane out of the ranks and giving them a chance to compete in the contest to rule the free world?
Are you thinking, “Yeah, he’s right! Why not me? Indeed, why not you? Permit me to offer you some advice, no charge. In fact, to spur you on, here are several mini position papers written by an average American citizen for the average American candidate.

The Deficit
I know it sounds like a tough one but it isn’t really. We need to spend less money, a lot less. And we need more revenue. The problem is that Americans simply aren’t willing to pay more taxes until we are satisfied that government spending is under control. And we don’t want entitlements touched. So, your position, should you decide to run is simple: We will cut spending by 5% in all areas except entitlements. Government will keep doubling the amount cut every year until the American people tell you not only to stop cutting, but beg you to raise their taxes. My guess is that moment will occur in 2018, when Mexico and Canada, notice that our military has shrunk to the size of the Taiwanese army in the 1950s under Chiang Kai-shek. They will form an alliance and threaten to cross the Rio Grande and the Great Lakes, an invasion the likes of which hasn’t been seen since D-Day.

Abortion
This is a tough one. As far as I can tell, the time worn stance that you are personally opposed but feel you must defend the law of the land is, well…time worn. The news isn’t all bad though. The American people are so used to flip-flopping that you could probably call yourself the founder of the Flip-flop Party and garner a ton of votes. So, what you should do is say that in the interest of fairness you will be pro choice on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. You’ll be pro life on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Trust me: The media will be interested in just one thing. What is your Sunday position? MSNBC and Fox News will speculate endlessly. Under no circumstances are you to give away your position until you have written a quickie book on the topic and hawked it on Rachel Maddow’s show. Once you’ve milked that for all its worth, then give it to them straight. On Sundays you review the polls to see which days your standing in the polls rises or falls. Obviously you plan to be in favor of the position that gets you the most voter support. It’s perfect for O’Reilly’s No Spin Zone.

Foreign Policy
Frankly, as an average citizen it’s even money you’ve never been in another country unless you count California. Not to worry though. Your common sense approach will actually help to reduce the deficit! Here’s how: Reinstitute the draft. That will put a quick end to wars of adventurism. By re-instituting the draft, future Presidents will think twice before committing troops for years on end. Now the beauty of your plan is that the draft ONLY applies to people earning more than $250,000 a year. And here’s the catch. They can buy their way out. No, it’s not a tax; to borrow a quote from 41, “read my lips. No new taxes.” Regardless, our nation’s treasury will be swimming in cash. What about foreign aid? Again simplicity rules: Any country that accepts our money is an ally of the United States. You’ll need to clearly define the term ally. A litmus test is in order. Here’s the only question you need ask the leader of a country looking for dough. Will that country welcome the American Idol tour next summer? Not interested unless they bring Paula Abdul back? No aid for you.

Should you decide to go forward with your plan to run in 2012, please don’t forget me. Wait till you hear my plans for education and job growth.

A Way Out of Debt for the USA

2011-10-05T10:27:00.000-05:00

I am happy to have read some very good news today. I needed it. I’ve been reading That Used to be Us by Tom Friedman and Michael Mandelbaum, a depressing and I’m afraid mostly accurate explanation of what is wrong with the good old USA. According to authors Friedman and Mandelbaum, a great deal of what’s wrong with us is that we are so deep in hoc that we are paralyzed. We can’t fix our infrastructure. We can’t improve the quality of education. We can’t even afford another war against a tiny country.
Then this afternoon I picked up this month’s AARP Bulletin and saw 5 ways Americans can help trim the national deficit. Never mind ways one through four. It’s the fifth step that made me jump for joy. Ready? “Give Uncle Sam a Gift.” That’s right, make a taxpayer gift to the US Treasury. Before you say, “Don’t be ridiculous Len! Who would ever do such a thing?”
Listen: According to the AARP article, taxpayers have already given the US Treasury $2,429,800.03 in gifts this year. (Would someone please make a Freedom of Information Act request to find out who gave the 3 cents?) So why is this good news anyway? It’s very simple. If enough of us give money to the Federal Government, we can solve the debt crisis. In fact, if every man, woman and child gives just $46,666.67 to Uncle Sam, our deficit would be zero. Imagine that! Free and clear! USA! USA! USA! Based on what’s been done already, 52 Americans have already ponied up. Who’s next?
Of course I realize it’s not entirely realistic to expect every man, woman and child to fork over that much money all at once. Take my daughter’s family of seven for instance. They would have to come up with almost $327,000 to do their part. With 5 growing children, their annual grocery bill is higher than that. And let’s face it, not eating for a year is improbable. Trust me, my grandson would rebel. Not to worry. There is another way for us to get this very important job done. If we can pull it off, historians will forever more consider us an all star, triple-crown, greatest generation. Not as great as The Greatest Generation but nothing to sneeze at. Here’s the plan. What if every American, including those of us who may be here illegally, promises to send $1.00 a week to the treasury? With 300 million of us we’ll have our national debt paid off in just under 90 years. It sounds like a long time considering it only took us about twenty years to dig this hole. But think of it this way. If you’re reading this the chances are excellent that you won’t be here for the last 45 years anyway. So it’s not really that long.
One thing I am a bit worried about is that we could wind up with something that looks sort of like Social Security in reverse. After all if we make a promise to the Treasury department they will surely depend on it. What happens if some of us start buying too many café lattes? Suppose some of us decide to get that pricey navigation system in our next new car? Will we find ourselves having to borrow to live up to our commitments? Will the nice people running the treasury begin to feel insecure as people start blogging that they might have to renege on their promise or reduce the size of their contributions? That would mean stretching out the payoff date well beyond the 90 years. I wonder, could the treasury plan for the future in that kind of environment?

Shredagavis Frankie

2011-09-05T15:33:00.000-05:00

Frank was a very close friend of mine. We met when we were in our late teens while forming a fraternity on the Rutgers University, Newark campus. We remained close until his death just two weeks ago. We spent many, many hours together at a time in life when boys are struggling with the transition into manhood. After we graduated from college we worked together for a while, we took a few graduate school courses and even attended real estate school, pretending to be serious yet well aware we were still struggling to find our way.
He was the best man in my wedding and the Godfather to my daughter. I am Godfather to his older daughter. In my late twenties I moved away from the places where we spent so much time together, heading to a small town in southern New Jersey. Eighteen years later I moved even farther away to Tennessee. We didn’t see each other very much once I moved away but we stayed in touch on a regular basis. Frank married a good woman and went on to a successful career in sales. Toward the end of his career he taught autistic children which he loved. He played golf when he could and he followed the Yankees the way some men track the Dow Jones. He had his demons and while it’s probably fair to say they got the better of him more often than not, they never defined him.
Now that he’s gone I realize that one of the great conceits of post modern man is the conviction that we have plenty of time later to catch up on the things that matter most, like family and friendships. Then we are shocked when we discover that neither the calendar, nor the actuarial tables are actual promises of anything.
When he was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis three years ago I understood immediately that Frank, then 59, probably would not reach the average life expectancy, you know, the 80 years we all secretly assume is guaranteed. I was heartbroken.
As his illness got worse, I managed to fly to New Jersey a few times and we talked nearly every day on the phone, right up until an hour before he died. Fortunately he had friends living close by and some of them found the time to call or visit, doing what they could to keep his spirits up. Paul, another fraternity brother, also spoke to Frank daily and made frequent visits to see him. He helped him get the things done Frank could no longer do for himself, filling in around the edges for Frank’s family. Paul got him out of the house and above all, listened to him, often demonstrating a saint’s patience as he tried to reason with a man who was rapidly losing the capacity to reason.
Frank became increasingly agitated, often obsessing over what would appear to observers as inconsequential. His behavior was typical of people suffering from that miserable disease. As each breath became harder to draw, he was forced to stand (sit or lie really) helpless as his independence drained away, seemingly in slow motion. Yet, even through his pain and his fear Frank never lost his wit. He could still make us laugh. And he never stopped fighting. My last conversation with him was about a treatment that might improve his breathing.
Most of us will die without having a spot reserved for us in history books, without having lived a “lifestyle of the rich and famous.” Except for an incredibly few people, the world at large will neither know nor care that we existed. And yet, I am sure that our lives matter beyond our wildest imaginations to those we have touched. In spite of our many conversations, I don’t believe I ever found a way to tell Frank how much his friendship meant to me.
Frank’s two daughters and two grandsons meant the world to him. Like many of us, he had a funny way of showing it. Somehow it was easier for him to tell guys like Paul and me how much he loved them, admired them and needed them when he should have been telling his kids. Men are good at that. We won’t admit our sins. We’ll pretend it doesn’t matter and we keep too much inside. It’s not that we don’t know the truth. To paraphrase Jack Nicholson, we just can’t handle it.
And so it is with Frank’s passing. I get teary eyed now and then and I am always surprised by my own reaction. I don’t want to talk about him anymore but I can’t stop talking about him. Shredagavis is a silly word Frank made up many years ago. Depending on the context, it could mean anything; hello, goodbye, tough luck, so what?… The word is still in use in some select circles.
Ever have a friend who made up a word? A friend who’s fighting for his life? Call him. Send an email or a text. Hop on a flight soon. There’s never as much time as we think.

Does Democracy Still Work?

2011-08-08T14:26:00.000-05:00

The debt ceiling crisis of 2011 has passed. We did not default because the Congress and the President got together at the 11th hour and passed a bill that will allow us to borrow what we need until after the 2012 elections. In spite of all the rhetoric about getting a start on fixing our incredible debt problems, not much was accomplished. Our nation’s leaders kicked the can down the road yet again.
I’m an American citizen dying to be proud of my country again. Instead I am sorely disappointed by our inability to attack and solve any of our serious problems. We can debate whether Social Security, Medicare and defense spending are out of control. We can and should have healthy debates over the solutions to our problems. In the end though, we have to be able to trust our elected officials to do what is right for America. Therein lies the problem. We don’t trust our politicians to give us the right time of day even if we buy the book they’ve written and hawked on MSNBC.
We are an extremely divided country now in a way we never were before. If Pearl Harbor was attacked today I wonder if we would accept a military draft. Would young men and women volunteer in overwhelming numbers? Or would we sit and watch MSNBC and Fox News fight over what the correct response should be?
I was raised to believe in democracy as the best possible form of government. Everything I was taught made it clear that participatory government was the way a free people thrive. Yet, watching this latest spectacle play out in Washington, I was struck by a horrifying thought: What if democracy as a form of government no longer works?
What if cable news, radio and the blogosphere, filled with ideologues that have no incentive to compromise, have hijacked our ability to govern effectively? Clearly, advances in communication technology have altered political dialogue and our ability to get things done. There was a time when news traveled a lot slower than it does today. Upon hearing news that might be upsetting, people had time, not only to react, but to think and as a result, form an opinion. Judgments were considered; arrived at based on experience and sharing ideas with others. Today information, including truth, lies, simple errors and the like, moves so fast that it’s nearly impossible to reflect before we respond. Visceral reaction and opinion have become practically synonymous. And should political leaders be unfortunate enough to voice an unconsidered reaction, they pay full price. Never mind that being pressed for a comment in stressful situations increases the odds of a slip. It’s even money that the gaffe will be played over and over again.
Media demands instantaneous response in nearly all situations, from the Casey Anthony trial to the debt ceiling crisis. The media with its 24/7 news cycle has built a monster that demands constant feeding. The need for viewers, which translates into ratings and ultimately cash, also drives what is news and what isn’t. Perhaps that’s always been true but the difference today is that news outlets will do anything, not only to get a story but to create one if they must. That’s why every election is a horserace, every statement is picked apart like a Thanksgiving turkey and every story is framed in a simplistic white hat versus black hat scenario. You’re either a winner or a loser. Compromise is not a compelling story.
How can leaders govern in this environment? Political action groups, another cancer that is destroying everything this nation has built over the last 200 years, use instant communication technology to do a number on elected officials who stray even slightly from positions taken or promises made. Governing is all about compromise. We will never agree on every major issue we face. The best deals usually happen when both sides give a little to get what matters most to them. When giving means you may not be around in the next cycle to get something you believe in, why bother? Recent history suggests you can stay in office as long as you don’t negotiate; even if nothing gets done.
Yet, I still hope that average citizens, seemingly preoccupied with day to day struggles, are not the somnolent, indifferent people some think they are. The beauty of our democracy has always been our ability to work together to fix what’s wrong. Democracy works but it takes work. The time to speak out is now.

Copyright 2011, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Super Power: What Choice Would You Make?

2011-07-26T15:34:00.001-05:00

Get this: Given a choice of super powers, 28% of Americans would pick the ability to read minds. Yes, according to a recent Marist Poll, people of all ages would like to be able to read your mind. I can see the attraction in a way. If I knew what you were thinking now for example, I would know whether you were glad you opened the link to my blog. I would also know if you liked my writing, and when you stopped reading and why.
As a sales professional think of how much time I could save if I knew what the customer was thinking. “Listen to this guy! He goes on and on. Does he ever take a breath? And speaking of breath, what exactly did he have for lunch today?” Well, you can’t make a sale on every call I guess.
Regardless, I am sure there would be some other advantages in knowing what others are thinking, but what if I couldn’t control it? I mean suppose I had to know what you were thinking whether I was interested or not? Would I have room for my own thoughts or would I be inundated with the mundane thoughts of others? Believe me if they’re anything like mine, every day would feel like hard time at Shawshank. Imagine listening to endless meanderings like “I’m tired and I still have to take out the garbage.” Or, “What day is it anyway?” “Did I take my blood pressure pill? Damn it I have to count my pills again.” No doubt your thoughts are considerably more profound. I sure hope so.
By the way, when it comes to super powers the ability to time travel was just as popular. That’s right 28% of Americans think that would be cool. I like that one. I think it would be great to go back to say, August of 2004 so I could buy as many shares of Google as possible. Then I could pay somebody else to count my pills.
I might also want to take a trip to the future to see how the world turns out. I would be particularly interested in whether the New York Yankees win the pennant in 2048, the hundredth anniversary of my arrival on earth. Not to mention whether I might be in attendance on opening day that year. Probably not but it would be nice to know.
Invisibility didn’t score that high. Only 10% of us think being invisible would be a good super power to have. For my money it beats the heck out of reading people’s minds. For one thing I would rather be able to pick the people I wanted to snoop on and hear what they have to say out loud. Tell me you wouldn’t want to be in your boss’s office when he was discussing your performance with his boss. “I keep telling this guy he’s got to stop eating onions for lunch. Customers are complaining.”
How about keeping an eye on your kids while they’re in school? Well, perhaps not. Most of us would be depressed. Based on what we saw and heard, we probably would be in line at the super power store that very afternoon. We’d be hot to trade our invisibility for time travel so we could go back to when the world was perfect, which according to the “remember when” emails I get, was around 1956.
The ability to fly didn’t score much better than invisibility. Just 16% of us would like to fly. For my money, flying wouldn’t be a great super power to have unless you were invulnerable to cold air and bird strikes. And you would have to be able to fly at a leisurely pace, reasonably low to the ground too. Listen, if it’s 24 degrees out and you’re doing 600 miles an hour at 30,000 feet, I’m guessing frostbite becomes an issue pretty quickly. A flock of migrating geese could give one pause as well.
Every since super heroes like Batman and Superman came to life in comic books, people have dreamt about having a super power. I’m surprised that the pollsters didn’t offer other choices like invulnerability, x-ray vision or the chance to be China. Which super power would you pick? Take your time and please, remember the old saying. Be careful what you wish for…

Where She Stops Nobody Knows

2011-07-12T19:10:00.001-05:00

I was in Detroit again, Ann Arbor to be exact. At the end of a long day of sales calls my colleague Fred and I checked into the Candlewood Suites. It was my first time staying at this Holiday Inn property. A young man greeted us at the check-in counter ready to process our reservation. I couldn’t help noticing a prize wheel sitting on the counter to my right.
You know the type. You’ve seen them at carnivals. You put your money down and spin the wheel. Let’s say you placed your money on a stuffed animal, maybe a platypus. If the wheel stops on that prize you win. Of course at carnivals, the wheel has about 2,000 choices. Your odds of actually winning something are only slightly better than the likelihood you will be the next President of the United States.
At the Candlewood Suites in Ann Arbor the wheel only has ten choices, three once you boil it down. There are four chances to win a can of Coca~Cola, two chances to win $3.00 worth of snacks and two chances to win 1,000 Priority Club points. There are, as it turns out two other possibilities. I was so looking forward to trying my luck with the Candlewood Suites prize wheel. Who doesn’t like a little game of chance?
I quickly signed the registration sheet, got my room key, and then gave the wheel a spin. As it came to a stop that other possibility, one I didn’t really notice in my excitement, came into focus. It said, “Better Luck Next Time.” You might think I was chagrined beyond belief by my bad luck but I was actually quite happy with the result. Had I won the 1,000 point prize or even a can of Coke, I’m sure I wouldn’t have given the moment a second thought. Instead I was flabbergasted by the idea that someone in the Candlewood Suites organization, no doubt a marketing professional, thinks it’s a good idea to send some customers to their rooms feeling like losers.
I looked at the desk clerk who was obviously prepared to sympathize with me over my bad luck. I couldn’t help it. I was laughing. I said, “I’ve been on the road all day. I’m tired and I have never stayed at your hotel before. Do you really want to send me to my room cursing my bad luck? Are you trying to make me connect the Candlewood brand with feeling like a loser? Why don’t you go all the way? Instead of saying ‘Better Luck Next Time’ why not say ‘Drop Dead?’ Seriously, why not let me feel the full weight of your indifference?” He smiled back at me and shrugged. Marketing wasn’t his department.
Listen: I get it that the prize wheel is supposed to inject a little fun, even excitement in what is an otherwise mundane activity. But the hotel used it in a way that surely has unintended and certainly unwelcome side effects. I am sure that many if not most people would spin the wheel and laugh it off if they lost. What I can’t help wondering though is whether it’s worth the risk that some people might avoid the hotel next time they’re in town, simply because…“there is something about that place…I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t like…” Instead of better luck next time I think the options should be a new Buick. I’m just saying.
I’ve experienced the prize wheel before by the way. Years ago not long after we were married, my wife and I were buying carpet. There was a sale going on. Big discounts were promised. Once you selected your carpet and padding you had to spin the wheel to see how big your discount would be. As I recall, discounts went from 3% to 12%. I spun and it landed on 9%, not bad. It wasn’t until later that it dawned on me that they were prepared to give us an additional 3% discount if the prize wheel landed on 12%. Why should I accept anything less? My colleague Fred who frequently stays at Holiday Inn property’s rightly insisted on the 1,000 point prize for that very reason. Why should he accept less? Alas, its years too late to make my case on the carpeting. Better luck next time I guess.

Copyright 2011 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Where Have You Gone Kit Carson?

2011-07-01T16:13:00.001-05:00

Imagine if you will the early American pioneers traveling in wagon trains from Missouri all the way to California. Rugged men, women and children all, they battled weather, tricky terrain, unpredictable rivers and angry Native Americans to reach their new homes. It could be argued that these pioneers defined the American can-do spirit. These men and women had an insatiable thirst for adventure. Traveling for as long as six months to reach their promised land, they consistently demonstrated independence in thought and action. America is a great country because these brave souls wouldn’t accept the conventional wisdom that it wasn’t safe to make a 2,000 mile journey in a wagon. They believed in themselves and in the future of America.
Now imagine what would have happened if, when they reached the Rocky Mountains, they found a band of fellow Americans wearing uniforms with patches that said TSA on their shirts. Picture an agent of the Federal government requesting identification, demanding that the men remove their belts and boots. Imagine the women being subjected to a pat down through their petticoats. Can you hear the TSA agent telling them they could not take their water-filled canteens another step further because they weren’t purchased at the entrance to the mountain range? When the TSA agents insisted that the men leave their weapons behind, I’m guessing a riot would have ensued which the history books would no doubt refer to as the Massacre of South Pass, Wyoming.
I was standing in line before 6 a.m. at the Nashville International Airport last week trying to get to Detroit. There was an unusually large crowd that morning trying to get through security, nervously checking their watches and praying they would make their flights. That is when they weren’t distracted by emails and text messages or listening to Maroon 5 on their i-Pods. Like sheep we all did exactly as we were told. We handed over our boarding passes along with our picture IDs just to get into the line.
As we got closer to the gray buckets and conveyor belts we ran through our mental checklist: Wallet, jewelry, cell phone, coins, belts, tiny toiletries and oh yes, laptops. We know that all these items along with any jackets and shoes must be removed and placed in the buckets. We gently pushed them along, careful to smile at any TSA agents that might look in our direction. It makes no sense to look like an independent, non-compliant American citizen. No one wants to submit to the public pat down or electric wanding that suggests you’re either a potential threat to national security or a dummy who doesn’t even know how to fly to Detroit.
With plenty of time on my hands, I found myself scrutinizing the faces of my fellow travelers. I was looking for any signs of rebellion in the ranks. Maybe we’re too distracted to rebel. Perhaps a bit self satisfied that life is good enough so why make waves? It doesn’t take that long to get through the line anyway. Seriously, shouldn’t we carefully examine gray-haired old men and women, checking even their canes to be sure we can fly safely? Doesn’t it make sense to send innocent 5 year old red-blooded American children through an x-ray machine? I feel safer don’t you?
I go through this process nearly every week. Usually it doesn’t take very long but it is frustrating nevertheless. That morning I couldn’t help thinking about the American spirit and whether we have any fight left in us. What will it take for us to say, enough!
“Sir, before I let you board the plane you will have to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sing God Bless America into this microphone or you can’t fly today.”
“Excuse me miss, we have your identification and your ticket is valid but our clerk here is going to perform a full cavity search live on television which will be seen by anyone sitting in the food court.”
I understand the need for airport security. No one wants a repeat of 9/11. But we have become much too willing to accept patently absurd notions about safety because it’s easier than fighting the craziness. Passenger profiling need not be based solely on ethnic or racial stereotypes. In fact experts say it would be a mistake. Regardless, our current security system makes air travel a nuisance. If only we had the ingenuity of our forefathers. Surely we could find a better way. Most of us know America can do better. Our ancestors would have done something about it.

Copyright Len Serafino 2011. All rights reserved.

Joy Redux

2011-02-22T19:41:00.002-06:00

In May of last year, just nine short months ago, I posted a column about a BMW ad claiming they made joy instead of cars. I had some fun with the German automaker for positing such a ridiculous notion. At least Pontiac built excitement -until its heart stopped beating. BMW didn’t claim to build anything. Instead they decided to redefine the word joy. Remember?
Joy breaks the mold
Joy is timeless
Joy is youthful
Joy can be counted
Joy is maternal
Joy is future proof
BMW has since parted company with the advertising agency that created that awful campaign. No joy in Mudville and not much in Munich. But then there’s this: I bought a BMW X3 today. Now I’m sure some BMW marketing executive will smile and say, “The joy ad was very effective. You bought one of our cars Len.” Like a baby, my BMW purchase was born nine months after they impregnated my brain with the subliminal message: Put some joy in your life Serafino. Buy a Beamer. Who knows? Anything’s possible right? David, the client advisor did seem to be waiting for me when I drove up and parked outside the showroom floor. He seemed very confident that he had a live one. I wonder how he knew.
People who know me well are aware that I can be extremely impulsive when it comes to buying cars. In the most disgraceful example of such behavior, I accompanied a co-worker to a car dealership to help out and wound up being the buyer myself. Obviously no sleight of hand, including claims of unbridled joy, is needed to get my juices flowing. I am ready to buy with little provocation. My wife won’t even allow me to go to a car wash alone, fearful that I might select “new car smell” a fragrance that can send me to the nearest car dealer in a heartbeat. I'e had the vehicle I just traded for more than 6 years which in my 40+ years of car buying is a record. That I actually own the car is another minor miracle. Is there a fragrance for upside down financing?
I actually enjoy the give and take integral to buying a car. It helps when the sales person is pushy. There is nothing I like better than playing mental tennis with a wild eyed sales guy who runs back and forth between his desk and his manager’s office as we wrangle over price. You might say it gives me joy.
Sadly, that didn’t happen this time. BMW’s David, the guy who sold me the X3, was a gentleman. He was knowledgeable, courteous and above all, he treated me fairly. He took all the fun out of the experience for me. On the other hand if exchanging insults over glass cubicle walls isn’t your idea of fun, well, you might give David a try. I think my blood pressure actually dropped during the transaction. Even my wife sat there with me today, something she swore she would never do again after I held the receptionist and the service manager hostage for three hours the last time I bought a car. I still maintain BMW overshot with the joy thing, but based on my experience with their Nashville dealership, they could run an ad that says we take the angst out of buying a car, at least for normal people.
By the way, if you happened to see the BMW ad and hated it, please let me know. I am always seeking validation. Better still, if you read my post on the topic and bought one of their cars anyway, call me. Maybe I could claim a commission. That would really give me joy.

Copyright 2011 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Living the Dream

2011-02-06T12:38:00.003-06:00

I’m listening to the CORE FM, a Rutgers University radio station as I write this from Franklin Tennessee. Yes, the Web has opened a world to us that was completely unknown to our parents, not to mention our grandparents. The DJ I’m listening to is Mike Wollman, a 61 year old friend of mine from our days at Rutgers in Newark. And that is perhaps the larger miracle of the age in which we live.
Mike has had a very successful career as a teacher in secondary schools. While we were in college he held down a DJ slot on the campus radio station. Now here he is enjoying a passion of his, still in fine voice and as much on top of today’s music as he was in the 1960s.
We live in an age when dreams need not be lost because of time wasted, obligations undertaken or narrowly missed opportunities. Long held dreams are not trampled by the fates the way they were in generations past. Thanks to the Web, a plethora of educational opportunities and demand publishing to name a few, there are more avenues for self expression than ever before in history. Mike told me he did in fact dream of being on the radio again for almost 30 years. When the opportunity presented itself he studied, took some tests and made it happen. And in the nicest of touches, his daughter Becca, who was active at the station, gave him an assist.
Our dreams can stay alive for years, even if fed only by the tiniest morsel of hope. The beauty of our world is this: Dreams can come to fruition at any time. One reason is there is less discrimination now. When women and minorities secured the right to chase their dreams, they helped to break down lots of barriers and conventional wisdom including the silly idea that one should act his age.
Certainly a mature individual is capable of discerning the difference between what is truly a young person’s activity and what is open to anyone willing to try. So it is that former President Bush jumped from an airplane to celebrate his 75th, 80th and 85th birthdays. Conventional wisdom surely would suggest that the former President act his age. Fortunately he didn’t and anyone still chasing a dream should take heart.
At a recent Toastmasters meeting the Toastmaster of the day chose fearlessness as the theme of the day which led to some discussion about why people fear chasing their dreams. Some said it’s the fear of ridicule. Others suggested a fear of failure. It’s hard to disagree with those explanations but I suspect there is another fundamental reason why people don’t actually chase their dreams. Most of us have secret dreams that we hold dear for many years. We tell ourselves that one day we will do the thing we really want to do. Maybe it’s something grand like climbing Mt Everest or perhaps a bit more modest like learning to speak French. We would do these things if only we had the time.
So what derails us from chasing our dreams as we crawl, walk and sometimes run through life? I think the underlying fear is that if we fail, the question then is what will happen to our dreams? What in the world will we replace them with if we fail? Lord knows even an unrealized dream can serve a critical purpose in our lives. A dream can be mental comfort food, something we pull out when our lives are completely at odds with the world.
“No I didn’t get that promotion but some day I’m going to get my MBA and I’ll be a huge success.”
“Another broken relationship and it hurts but one day I’ll write a best seller and then…”
Thoughts like that can get us through some difficult moments but it seems like a high price to pay for succor. I think Mike figured out that the beauty of chasing his dream was in the doing. He didn’t become a celebrity DJ talking to millions from a Manhattan studio. But that isn’t how he defined success. He realized that accepting the challenge and doing what he loved was true success. Think about times when you have been really successful. What part of the experience gives you the most satisfaction, the recognition or the actual work you completed?
Life will always have its disappointments. Don’t let one of yours be that you never reached for your secret stars. Remember living the dream is in the doing.

Copyright 2011 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

‘57 Chevys yes…Boy George…not so much

2011-01-23T14:04:00.002-06:00

My friend Chuck sent me an email filled with nostalgic pictures from the 1950s. Most of us get these if we’re beyond a certain age. No matter how many I get, I still enjoy receiving them. But sometimes I wonder if nostalgic emails are circulating among the truly geriatric set, extolling the virtues of the 1940s. Certainly there are eighty-somethings out there who are techno-savvy. Do they secretly share photos of Glenn Miller, Frank Sinatra and Kate Smith? Do they delight in looking at pictures of War bonds, Rosie the riveter and Kilroy? Do they recall zoot suits with fondness too?
World War II was of course the central story of the 1940s. I suppose it’s impossible for people of that generation to look back on those years in the joyful way baby boomers romanticize the 1950s. At least 300,000 Americans died as a result of the war. Millions of people were touched by sadness for having lived through it. Yet, when the war was over, the people who fought the battles made the armaments or kept the home fires burning, made the 1950s the decade we baby boomers cherish.
Most of the 1950s cultural artifacts I’m reminded of in these “remember when” photo displays are the things of childhood; like candy cigarettes, pea shooters, hula hoops, Howdy Doody and the Lone Ranger. And there are other triggers like 1957 Chevys, black and white TVs that took three minutes to warm up and S&H Green Stamps. These collages seem to suggest that we all lived in harmony, safe and well fed. We all went to schools where we learned what we needed to know and almost never ate the paste. On Sunday we all went to church. After church we had roasted chicken lots of vegetables and Mom’s home made apple pie for dessert.
The point of these messages is that life was way better back then. Life made sense. We lived in simpler times. Of course life was simple. We were kids. What did most of us know about discrimination, A-bombs or Commies? I have never received an email from someone from my parents’ generation extolling the virtues of the ‘50s.
I think people playing the role of adults at the time, probably remember the 1950s as an unsteady era. A time when having just defeated the Nazis, we were now involved in a new kind of war, a cold one with our former allies in Russia. A Senator from Wisconsin was conducting witch hunts that could actually be watched on a box in the living room. And well into the 1950s, our parents feared we might get polio. Millions of Americans still worked in factories at jobs that may have paid reasonably well but under conditions that in no way can be compared to the typical office environment today. Ed Norton, the sewer worker had little in common with The Office’s Dwight.
Generations that came before us were happy to see their children enjoy such good times. They could live vicariously through us. And they weren’t the least bit nostalgic for the 1930s either, by the way, when they were actually kids. Would anyone suggest that pictures of men selling apples on the street or people living in tents would call to mind better days?
Adults tend not to be nostalgic over things they did or witnessed after they grow up. If we did wouldn’t Chuck (and 50,000 other friends) be sending me pictures of Boy George, Hootie and the Blowfish, a picture of a PC with AOL on the screen and a reminder of how it took soooo long to get on-line with dial up? You can be sure there would be a picture of George Costanza in the mix too. Well, maybe not George. Thanks to cable TV I can still visit with him every night of the week.

Copyright 2011, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Today's paper in the hands of a 1960 reader

2010-12-31T11:34:00.002-06:00

I picked up a copy of the Tennessean this morning, Nashville’s daily newspaper. As I perused the news, I got to thinking (never a good thing) about what would happen if somehow a person living in 1960 got his or her hands on the December 31, 2010 edition of the paper. The front page wouldn’t be particularly informative. The headline says “Jobless claims decline sharply.” There was a recession in 1960 so the thought that 50 years later things were about the same might actually be comforting. That feeling that things are the same wouldn’t last long I’m afraid. Before he even put coal in the furnace, the reader would see an editorial entitled “Gay adoptions expand opportunities for joys of parenthood.” I think it’s highly likely the reader would interpret the word gay as merry and expect a nice Holiday related story. After reading it however, and discovering that a man named Elton John and his civil partner David Furnish just became parents to a 7 pound, 15 ounce boy, the reader would be perplexed to put it mildly.
Assuming the shock of that story didn’t cause cardiac arrest, it’s quite possible that the real estate section would do the trick. After all, the average price of a new home in 1960 was $12,675. A look at property transfers in December of this year would probably make the poor reader wonder if America was going through a period of hyper-inflation akin to Germany after World War one. In 1960 gas was $.25 a gallon, a loaf of bread $.20, a postage stamp $.04. Never mind that homes in this area cost well into the six figure range. A reader in 1960 would see the sale of an empty lot for $98,500.
No doubt the reader would turn to the sports pages for solace. Another surprise in store, I’m afraid. What happens in professional sports these days frequently offers a prime example of the loss of civility in our culture over the last 50 years. The Tennessee Titans and the Indianapolis Colts, (Didn’t they used to play in Baltimore?) are playing a game that could decide whether the Colts advance to the NFL playoffs. Titans guard, Jake Scott had this to say about the game. “…we can screw up somebody else’s dreams. It is something to look forward to, trying to wreck somebody else’s year.” We take quotes like this for granted these days in sports, politics and business. It wasn’t like that in 1960 and while many things about our world today are decidedly better than they were then, the loss of civility isn’t one of them.
A switch to the life and entertainment section might also send 1960’s reader reeling. A popular movie right now is Little Fockers. Surely the title alone would give them pause about the future. Maybe they would feel better seeing that Dear Abby was still writing her column. And, readers would be happy to know that future generations still celebrate the coming of the New Year in pretty much the same way as in 1960. Here in Nashville there are lots of choices for party goers like the Music City Ball or Roaring 2011 –A Swingin’ New Year’s Eve celebration at the 5 Spot. And, Little Jimmy Dickens is appearing at the Grand Ole Opry tonight. Most likely he appeared there on New Year’s Eve 1960 too, bless his heart.
The business section would be an eye opener too. There is a story in today’s paper reporting that 20 million cars were recalled this year in the USA. Were there even that many cars on the road in 1960? And what pray tell, is a recall the reader would ask. And thank God Google didn’t exist back then because the reader would have been furious to learn that Japan, a country that surrendered just 15 years ago, was selling us millions of cars.
I’m sure readers back then would be envious about some things. The idea of owning a car with a sun roof, air conditioning, tilt steering wheel and something called cruise control would definitely be appealing.

Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Going to See Santa

2010-12-22T20:48:00.003-06:00

Most of us had the experience of going to see Santa when we were kids. It’s a long standing tradition that is as much a part of the Holiday as hanging your stocking on Christmas Eve. I was in the local mall the other night where Santa often resides these days. Standing on the mall’s second level, I had a birds eye view of the Santa Claus spectacle. There was a long line of anxious parents and small children, many of them too young to be anxious themselves, other than the fear some may have had of this big guy with a beard in a red suit. I must say this mall’s Santa Claus looked very much like the real thing, right out of a Coke ad you might say.
A little girl, perhaps three years old, dressed in a Christmassy red and green dress, was giving her mother a very hard time about sitting with Santa so she could have her picture taken. The little girl was adorable but she was definitely not in an adoring mood. She wanted no part of the guy who is supposed to come across with all the goodies on the morning of December 25th. The child’s mother was imploring her to sit with Santa. The woman seemed, well, desperate to capture the moment on film…or I suppose should say, digitally. She sat her daughter down on Santa’s lap, then next to him and finally in front of him to no avail. As soon as the mother stepped away so the picture could be taken, the child got up and ran to her.
The elves got into the act, doing their best to bribe the kid with stuffed reindeer and then candy. No dice. Then the mother decided to let her little girl watch other children make nice with Santa. Three kids did just that but the star of my little show still demurred. I have to say I was impressed with the behavior of the other parents standing patiently on line with their restless kids. No one seemed the least bit perturbed by this child’s refusal to sit with St. Nick and no one gave the mother the evil eye for her persistence. In the end, they got the photo but Mom is in the picture too. Perhaps one day it will make for a funny story the little girl can tell her fiancé. That’s if she can find the photo 25 years from now.
My take is simple. A picture with Santa is not worth the hassle I witnessed the other night. I say this because I have never been in an adult’s home that featured a picture of the resident sitting on Santa’s lap. Now I’ll bet you have several precious photos that you’ve had retouched, blown-up and framed because they have special meaning for you. I’ll also wager that you don’t have one of you with some big, fat, oddly dressed stranger in red. Think back to your own picture with Santa. Remember the look on your face? Is that fear in your tear stained eyes or was it a side effect of the million watt flash bulb that just went off in your face?
What happens to these pictures anyway? You take them home and show them to grandparents who ooh and ahh over them, secretly wondering whether you can even trust the people who play Santa anymore. You display them on a countertop or bookshelf during the Holidays and then…you put them in a box with other photos. Listen, a few nights before my sojourn to the mall, I was wading through a huge box of old photos. Guess what I found? Right, I found several pictures of my son and daughter having the all important powwow with Mr. C. I even found one of me.
Considering how busy parents with young children are during the Holidays, I can’t imagine what possesses them to stand on a long line surrounded by crying kids. Some parents do find ways to avoid it. Recently a friend told me that he and his wife decided not to tell their children stories about Santa Claus. They felt it would be lying to them and they wanted to build trust right from the beginning. If you ask me they probably just didn’t want to wait around for the photos. The funny thing is their kids, all adults now, complain that their parents robbed them of the Santa experience. Go figure. I wonder if they were in line the other night with their little ones.

Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Linkedin: Not for those that Fear Rejection

2010-11-25T10:54:00.001-06:00

I have 182 connections on Linkedin which is a modest number when I compare it with some of my connections. Mark and Rick for example, each have more than 500 connections. On the other hand a few of my connections are linked to fewer than 5 people. I think the number of connections you have might depend on how well you handle rejection. When you join Linkedin you put yourself out there. Sure, Linkedin allows you to click on something that says “Add so and so to your network” as if it’s a foregone conclusion that your invitation will be accepted. Not so, I’m afraid. You can be left high and dry. Right now there are 14 people who haven’t accepted my invitation to connect on Linkedin. Two of them were just invited in the last 48 hours. The other 12 were invited…let’s just say a while back. I have high hopes for the two prospects I just invited to link into. Those in the “while back” category are definitely long shots.
My failure rate stands at 7.69%. If that is a typical result, Mark and Rick have at least 38 people ignoring them. Is that a lot of people? I don’t know but Major League baseball teams have just 25 players on their roster during the season.
As I review the list of people who have ignored me, I am struck by the fact that two of them will surely be reading this post. You know who you are but please don’t feel any pressure to explain yourself. Get this: I talk to one of the refusniks regularly on the phone. We exchange emails too. Why the snub?
Life was so much easier when I was a kid and the boy sitting next to me could whisper “Ya’ wanna be friends?” while the teacher wrote something on the blackboard. It was nearly impossible to refuse a face to face request. And, if by some chance the answer was no, the turndown wasn’t recorded in my permanent record the way Linkedin refusals are.
Regardless of it’s shortcomings, I like Linkedin. It boosts my ego to know that the links of my 182 connections, connect me to almost two million people. Surely if the need arises one of them will have a job for me.
One application I’m not crazy about is “Who’s viewed your profile.” At first I thought it would be fun to see who is curious about me. Mostly though, it’s the people that only hours ago agreed to be a connection. I suppose they’re just eager to see who I know. Sadly, the “Who’s viewed your profile” thing is really about the same as the most likely to succeed, prom queen, best hair, high school popularity thing. My profile has been viewed by 5 people in the last 30 days. Some things never change. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not actually in the job market right now. I mean if I was in demand, thousands of professionals would be checking me out, right? If only one-tenth of one percent of the 2 million links I have gave my profile a gander that would be 2,000 people! Five out of 2,000 is a percentage too small to mention.
Linkedin encourages members to share an article, an idea or even an insight. Here is an insight recently shared by a member: “The first 90% of project takes 90% of the time, the last 10% takes the other 90% of the time.” He’s right too. Yogi Berra couldn’t have said it better.
Although Linkedin doesn’t suggest telling fellow connections which city you’ll be visiting this week, what you’re reading or what kind of day you had, I notice a lot of members do just that. By the way, if you’re reading this post and you want to mention that fact to your connections I won’t object.
One thing I don’t fully understand is why people I’ve never met ask to connect with me. Is it possible that my network is that valuable? If that’s the case I wonder if I should charge a fee for the connection. Imagine what Mark and Rick could charge with their 500+ connections! I usually say yes when I’m invited because I don’t want to be rude and I don’t see the harm. Of course you never know what a stranger might be up to. I suppose I could go to Backgroundcheck.com to see whose invitation I’m accepting but I would feel a bit paranoid doing that. And, I’m not going to get to 500 saying no am I?

Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Business Travel Excitement...Not!

2010-11-08T06:29:00.001-06:00

I do a lot of business travel. Last week I was in San Francisco. Two weeks ago I went to St. Louis and the week before that I was in Florida. Next week I’ll be in New Jersey. I know, travel to places like New Jersey may seem glamorous to people that don’t travel very often, but the sad truth is this: travel can be very boring. Mind numbingly so. Driving through traffic to the airport, taking your shoes off and emptying your pockets through security, and waiting for your flight to leave, eats up a lot of time. Then there’s the actual flight plus more hours spent in hotel rooms staring at the four walls.
Between you and me, the only way to get thru the drudgery of business travel is to be creative. For example, did you know there are way more good looking women in America than men? I know this because while I’m sitting at the gate waiting for my plane to arrive or sitting in my assigned seat watching other passengers board the aircraft, I rate each and every man and woman I see on a scale of one to ten. The latest scores, which I hope will be released by Popular Mechanics next month, clearly reveal the difference in looks between men and women. The average score for women of all ages is 8.9. The average score for men? Negative 6. Actually the men’s score would have been lower had I not given out a couple of 9s early one morning. When I foolishly mentioned my pastime to a couple of needy co-workers, they demanded good scores.
There are, of course other ways to beat back boredom, eating for example. Every airport has plenty of fast food restaurants and candy racks plus a store dedicated to local specialties. In Nashville, they offer Moon Pies and Goo Goo Clusters, delicious but not necessarily good for you. Apparently, not one city in America is known for its salads. Why is it we have such strict security forces in airports to protect us from terrorism in the skies but no nutrition police to protect us from too many calories in the food court? Judging by the food available in airports it’s probably better to be pulled out of line as a suspected terrorist so you can spend a few nights in jail. The food is better for you.
Sometimes when I’m really desperate, I roll the dice and engage a seatmate in conversation. Over the years I’ve calculated the odds of being held conversational hostage during a flight lasting 2 hours. Its even money you’ll be forced to pretend you’re listening to some guy named Len describing the novel he’s written in excruciating detail. And, by the way, if you happen to be seated next to a guy you rated a 2, don’t be surprised when he leans over to you after his third beer and makes a confession. “One of these days I’m gonna open the emergency exit door at 37,000 feet. Man that’d be cool” Hey, if the flight still has an hour or more to go I’d consider egging him on.
Of course if you’re a guy seated next to a woman you rated a 10 it doesn’t matter what she talks about. She says, “Oh I just love my cats! I have 74 of them. Would you like to know their names? There’s Fancy girl, Fluffy and Clytemnestra, so many! Trust me on this: A guy could be so allergic that a mere picture of a cat sends him to the emergency room, and he would say, “Wow, I love cats. Imagine 74 cats. I would love to meet them, especially Clytemnestra.”
Sadly it’s not that easy to engage people in conversation during a flight anymore. People travel today with all kinds of boredom suppression gadgets, Kindles I-pads. I love people who carry these tiny I-pods connected to Bose head sets the size of Minneapolis. Any bigger and they would have to buy two seats. In fact looking at what people bring on board these days is another way to fight tedium. The stuff people carry on board is getting really big and harder to cram into the overhead compartment. A couple of weeks a go I saw a guy try to board with his own single engine Cessna. He got turned down but only because the lady in the seat next to him brought her cats with her.

Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.

Snopes.com is Good. Critical Thinking Helps

2010-10-28T12:19:00.000-05:00

I’m worried about the good people of this country and our future. Here’s why: I regularly get emails with patently false information. These days it’s usually about some grave indiscretion committed by President Obama but sometimes it’s an editorial that Andy Rooney never wrote not to mention said, on 60 Minutes.
This morning I got one about the tragic shootings that happened in Fort Hood, Texas last year. Supposedly, when George and Laura Bush heard about the shootings they jumped in the car, unescorted, and drove to the Fort. When they got there, former President Bush asked for directions and was again offered an escort whereupon he told base officials to shut up and drove on to the hospital. The story went on to say that the White House asked the former President to leave. The story goes on to say that President Obama “merely held a photo session” in a gym at Fort Hood.
Okay, I understand a lot of people in this country are unhappy with the current occupant of the White House. Some may have excellent reasons to be unhappy. The election next week will probably hammer home the point. That’s not enough for some of us though. There is no shortage of people that will gladly spread misinformation about Obama and his administration. Certainly in my lifetime there is nothing new about that. Anyone who lived through Watergate understands that evil lurks in the hearts of many people. What frightens me is that there are so many people who are so unhappy with the current state of affairs that they will believe anything that supports their world view. And they are willing to blithely spread hideous stories which today are point and click easy to do. Whatever happened to critical thinking?
I am grateful for Snopes.com. It’s so easy to check stories that don’t sound right and you know what? My instincts are often right. And I am just an average guy with a tendency to be skeptical about what I read. Does anybody else think a little skepticism is healthy? Consider if you will a few points about the Ft. Hood story.
We live in an unstable world. We are forced to be very security conscious. Former Presidents have access to enormous amounts of sensitive information. What are the chances that President Bush, not once but twice, fails to take proper security measures? The reason we protect former Presidents is to ensure we don’t have an international incident that could result in the deaths of many. Think George Bush knows that? By the way, would George Bush tell a man or woman in uniform that offered to help to shut up?
In a highly politicized arena, knowing that former President Bush had been on the military base visiting wounded soldiers, is there any chance that President Obama would “merely hold a photo session?” The guy won an extremely hard fought primary and general election because he exercised formidable political skills.
The truth is that I didn’t really need to check snopes.com to see that the story being sent around was false. I firmly believe that most of us would see that. Common sense tells us that the heart of the story is fabricated. Yet, too many people won’t see that. Why do so many of us choose to major in minor things? We get lathered up over whether a mosque should be built near ground zero while we ignore the fact that educators in this country aren’t getting the job done. America’s students rank 21st in science and 25th in math compared with students around the world. Teachers need to do a better job and so do parents. The mosque issue may be important but where is the outrage over the state of education?
In the days before cyberspace, newspapers and even TV journalists behaved responsibly. They wouldn’t think of publishing something like the Bush visits FT. Hood story. Ethics, moral and business, forced them to walk the straight and narrow. Advertisers would not have stood for malicious propaganda. Readers may not have agreed with certain points of view but they could rest assured that the essential facts of any story were accurate. The Internet changed all that. Everybody can play now and it’s more or less a risk free game. Web sites, blogs and email are a demagogue’s dream. Unless otherwise bright people learn to accept the truth that just because it’s “in print” doesn’t mean it’s true, our liberty is at risk.

Copyright Len Serafino, 2010. All rights reserved.

Multitasking: Hazardous to Your ...What was that?

2010-10-18T12:14:00.000-05:00

I was thirsty. So I stopped at a convenience store this afternoon to get a bottle of water. I reached for my money and noticed immediately that I didn’t have as much as I thought I had. I could tell without looking there was money missing. How could that be? Only this morning I went to the bank, inserted a card, and punched a few numbers into the magic machine that dole’s out the amount I request. Happens every time.
So where was the money? I dispensed a twenty into the hands of Connie at Nucci’s Café at lunchtime. Okay, I remember doing that. Did I drop a small wad of cash, $120 to be exact in the process? Nothing to do but take a ride over to Nucci’s. I had to stop there anyway because I forgot the Italian ice I ordered for my wife. When Connie’s husband Steve saw me walk in he assumed that’s why I was there.
Of course I asked him if anyone turned in some money that might have been left lying on the floor in front of the counter where the cash register sits. He assured me that no one did. I couldn’t be sure, but the look on his face seemed to suggest that I was losing it. I mean who would turn in $120 in this economy right? Well, yes you would. I know that. But some people, the kind of people that aren’t reading this column, might be prone to keep the dough.
Flummoxed again, I went home and asked my wife if she saw my money. Perhaps it was resting comfortably on my desk or on the kitchen counter. No dice. I wondered about that to be honest. If she didn’t take it I was out of options. I am not a careless person. The money was only in my possession for a few hours. It’s not that she’s been known to rifle my wallet in search of a little mad money while I’m napping, but there is a first time for everything. I was getting desperate. $120 is nothing to sneeze at. As I weighed the merits of demanding that she take a polygraph test, something odd happened. I remembered what I did with the money.
Just before lunch I was sitting in my home office browsing thru my inbox and chatting on the phone with a colleague. The doorbell rang. It was Mark, the guy who cuts our grass. It seems that I owed him some money for services rendered over the last several weeks. So I paid him the $120 I owed him, handing him six crisp twenties fresh from the money machine at the drive thru.
Is it an age thing? I mean at 62 has it come to this? Not more than three hours after I paid Mark it seems I had no memory of the transaction. Now it’s true that I would rather forget that I’m paying someone to manicure my lawn. That was probably why I fell behind in my payments in the first place. But having no recollection of the transaction so soon after it occurred?
There may be another explanation: Multitasking. Yes according to David Meyer, a psychology professor at the University of Michigan, chronic high-stress multitasking also is linked to short-term-memory loss. And an article Sue Shellenbarger in the Wall Street journal points out that a growing body of scientific research shows that multitasking can actually make you less efficient and, as she said, “stupider.”
Now that’s just what I need at this time in my life. After all the years I spent studying, taking classes, not to mention all that reading, a simple thing like talking on the phone while I read emails, Twitter and eat a number 11 sub from Jersey Mike’s, is making me dumber. Worse, I probably won’t even remember that I was once at least a little bit brighter than I am now.
As if that’s not enough, Katy Read, writing for AARP, reports that information overload is tough on people. This is “especially so for people over 50 because normal brain changes – including small blockages to the brain’s blood supply and a drop in nerve signaling chemicals – can make it harder to tune out distractions.”
Apparently, even if I wanted to ignore the doorbell and hold on to my cash a little longer, I wasn’t capable of tuning out Mark. I had no choice but to pay him. I have only one thing to say. Would the colleague I was on the phone with call me please and identify yourself?

Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Dear Abby

2010-08-16T19:49:00.001-05:00

I’ve been a Dear Abby reader for years. There’s something about other people’s problems and the usually good advice that captivates me. In Sunday’s paper though, I saw an item that really stunned me. A woman wrote to ask for advice about how she might steal her married friend of 15 years so she could have the new car, beautiful home and new truck that he and his wife enjoyed. Her exact words were, “I don’t love Bud, but I know him from way back and I want to break them up. Can you give me any advice on how to?” She signed it “Losing Out.”
Really? Are we that far gone that newspapers, desperate for paying subscribers, would print something that not that many years ago would be fit only for the National Enquirer? Is it a good idea to treat an inquiry like that as a legitimate problem? Are so many people having that same problem that Dear Abby was forced to deal with it? I can see where a lot of people might have a meddling in-law issue but I’m guessing there are zero women coveting access to me and my 2004 Yukon. Granted I’m not exactly a yardstick for such matters. Still, if such problems are worthy of newsprint, why not go all the way? Let’s give Dear Abby full rein to provide advice on every conceivable topic even if it involves illegal activities. Imagine the range of fascinating questions for our Dear, Dear Abby:
Dear Abby: I want a new car, top of the line, but I’m short of cash. Can you please tell me the easiest way to steal the car I want? What changes should I make to its appearance so I won’t be caught?
BMW Boy
Wait, here’s one I’m sure some of us have pondered. Dear Abby: My boss is making me work overtime so we can catch up on orders placed by customers. Although I agreed to work overtime when I was hired, I’m tired of working Saturdays. Can you suggest something I can put in her coffee that will put her in the hospital for the rest of the summer?
Gone Fishing
I think what really got me wasn’t even the question, as bad as that was. Listen: thousands of people write to Dear Abby every year. With the very complicated world we live in today, there can’t be a shortage of consequential inquiries can there? Why would Jeanne Phillips, who writes Dear Abby, select such a disgraceful inquiry? My first thought when I read it was that a couple of quick-witted teenagers got together and wrote the note just to see if they could slip it past Ms. Phillip’s watchful eye. Maybe that is exactly what happened but Phillips played it straight, sort of. She said, “You must not be a frequent reader of my column. In a case like this I think I’ll take a pass.”
Again, really? Did Ms. Phillips feel that she did well by taking the path of “I’m not going to dignify that question with a response?” If that’s true why did she submit it in the first place? Doesn’t an advice columnist have an obligation to offer meaningful advice to any inquiry that she chooses to submit for print? Let’s be honest here, a lot of people reading that question will not see anything wrong with it. Surely, some will consider it a valid inquiry. You might be thinking, “Anyone reading ‘Losing Out’s’ question would immediately recognize it as inane.” Quick, what did TV Guide report as the number 1 show on television? Correct, The Bachelorette, a show that Losing Out has probably applied for numerous times.
In the interest of helping Ms. Phillips, who I’ll bet is on vacation and is going to be chewing out someone when she gets back to work, here is my guest Dear Abby response:
Dear Losing Out: Since your friend appears to be the generous type why not just tell him exactly what you told Dear Abby except for the not loving him part? Maybe he’ll take pity on you, buy you dinner and a Buick Lucerne just for old time’s sake. And by the way, in case you haven’t heard, marrying for money is the hardest way to get it.
Okay, maybe I won’t quit my day job, but I would be a lot happier if Dear Abby and the newspapers that publish her column did their jobs. We deserve better.

Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Taxing the Soda We Drink

2010-07-08T23:59:00.002-05:00

I saw an interesting statistic the other day in the current issue of Time Magazine. The average American drinks 500% more soda today than Americans consumed 60 years ago. In fact Americans drink about a gallon of soda a week. The article also points out that soda seems to have a lot to do with the obesity epidemic in this country. Really? Could it have anything to do with the fact that a large Coke Classic at McDonalds is 32 ounces, as in a half gallon of soda? Are you wondering how many calories in that half gallon? 310.
Worried about the growing obesity epidemic, (more than 34% of Americans are obese) some states are trying to tax soda in an attempt to slow down consumption. Experts believe higher prices will result in people drinking less soda. Of course the soda industry is fighting lawmakers’ efforts with a good deal of success. Not that it matters. Whether it’s an addiction to the caffeine, sweets or just plain old brand loyalty, raising the price of soda isn’t going to change behavior very quickly. The state of Washington recently put a 2 ¢ tax on 12 ounces of soda. Let’s be serious for a moment. Does anyone really believe we can cut the consumption of soda by adding 2 ¢ to the price of a can of pop?
Consider how hard the task and how long it’s taken to change smoking behavior. My friend Bob and I were talking about when a pack of cigarettes cost $.26. Today the average cost of a pack of cigarettes in this country is $5.33. In states with high local and state taxes, the price approaches $10.00 a pack. Yet, about 19% of Americans still smoke, down from about 42% in 1965. In spite of higher prices, comprehensive anti-smoking campaigns, a ban on advertising and warning labels on cigarette packages that pretty much say “smoke this and you’ll die,” it’s taken more than 50 years to get the number of smokers below 20%. Soda might make you fat if you overindulge but if smokers don’t care or don’t believe that cigarette smoking leads to the permanent dirt nap, why would people worry about extra pounds?
Regardless, taxing people to change behavior works best when everyone affected has the same risks or enjoys the same benefits. Taxing cigarettes burdens people that smoke, the vast majority of whom risk serious health problems. It’s not possible to smoke responsibly. That’s not the case when it comes to soda. If I drink bottled water nine times out of ten why do I have to pay extra taxes if I occasionally treat myself to a root beer?
It’s tempting to blame the people that drink too much soda for this problem. It would be easy I suppose to accuse them of being irresponsible. But I think lawmakers are looking through the wrong side of a two-way mirror. I can’t help wondering why makers of soda and retailers offer such large portions of food and drink when it’s clear that too many people are overweight or obese.
When I was a kid the largest bottle of soda you could buy was Royal Crown’s 16 ounce cola. For most of the 1950s Coke came in 6 oz. bottles. A typical soda from a restaurant fountain was 8 ounces. Back then you would have to order four drinks to get the equivalent of today’s large Coke. People didn’t do that sort of thing then but I don’t think it was because they had more discipline. It never would have occurred to them because the size of the item they ordered implied it was an appropriate portion. So if consumers today can buy a 32 ounce drink it must be okay right?
I realize that the availability of larger portions alone doesn’t explain why people overindulge. Obviously, many people don’t overdo it. But I think it is true that restaurants and food service manufacturers back then understood they had responsibilities beyond growing market share and making a profit. While individuals must accept responsibility for their actions, marketers who concoct these so called value meals and relentlessly sell them to the public they supposedly serve, are behaving irresponsibly. Why not tax their profits on irresponsible offerings? If they raise prices to cover those losses hit them harder. Most food and beverage merchants are paying lip service to treating obesity. Maybe it’s time to put them on the kind of diet they understand.

Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Generic Birthday Greetings are Driving Me Crazy

2010-07-01T16:28:00.000-05:00

On the first day of every month a very good friend of mine emails a birthday list to all of the guys from our college fraternity. This month seven brothers of Kappa Phi will celebrate their birthdays. While the Rutgers University based fraternity didn’t survive the turbulent years that followed the sixties, a lot of friendships have endured and many are very strong.
Now I think it’s nice for Mike that he sends this list around but I am not enamored by the way some of the brothers use it. Let me explain. Since our frat days, my friend Paul and I have called each other on our birthdays. While Paul stayed put, building a business in Manhattan, I moved around a bit. Still, whether I was living in tiny Palmyra, New Jersey, Webster, New York (where life is worth living according to the natives) or my current home in Franklin, Tennessee, Paul always called. Paul is one of the July birthdays so when his day comes I will no doubt give him a call. Our conversations are lively, personal, and great fun. We catch up on what is happening in our lives now and indulge ourselves by retelling a story or two from the days when we were carefree college students. (If you’re reading this Paul, I did not steal the delicious London broil sandwich your mother made.) Over the years I added to the list of people I called as did Paul. And a funny thing happened after about 25 years of calling these guys. They started remembering my birthday and calling me: More terrific conversations to enjoy. If you can’t be sipping a tall one in the same pub together, hearing a good friend’s voice is the next best thing. Reading a Times New Roman font size 12 greeting is a pale comparison.
Enter the Internet age and email. I’m afraid some people are overcome with the easiness of typing out a few words and letting it go at that. Sadly, as far as I know, Microsoft has yet to figure out how to deliver the nuance that each person’s unique pitch and voice tone can deliver. And until they do we will keep calling. I hope it never stops.
Since Mike started sending his monthly blast email birthday list, my inbox has been choked by messages from a growing number of well wishers. Some recipients of Mike’s message reply to all with alacrity. Since my birthday is in January none of these guys are wishing me anything. They are just letting me know they are wishing someone else a Happy Birthday. How nice. Couldn’t they at least send an e-card to the birthday boys?
I am at a loss to understand how a generic “Happy Birthday to all the guys that have a birthday this month” is meaningful. If it makes sense to do that, why not send birthday greetings on January1st every year? “Happy Birthday to everyone I ever met” should do the trick.
The guys I went to school with always seemed bright to me. They did go to Rutgers after all, a great school that in those days was often thought to be an Ivy League university. Admittedly it wasn’t because of the academic standards, but we did play some of the Ivy’s in football every year. People seeing me in my Rutgers sweatshirt would ask, “Rutgers! Is that an Ivy League school? My answer never varied. “Almost,” I said.
But I digress. I’m annoyed by these unwanted email intrusions. Is it possible that the guys who send these vapid greetings want credit for acknowledging birthdays? Why else would Rollo, Tony and Al, not to mention Mark, feel the need to copy me and 50 other guys? These guys have been successful in life by any measurement you can name. It can’t be that they are lazy. It might be Mike’s fault for sending out the list but I hesitate to blame him. He might delete me from the group.
Listen, I do hope that every brother in the fraternity has a very happy birthday and many more of them too. But if I feel the need to tell them that I’ll call each one personally and say so. What I want more than anything for my birthday next year is this: Stop clicking “Reply to All” and send something meaningful to each birthday brother individually on the anniversary of his actual date of birth. Better yet call them. I’m sure every brother has the roster Mike sends with changes every three or four days.

Copyright Len Serafino, 2010. All rights reserved.

Hello I Love You Here’s My Tattoo

2010-06-17T20:54:00.001-05:00

When you meet with the young girls early in the spring you court them in song and rhyme…from Sinatra’s September Song. The song was written more than 40 years ago during simpler times, long before television shows like the Bachelor and the Bachelorette made a mockery of romance. Which brings to mind the current edition of the Bachelorette: This year the bachelorette being pursued by a gaggle of guys is Ali, the young woman who last season seemed so clear eyed in choosing her job over that goofball Jake.
Most men still romance women with flowers and candy. And song and rhyme is still in vogue, as evidenced by the crooning of several of the guys hoping to win Ali’s hand. But one of the eager young men, Kasey, decided to take it up a few notches. He got a heart shaped tattoo on his wrist to prove his love to Ali, this after two so-called dates. His theory seems to be that once Ali has seen the tattoo, secured by a series of painful needles, administered by a young woman who may or may not be trying to get on the Jerry Springer show, Ali will know Kasey is her true love.
Well I think the lad is crazy. If he had any sense he would have waited until his next date with Ali. He would surprise her with a trip to the very same tattoo parlor and demanded that she get a tattoo to prove her love. Certainly Ali might be reticent to do that but if I was writing the script for The Bachelorette, that’s what I would have done. (And don’t tell me the show isn’t scripted. My son-in-law just told me that the guy with the broken leg has been seen with the cast on either leg depending on the scene.)
In my rendition of the show, Ali would indeed get a tattoo on her knee as a symbol of her budding romance with Kasey. Imagine how she could drive the other guys wild showing that thing off during the Rose Ceremony. The remaining episodes would be so much more intriguing as one suitor after another marches Ali to a tattoo parlor and insists on equal billing. Why should a potential stalker like Kasey get a leg up in the Ali sweepstakes? By the end of the show when the final rose has been proffered, with any luck Ali will look like a billboard of bad judgment and bad taste, a pluperfect advertisement for the show. Another option would be to have her issue vouchers for rose tattoos each week. The winner would be the guy with the most roses running up his right arm or maybe across his chest.
I’m certain that none of my readers actually watch The Bachelorette. You’re probably reluctant to even admit you’ve ever heard of the show. So perhaps I should explain the rose ceremony. After cavorting with the guys for days in glamorous locales, the bachelorette is handed a dish full of roses. Then, after much thought she doles them out to the guys who score lowest on the creepiness scale. Of course there are only so many roses to go around. One or two losers are always left standing there looking like the kids who didn’t get chosen for the pickup basketball game.
Losers play their assigned roles to the hilt. They express their disappointment and pretend to be shocked that some woman they have nothing in common with likes the other guys more. These guys are disappointed but it has nothing to do with losing Ali. More likely they’re unhappy because their fifteen minutes is up and worse, they won’t be jetting to Copenhagen for next week’s episode. Trust me these guys would be happy to romance a woman who actually gained weight on The Biggest Loser for a chance to travel in style.
By the way, tattoo boy got a rose this week, no doubt because he never got the chance to show Ali his artwork. Had Ali seen the tattoo and listened to Kasey’s reason for doing it, not only would he not have received a rose, Ali would have demanded a restraining order. On the other hand, Kasey’s probably not a complete fool. Assuming the tattoo is real, my guess is the fine print beneath the heart says, “I’m next season’s Bachelor.”

Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Thinking about Candles

2010-06-09T19:32:00.001-05:00

I was in the mall at the Yankee Candle store where we are regular customers. My wife was restocking her candle supply. She bought a candle called “Vineyard” which smells like Nehi Grape Soda. “Hydrangea” is another of her favorites. That one smells like a floral scented perfume that may or may not include hydrangeas. Candles are a big business. That there is a successful chain of stores such as Yankee Candle attests to that. We may have as much artificial electric lighting as we can possibly want or need, but candles still have a nice niche.
A century ago people were still watching the O’Reilly factor by candlelight. Nowadays we just flip a switch or two and the entire house is bathed in enough light to make you feel you’re on Broadway. When Edison invented the light bulb, savvy investors of the day probably dumped their candle stocks in droves, assuming that GE Soft White 60-Watt bulbs would decimate the wax and wick crowd. But they were wrong about that weren’t they?
People are still lighting candles, mostly as a mood elevator. Lots of candles are being lit to lighten the load if not the room these days. Aroma therapy is alive and well. Candles have become decorative items too, packaged in fancy delicate glass containers. Once the candle is gone some containers could probably double as carafes to hold wine the way jelly jars became juice tumblers years ago. Candles also come in many shapes, designed to add a festive touch to just about any holiday you can think of. I still have fond memories of a Santa candle even after St. Nick’s head was melted beyond recognition when we forgot to blow out Santa’s red cap one Christmas Eve.
Before we left the Yankee Candle store the clerk dropped a catalogue in the bag holding the candles. I hate these things. Trees die in vain to feed the marketing frenzy of retailers. I mean does anybody actually read a candle catalogue? As it turns out, in spite of my disdain for them, I do. At least I read this one. Did you know Yankee Candle makes a candle called “Garden Cucumber?” I wonder how many people so love the smell of cucumbers that they want to introduce that scent into their homes on Saturday nights. If you were frying garlic in olive oil would you light a cucumber candle to arrest the odor? It seems to me that a “Mango Salsa” would go better with the garlic and oil. The question then is what wine to serve?
Yankee Candle also offers something called “Evening Air.” It costs about 25 bucks for a big jar of…well, evening air. Forgive me for asking, but does it really make sense to spend $25 to light a candle when you can just open a window and get the real thing? Unless you live downwind from a waste disposal plant, I think fresh air has a distinct advantage over the bouquet one gets from the burning chemicals coming from the jar.
Another candle that caught my eye is called “Storm Watch.” By all means let me light a candle that reminds me of the terror of hiding in my closet while a category 5 tornado whistles though my neighborhood. If using an aroma to invoke senses that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up, I have a few suggestions for candle makers everywhere. How about a candle called “I Smell Smoke?” Imagine our delight when an unsuspecting house guest gets a whiff of something akin to an electrical fire. Indeed maybe the candle’s name should be “Flash Fire.” “Life Flight” also comes to mind. If the boys and girls in the candle scent lab can find a way to mingle the smells of helicopter exhaust, rubbing alcohol and gauze bandages, it could be a winner for those who prefer to live on the edge.
I suppose I’m being silly again but there is no denying that the candle industry successfully reinvented itself. They could have gone the way of the buggy whip and the typewriter. Instead they moved from a critical necessity to tiny luxury item. The industry’s problem now is coming up with new scents that give us the urge to light up. As you can see, I’m trying to help.

Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.

We Don’t Make Cars We Make…

2010-05-19T18:24:00.002-05:00

Joy. That’s right. A recent ad campaign by German automaker, BMW announced that very fact. At first I was shocked by the news. I always thought it might be fun to drive a Beamer. Like so many other things, it seemed that my chance to do just that was slipping away. Unbelievably, they were going to be making joy. I thought, “Doesn’t Proctor and Gamble make Joy?” But it turns out they weren’t talking about dishwashing liquid.
No, cars are still in the picture, literally. The humongous ad that appeared in USA Today was full of BMW models, one for every appetite. De rigueur photos like the middle aged white guy standing in front of a convertible, red of course, the silver car racing through a stream, little kids with big smiles, a young black woman behind the wheel, all of them experiencing what BMW’s advertising agency thinks we should think joy is.
Webster’s defines joy as the emotion evoked by well being…delight. Hard to quarrel with that one but BMW believes they can improve on that. To wit:
Joy breaks the mold
Joy is timeless
Joy is youthful
Joy can be counted (my favorite)
Joy is maternal
Joy is future proof (over the top maybe?)
The BMW ad insists, “We don’t make cars.” They claim to be the creators of emotion, the keepers of thrill and finally the guardians of one three letter word. Maybe I wouldn’t mind this so much if not for one nagging little problem: Memo to BMW…you do make cars. You make a fine automobile. As a potential buyer, I am much more concerned with your responsibility as a guardian of our safety, your interest in being creators of quality products and, keepers of as little of my money as possible.
I cannot imagine what runs through the minds of top executives when they allow an ad agency to foist such nonsense on the public. Do they really believe we're stupid? As someone who has bought cars on occasion just for something to do, I fully appreciate the anticipation one feels spending four or five hours on a Saturday afternoon at a dealership negotiating price with the car salesperson and wrangling with the finance person over interest rates. On occasion I have enjoyed the way a salesperson explains the destination charge on the dealer invoice. I have benefited greatly from the patience of the used car manager as he points out the numerous flaws in the vehicle I am trying to trade. But joy? Really?
To be fair, I have envisioned having what’s left of my hair blow in the wind as I cruise down the road, trying my best not to notice other people whose cars which are often bigger and more expensive than mine. And driving through a stream always turns out to be a water filled pothole with enough mud to make my car look less attractive than the one I saw in the ad.
I wish advertizing executives would stop trying to appeal to what the focus groups say we’re dreaming about and give us a little credit for what we know. I get it when an ad shows a car at its best. When an entire ad seems bent on misdirection it makes me leery of what I’m seeing. Edmunds.com generally gives BMW high marks for performance and styling. Why the nonsense about manufacturing joy? What logic are the admen employing? Should a coffin maker run an ad that states, “We don’t make caskets…we make peace and quiet”?
A couple of years ago I heard a media expert explain why most advertising today is so lousy. There was a time, he said, when people who ran advertizing agencies were smarter than the audience. It was his opinion that the reverse is true today. One look at that Quiznos “if you’re gonna eat $5.00” ad and you know there has to be some truth to that.
As a rule, I try to avoid prescribing behaviors to my readers. I write the story and if you get something out of it (Joy? Just kidding) that’s great. But today I want to suggest that you consciously pay attention to the ads you see and read. Are you being treated as if you have a working brain? Does the ad articulate an easy to understand and meaningful proposition? If not ask yourself why the advertiser chose to waste your time.
BMW will sell a lot of cars this year. Many buyers will enjoy owning one. Nobody will get in touch with them for the joy of it.

Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved

Dating Concierge

2010-05-12T07:08:00.000-05:00

My friend Tom forwarded me an article he found on MSNBC.com. Get this: People are using a service to help them with on line dating. Some people are so busy these days that they can’t find the time to exchange emails with prospective partners they find on dating Web sites. Apparently we’re outsourcing our love lives now. Businesses have sprung up that will cull through prospective suitors based on criteria you provide to the service. They will even correspond with your prospective mate for a while to help you improve your chances of landing an actual date.
The idea seems attractive I suppose. Isn’t that what headhunters have been doing successfully for years? Good recruiters give candidates the onceover before sending them on to an interview. Call it a first date. References have been checked and job histories have been verified. Of course, former employers generally have a policy of not offering information beyond verifying that so and so worked here between January 3, 2000 and February 16, 2004. If an employee set a record for consecutive sick days or was notorious for padding expense accounts, recruiters aren’t likely to hear about that.
In the world of dating however, former girlfriends and spouses are not constrained by corporate policy. A romance researcher just might get an earful should the researcher check out the intended’s story. Even if an online dater isn’t all that busy, it’s easy to see the upside at first glance.
“Wait, you’re talking about Richard right? And he said he loved moonlight walks on the beach? The last time that louse walked on a beach was after his third DUI when the judge sentenced him to picking up trash.” Do you see the possibilities? Imagine if you will, a guy who says he’s recently relocated, loves children, ballroom dancing, romantic comedies and fine dining. Before dating concierges became available, a woman could look at his picture (taken maybe five years ago) and decide to give him a try. After all, the guy said he loves kids.
It could take months to figure out whether he’s the genuine article using the trial and error method. And if he can really dance a merengue, it could be even longer before an unsuspecting woman realizes he’s unemployed and had to move back in with his mother. Recently relocated indeed.
One woman quoted in the article wondered if the service might be extended to a first kiss as a way of determining whether the prospective mate was a good kisser. She thought it might be nice to know whether the guy dressed like a dork too. There’s no telling where this service could go. Listen: Why not have the dating concierge marry the prospect for a year or two? What better way to get a comprehensive read on the dreamboat who’s picture has you enthralled? Good cook? Red wine or white? Mother from hell? Not only loves walking on the beach, he’s so broke he lives there too?
I wonder if this service isn’t as much about people being busy as it is about people too self absorbed to go through the process of getting to know someone. Does any serious person believe it’s possible to substitute someone else’s judgment for yours when it comes to starting what could be the most important relationship in your life? Perhaps the hyper busy among us have forgotten the joy of learning something new from someone, even if that person could never be the one, the significant other so many lonely people long for. It’s the trouble we go through, the words, we hear, the gestures we observe consciously and otherwise, that tells us whether we are building a relationship or just passing through.
These experiences, painstaking and time consuming though they may be, make it possible to grasp the differences that are really important in the long run. Being with someone who’s a great kisser is useless when you’re too sick to raise your head off the pillow but he or she has chosen to run for cover. Most of us know the perfect mate doesn’t exist. No amount of survey responses or email daisy chains can substitute for looking into another’s eyes and seeing what is in their soul. You would think that finding someone special is worth your time no matter how busy you are. You can outsource your housecleaning and your laundry. Outsourcing your life isn’t an option.

Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Telling Stories at 35,000 Feet

2010-05-05T21:57:00.001-05:00

It’s Monday morning and I’m sitting on an airplane again, headed to Ft. Myers. It’s a clear day and it’s a smooth flight. The other people on the plane are mostly reading or sleeping, that is except for the two guys behind me who seem to have bonded instantly the way people trapped in a hostage situation probably do.
I’ve had many conversations like the one I’m overhearing in bits and pieces as I write this. The thing about these in-flight conversations is I’m hard pressed to remember most of them. I do remember a 20 year old woman with tattoos all over her body but maybe that’s because she gave me some great material for a column I wrote about tattoos.
Most plane ride conversations aren’t memorable because they are merely a way to pass the time. Time constraints preclude deep philosophical exchanges. I know I’ve passed on precious little wisdom while droning on like the engines of a Boeing 737. No doubt I have received a lot more than I have given. For one thing I’m a natural interviewer. I ask lots of questions and I’ve learned that people trapped in a speeding cylinder at 35,000 feet, will often answer them. Not long ago a woman confided her doubts about a man she had recently started dating. It seemed that when they were socializing with friends, the socializing was more fun for him than the actual date with her. I have to say this time I offered sage advice. “Trust your instincts,” I said. I know. Really good stuff but don’t write it down. It was just airplane wisdom.
This morning it occurs to me that I probably could make these conversations more interesting for me and memorable for my seatmates if I create a fictional version of my life, regaling the person sitting next to me with my imaginary exploits. Why not? Most of the true stories we tell about ourselves lack drama. We often leave out the things that might expose faults or weaknesses. And it’s not like I’m ever going to see these people again. I’ll bet letting my imagination run wild would cure my not so imaginary boredom. It’s worth a try.
“Yep, I’m flying home to Ft. Myers. It’s been 30 years, four months and 13 days since I was home.”
“Really?” My seat mate is already intrigued. “Why so long?”
“Prison: Please don’t be alarmed. I did my time and I am fully rehabilitated.”
“I see. May I ask why you were in prison?”
“Well it wasn’t a white collar crime.”
“Umm, okay…so is there anybody you’re really looking forward to seeing when you get home?”
“Yeah, I’ll be paying a few people a visit,” I say with a scowl.
Maybe too wild? I have this vision of my companion trying to distract me while he reaches for the flight attendant call button. Not exactly what I had in mind. Perhaps I should dial it back a bit until I get the hang of the tall tale.
“I see you’re reading the Wall Street Journal. I can’t help feeling a bit of nostalgia just looking at that headline.”
“Which one?”
“The one about Kellogg’s posting smaller profits than expected. When I ran that company we were very successful. Believe it or not, you’re sitting next to the guy who came up with Cocoa Puffs. Yes, I was sitting on a flight just like this one, doodling on a cocktail napkin, when the idea to add cocoa to Kix cereal occurred to me.”
“Excuse me, but I’m sure I ate Cocoa Puffs when I was a kid and I’m even older than you are. And isn’t Cocoa Puffs a General Mills cereal?”
Wow, this fake life story stuff is harder than I thought. Perhaps a little homework is in order. After all, I have a responsibility to my fellow travelers. There’s nothing worse than having to sit next to someone on a long flight after you’ve exposed him as a charlatan. Especially if he could just as easily be a guy that pretended to be a dangerous criminal on his last flight.
I wonder if anybody has ever told me a fabricated life story between Newark and Nashville? And would I be offended if I knew it? I doubt it. Truth is rarely a necessary ingredient of a good story. If it was, cable news ratings would be underwater. Listen: I’m flying again next week. If you’re on my flight, lay one on me. I’ll try to come up with better lies for you, honest.

Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Housework? Hold the Manhattans

2010-04-28T08:52:00.001-05:00

So my wife had surgery on her right foot a few weeks ago. She’s beginning to get around again and I am more than grateful for that. For the last several weeks I have had to take on the household chores. Trust me; this is not as easy as it sounds. In addition to working all day long, I had to cook, wash dishes, do laundry, make the bed, do the grocery shopping and iron clothing for both of us! Yes, and on top of that I had to handle my usual household responsibility, taking the garbage out to the curb on Thursday morning.
Of course one or two women, perhaps cynical types, will say, “Welcome to the real world Len. Imagine doing all that and handling 98% of child care responsibilities without any hope of a day off…ever.”
Thanks ladies, but I would prefer not to imagine that scenario. Still, I have learned a few things that I want to pass on to any husband who finds himself in a similar situation. First, hire a housekeeper. Even if you have to get a home equity loan or sell your boat to pay for it, by all means do it. That way, you’ll never have to actually know what women go through. You can live happily believing that they like doing this stuff the way you like smoking a cigar during a poker game.
On the other hand, if you do hire a maid, there is an excellent chance that once your bride recovers, you will be hard pressed to explain why such services are no longer necessary. Here’s a better idea. Do all of the tasks at hand but don’t make the mistake of getting better at these jobs. Hitting golf balls at the driving range may have lowered your handicap but this is not the time to take pride in your work. Therefore, in the process of ironing the wrinkles out of her favorite blouse, at the very least scorch one of the sleeves, both if you can. When doing the wash, buy several new bright red shirts and mix the colored clothes with the whites, one red shirt at a time. I know: This will cost you serious money when you have to replace all the underwear a few times. But it’s a bargain. Remember this. Stupidity, even if it’s mostly feigned, eliminates the likelihood that any of these jobs will be permanently reassigned to you.
It’s best to be as clumsy as possible. Once you break one of her treasured Lenox serving platters, she’ll fear for her household’s well being. That way she won’t milk her recovery time. I hate to say this, but I suspect my wife could have been up and around sooner than she actually was. I probably made an error in judgment when I fixed beef bourguignon for dinner and cherries jubilee for dessert. That was after scouring the bathroom, mopping the floors and dusting the blinds. Maybe I was showing off a little. A few days later I had to go out of town overnight, leaving her to fend for herself. Believe me I was worried about how she would manage without me. As it turned out, I surprised her and got home a bit earlier than expected the following afternoon. I am almost certain that I caught her practicing an old cheerleader move from high school, albeit she was only kicking with one leg.
One other suggestion guys: No matter how tired you are don’t even think of mentioning it. Don’t yawn and don’t grumble. And believe me; you will be exhausted by the end of the day. I don’t know what’s worse, trying to fold clothes after you’ve had a few Manhattans or realizing that the dog you’re walking isn’t even yours. Regardless, if you let on that all this work is anything but a breeze you’ll be asking for trouble. By the way, don’t offer her any helpful time management tips either. Sadly, I made that mistake. My wife outsmarted me as usual. She gazed lovingly into my eyes and said, “Wow, I could never learn to run the dishwasher and wipe down the kitchen counters at the same time like you do. Reluctantly, I must bow to your supreme wisdom. The job’s yours permanently buddy.”
Men, this is a delicate situation. You must master the art of being helpful and helpless at the same time. Above all, be honest about one thing. You couldn’t survive without her.

Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Spare the Rod Please

2010-04-21T20:54:00.000-05:00

A school district in central Texas has decided to reintroduce paddling in its schools. Apparently they believe corporeal punishment is necessary to manage student behavior. As it turns out 20 states still permit paddling in school but there is a movement to implement a Federal ban on the practice. No doubt, members of Congress, running for re-election will no doubt see which way the wind is blowing and bloviate accordingly.
When I was a public school kid in the 1950s, teachers hit kids on a daily basis. I have a startlingly fresh memory of Mrs. Leto whacking Calvin Fillipone across his back repeatedly with a ruler for misbehaving. In those days parents stood still for that sort of thing. Any child brought up in that era knew better than to run home and tell his mother he got hit by the teacher. Chances were excellent that another spanking was in the offing because our parents assumed that if we got spanked the teacher must have had a good reason for it.
I can also remember being smacked by a nun in Catechism class, and gently paddled by a neighbor. One of my uncles whacked my rear end once because I wouldn’t sit down in his moving Mercury. (Yeah, I know this was before seat belts.) Foolishly, I told on him when we got home. That was a worse mistake than telling on the teacher. Not only had I behaved badly but I attempted to embarrass my uncle. I can’t say for sure but it is certainly likely that my mother used the dreaded wooden spoon on me that day.
Now you might think I am about to suggest that schools should be permitted to paddle kids, that I agree with the school district. But I don’t. Here’s why. Times were different then. Mrs. Leto had been in the neighborhood, teaching at my school a long time; long enough to have taught my father. Nuns really cared about us. Even as kids we knew that. Our neighbors were well known to my parents. Most of them knew each other since childhood. My uncle was someone we saw every week. Our families were close. The point is that we weren’t living among strangers with unknown backgrounds. In the world we live in today it’s too risky to assume that every teacher and administrator is completely qualified to mete out punishment. People today live very different lives than our parents and grandparents. Stability and predictability have been replaced by mobility and uncertainty. Consensus about right and wrong, once common from community to community is no longer easy to come by. We have rogue teachers and rogue preachers, neighbors who are strangers and relatives in blood only these days.
Children should not be spanked or touched unnecessarily by teachers. Many parents agree. When asked her opinion about the new rule one of the parents in Texas put it succinctly. She said, “If my child needs discipline tell me about it and I’ll do the paddling.” I laughed when I read that because it reminded me of a story my father told me.
When he was a boy his teacher paddled him and then demanded that my grandfather come to the school to discuss his son’s behavior. Informed that my father had been spanked my grandfather sternly told the teacher in broken but clearly understandable English, “If my son misbehaves you don’t hit him. You tell me and I’ll do the hitting.” My father enjoyed teacher’s pet status the rest of the year. On the other hand, he had no doubt that his father would indeed redden his rear end if he misbehaved again.
Therein, lies the generational difference. Observing today’s parents try to manage their children is not for the faint hearted. Too many parents today seem to negotiate with their kids, trying to strike bargains when firm rules are called for. Kids need to know there are rules and consequences when they break them. Many years ago teachers played the in loco parentis role to the hilt. Sadly, the state of our society demands that limits be placed on the teacher’s role, which limits a teacher’s options. That means parents must behave like parents; that is they must take charge. Kids need to know that mom and dad make the rules. It stands to reason that a child’s behavior in school, and his expectations about what reaction, if any, he will get, probably mirrors his behavior at home.

Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Seafood Expert

2010-03-10T07:29:00.001-06:00

My wife and I had just sat down to lunch at a well known seafood restaurant. It was lobster fest season again. I always get sucked in by the commercials showing steaming platters of succulent lobsters with drawn butter. From one lobster fest season to the next, I conveniently forget that the lobster in the commercials bears no resemblance to the lobster on my plate. I have no idea where the seafood chain in question finds the lobsters that agree to appear in these commercials, but I am certain that none of them are ready to do an encore in Franklin, Tennessee.
Regardless, before I even had a moment to peruse the menu, I spotted something that captivated my attention much more than the shrimp, crab legs and lobster combo. It was Debbie the server’s name tag. It had her name of course but just below her name I saw the words “Seafood Expert.” People who know me well can attest to the fact that I can be a stickler for words. I’m no William Safire but I do pay attention to the way people say things and the words they choose. When I saw “Seafood Expert,” presumably a title bestowed upon Debbie with good reason, I was more than a little bit intrigued.
Naturally, I asked her what it meant to be a seafood expert. Was she a marine biologist making a few extra bucks serving shrimp scampi? Had she recently joined the restaurant staff after twenty years with Fulton’s Fish Market? Maybe she just graduated from a culinary arts college that specialized in seafood.
None of the above as it turned out. She said the restaurant held meetings every two or three months to discuss different fish. And there were handouts that could be studied after the meeting. I’m not sure that level of exposure to fish qualifies one for expert status. Synonyms for expert include professional, specialist and authority to name a few. Apparently the marketing team at this seafood restaurant chain is working on the assumption that diners, upon seeing that their server has a name tag with the words seafood expert emblazoned on them, will readily put their palates in the hands of the server. After all, how many customers are going to ask how the server achieved such lofty status? Would they be more or less likely to consider the server’s recommendations if they knew that expert status had been conveyed based on occasional meetings that may or may not include glamour shots of certain fish?
Our server said she’s been working at the seafood restaurant for five years. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was required to work there for a couple of years before seafood expert was added to her name tag. Let’s see, that would amount to maybe ten meetings and presumably, ten different types of seafood. There are 48 different species of lobster alone and there must be at least ten species of trout to consider. More meetings might be a good idea.
In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell estimated that expertise in anything requires about 10,000 hours of study and practice. If that’s true, I suspect the restaurant might be intentionally misusing the word expert in a misguided attempt to improve customers’ overall dining experience.
While most people probably wouldn’t question the validity of the claim, at least not consciously, on some level they are almost certainly aware of its insincerity. And no matter what business you’re in that is a problem. How fresh is the fish being served that day? Is the martini really made with Bombay Sapphire or is it a generic substitute? The word expert shouldn’t be treated like a marketing buzz word. Marketers should stick with new and improved.
The restaurant chain isn’t the only culprit by the way. When I Googled the words “seafood experts” I found a company that distributes seafood nationwide. They listed experts in specific categories like shrimp, lobster and grouper. The shrimp expert is a trained accountant who worked in mortgage banking as well. According to her bio, having worked in purchasing and sales for the seafood distributor, she got “a complete seafood education.” No doubt this includes the shrimp.
As usual, I’m probably just not seeing the upside to playing games with words. Until now that is. It may be late in the game for me, but having worked in both sales and purchasing for a healthcare company, I’ve already updated my resume. My qualifications now include “medical expert.” I’m having my new name tag made this afternoon.

Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

The Bachelor: An Alien's View

2010-03-03T13:00:00.002-06:00

So Jake the bachelor asked Vienna the vixen to marry him. I’ve been watching The Bachelor on and off this season. While Jake seems to have some doubts about who he is and what he wants, Ali (the next Bachelorette) had enough sense to choose her job over Jake which might have been the only lucid decision anybody made on the show.
As I watched I found myself wondering what a visitor from another planet might make of all this. Much to my surprise I got an email this very morning that was obviously not intended for me. A creature by the name of Merlin Xenzac from the planet Zepheron was filing a report back to his headquarters and the ethereal wires must have gotten crossed. Here is Merlin’s unedited transcript.

To Your Highest Excellency:
I have just spent the last eight weeks in a tiny motel room watching American television exactly as you instructed. I have noted a very curious courting custom that escaped our notice on my previous mission in earth year 1984. Here are my pithy observations:

1. In spite of decades of progress toward equal rights, earth women are desperate to find a husband. They will enter into a no holds barred competition if necessary, to meet and marry the man of their dreams.

2. Women will put up with and do almost anything if you promise them a chance to get a red rose. Unlike planet Zepheron, bachelors are permitted to date as many as 25 women and not only tell these girls about each other but bring them together in harmony.

3. These men can be caught on camera(!) kissing, hugging and all but fondling each woman and not have to worry about being called a cad, or a womanizer. In fact each girl will put on her finest and hope against hope that the bachelor will want her more than the others. (Oh to be young, single and an earthling.)

4. Apparently, earth has eliminated all maladies that can be transmitted via bodily fluids.

5. When a bachelor dumps a woman (or several of them) he can do this without fear that they will cry, carry on or beg him to reconsider. The bachelor has no reason to fear reprisals such as a beating from the girl’s brother or a year or two of being stalked. Instead, women will hug the man in question and wish him the best life has to offer with a smile and perhaps a few brave, but silent tears. I can’t say for sure, but I think this might have something to do with the fact that all dating now takes place in fabulous vacation destination points. A bachelor doesn’t take a girl to a moldy smelling movie theatre followed by a greasy hamburger and fries at the local diner anymore. Dates are now conducted in places like New York, San Francisco and St. Lucia.

6. Women who are dumped will tell anyone who will listen that the bachelor in question just made a huge mistake that he will regret for the rest of his life. They do not perceive any misjudgments on their part for entering the contest.

7. Bachelors are expected to fall deeply in love with several women at the same time. Earthlings have advanced so far that they can develop deep feelings for one another without the benefit of months of getting to know one another exclusively. Lifelong commitments can now be made without knowing whether a woman squeezes the toothpaste from the tube incorrectly or whether the man has any idea of where the garbage can is.

8. However, it appears to be a rule that the bachelor express grave concern over his quandary. He will express the strongest feelings imaginable to several women in words and actions, leading them to believe that each one of them is likely to get not just a rose, but an engagement ring. However, he must express sadness over having to give up all but one lady. As a side note I must report that the one-and-only rule does not apply to a certain professional golfer.

9. I have also learned that families will permit a bachelor that may be taking their princess for a ride destined to end in agony, into their homes and treat him as an honored guest.

10. Finally, it isn’t clear yet what affect this custom has on young earthlings who just got here in the last 15 years or so. However buying stock in companies that sell roses might be a good bet.

Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.

Motel Life: Pumping Iron While You Iron

2010-02-24T19:42:00.006-06:00

I’ve been traveling again. This week I was in Naples, Florida. Yes, it beats a stick in the eye and then some, but it was strictly a business trip and I wasn’t ensconced at the Ritz Carlton on the Gulf of Mexico. My accommodations were relatively modest; okay they were light years from plush carpets and thick bathrobes with hotel logos on them. I was holed up at the Best Western, a stone’s throw from the interstate where the towels are as thin as my hair and every blanket has a cigarette burn. Now Naples is, if nothing else, a wealthy retirement community. But the folks at Best Western, perhaps because of it’s proximity to the highway, don’t assume that its patrons are routinely listed on the annual Forbes 400 or, for that matter, are strictly on the up-and-up.
When I unpacked my suitcase and hung my suits and shirts I saw that I would need to do a little ironing. I slid open the mirrored closet door, which was partially jammed with what I took to be the remnant of a Snicker’s bar, and searched for the iron and ironing board. It turned out to be a set. The iron was tethered to the board with a plastic wrapped metal coil. My first reaction was embarrassment. Let me explain. Earlier in the evening I had picked up three gentlemen from Australia. Nigel was from New Zealand to be exact. In the short time I spent with him, I’m quite certain he would insist on the distinction. Looking at my iron/ironing board contraption, I could not help wondering whether our prospective business partners, all of whom turned out to be very bright and witty, would think that America must be a nation of thieves. Why else would the hotel chain find it necessary to secure their irons?
Then I had another thought that bothered me even more. I wondered if the men from down under might be thinking we are also stupid thieving Americans in the bargain. Neither the TV nor the microwave was tethered. I know because my curiosity got the better of me. I checked. Perhaps you’re thinking: “Seriously Len, how could a hotel guest carry such large objects through the lobby unnoticed? Irons can be hidden in suitcases after all.” All I can say is, if you don’t believe it would be easy to distract a motel desk clerk long enough to empty your room and the so-called lobby furniture too, you probably don't stay in motels very often.
When I went to actually use the iron I realized I might have overlooked an entirely different explanation for the tightly wrapped coil connection. I soon discovered while ironing my shirts and pants that moving the iron back and forth required a good deal more effort to stretch the coiled wire than one might expect. I not only got the wrinkles out of my clothing, I got a biceps and pecs workout that rivaled an hour at Gold’s Gym. That was all well and good but I never slept a wink after that, worrying that the motel might charge extra for using its workout equipment.
Another curious thing about staying in today’s version of the roadside inn is the breakfasts they serve. Most of these places offer breakfast for free. The breakfast area is always busy. Yet, no one ever checks for a room key to be sure the diners are paying guests. I suppose the possibility that thieving Americans might pilfer Cheerios and a banana hasn’t occurred to the motel security staff yet. Invariably breakfast includes coffee and juice, what appears to be day old bread for toast, cereal and the most hideous looking Danish I have ever seen.
Some motels throw in hot items as well. They have do-it-yourself waffles, scrambled eggs the shape and color of a half-moon and frisbee like sausage patties. Since new management joined our company, I’ve stayed at several Best Westerns. I’ve noticed that in addition to the items already mentioned, their specialty seems to be hard boiled eggs. Trust me: a protein rich hard boiled egg and a cup of coffee after pumping the iron is almost appetizing. If only they served beer for breakfast too.

Coyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Sinatra Does American Idol

2010-01-22T12:49:00.000-06:00

What if Frank Sinatra came back and tried out for American Idol? After all, Frank was the original American Idol back in the forties. His career ran for more than 50 years and his music is sill heard around the world today, some 12 years after his death.
What would it be like for The Chairman of the Board to sing in front of Kara, Randy and Simon? Try to imagine the scene. It’s New York City. You can see Hoboken from the studio’s windows overlooking the Hudson.
Simon asks, “Who do we have here?”
“I’m Frank Sinatra and I’m your next American Idol.”
“Well, we’ll see Frank. Before you tell us what you plan to sing, who are these gentlemen in the dark suits with you?”
“That’s Vinny and Alonzo,” Frank says with significance. “They’re part of my family.”
“Well that’s highly unusual Frank. We don’t usually allow that sort of thing.”
“Make an exception.”
Wanting to keep things moving, Randy pipes up. “What are you going to sing for us Frank?”
“I’m going to sing a Cole Porter tune, I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
Kara: “Do you mean the Four Seasons version Frank?”
“Kara you really ring my bell doll, but please, I just ate lunch. This is an arrangement done especially for me by swingin’ Nelson Riddle.”
“Who may I ask is Nelson Riddle? Simon asks.
Frank smiles but his eyes are icy blue. He glances at Alonzo who takes a step forward. Simon averts his eyes and mumbles, “Can we just get on with it?”
♫ “I’ve got you under my skin, I’ve got you deep in the heart of me…”♫
“Thanks Frank, very interesting but you know Dawg, it was a little pitchy.”
“Oh, I loved it,” Kara gushes, “His voice has a quality that is hard to define. I felt like he was singing just to me.”
“I was singing to you Kara -with the long and melodious Italian last name. I’ll be thinking about you until the wee small hours of the morning learnin’ the blues tonight. You could fly me to the moon, doll.”
“Alright Frank. Your voice does have an interesting quality but I think you need lots of practice. I simply don’t see you as the next American Idol. A saloon singer perhaps,” It was Simon, suddenly remembering that the show had its own security staff.
“I am a saloon singer Simon and a good one. I’m the best there is. Listen to this:
♫ It’s a quarter to three, there’s no one in the place but you and me so set-em up Joe…” ♫
“Hey I liked that one Dawg,” Randy jumps in. “Let’s hear something a little more current Frank.”
“Sure I can do that. This one’s called New York New York.”
“Hold on a minute Frank. You were just beginning to change my mind a little about letting you move forward, but no one has ever been able to sing that song but that guy who sings it after every New York Yankee baseball game. Karaoke bars have removed that song from their play list because too many drunks shattered the eardrums of onlookers trying to sing it. It can’t be done Frank. Don’t you have something else?”
“Simon baby I can sing New York, New York and knock your black socks off, but I’ll save it for when I get to the finals in a few months.”
Simon and Randy look at each other. Kara is putting more makeup on. “What’s it going to be then Frank?” Simon asks.
“I’m going to do a Rolling Stones number, Sympathy for the Devil…Just kidding guys and dolls, here’s one you’ll like…”
♫ “Strangers in the night exchanging glances, wondering in the night what were the chances we’d be sharing love…♫
“Let’s vote!” Kara screams.
Randy smiles. “You got something man. Still a little pitchy but I think you should go to Hollywood. Simon?”
“What can I say?” Simon answers, casting a wary eye on Vinny and Alonzo. “You’ll never make it in this business with that voice Frank. You’re not really a singer but Kara is already bewitched bothered and bewildered so it’s a yes.”

Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

The Perkins Christmas Miracle

2009-12-14T21:16:00.000-06:00

Mike Perkins woke up with a start. He was cold. His fingers looked blue in the dim light of his bedroom. He was about to curse but thought better of it. It was the day before Christmas. He shook his head which, now that he thought about it, ached from a cold. Already his nose was running again. No wonder, he thought. “It must be forty-something degrees in here,” he murmured aloud to himself.
The furnace must have died during the night. Shoveling coal was a chore he hated but this was worse. He would have to light a new fire and wait till the wood was burning good and hot before he could add some coal to it.
He forced himself out of bed. He looked over and saw that his wife Melanie was still sleeping. How could she sleep when winter had invaded their bedroom? He wondered. Maybe being pregnant kept a woman warm somehow. He grabbed an extra blanket and gently placed over her body. Then he headed to the cellar and got to work lighting a fire.
As he added heavier pieces of lumber to the paper and light kindling sticks, his head began to clear. He hadn’t even checked on the twins yet. His 8 year old sons were his pride and joy. Secretly he hoped the new baby due in a couple of weeks would be a girl. Of course he told all the guys at the mill he wanted another boy. Melanie was praying for a girl though, so he wanted one too.
Now the fire was roaring. The wood crackled as the red, yellow and blue flame devoured it. He could add the coal soon.
“Daddy? Is it Christmas yet?”
That would be Randy. Although the boys were spitting images of each other he could always tell the difference between the two by the timbre of their young voices.
“Not yet Randy, tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait for it to come,” Randy said.
“Why is that?”
“Well tomorrow Santa is bringing me a new train set, just like I asked for.” Mike’s heart sank. The fire had warmed his bones but suddenly he felt cold again. He forgot all about what the boys had been asking for all these weeks, ever since Thanksgiving. He had priced train sets at Mitchell’s department store again, just like last year. Nothing had changed. No way could he afford something like that. The set the boys asked for, Santa Fe Railway diesel engines with a line of box cars, oil tankers and a shiny red caboose, was priced right at $100, about $70 more than he had to spend. He couldn’t understand why Mitchell’s would display something so expensive when most of the kids in the neighborhood had at least one parent that worked in the mill. Money problems were routine. He even wrote Mr. Mitchell a letter to complain about it. Melanie thought he was crazy. “What good will that do?” she asked. Mike had to admit he didn’t know but he was always writing letters anyway. Some went to politicians, others to the editor of the County Times. It was just something he did.
He turned to face his son. Ronnie was standing next to Randy now. The boys didn’t agree on much but they were united in their desire for that train set. “Now boys, Santa has to take care of a lot of other kids this year. It might have to wait until next year.”
“No Daddy.” It was Ronnie who spoke this time. “He didn’t give us a train last year. You said he ran out of them but we would be first in line this year, remember?”
Mike nodded. “I remember,” he said. He wished he could crawl back into bed and wake up in the middle of January. He started shoveling coal. He and Melanie had talked about it a few days ago. She felt the boys would be disappointed but they would soon get over it. Anyway, they were each getting a new baseball mitt. She pointed out that neither of the boys had mentioned the trains for nearly a week. “They understand Mike, really. They can see we’re struggling. And, with another mouth to feed, well we just can’t do it.”
Randy and Ronnie stood there, neither of them moving a muscle. They watched their father shovel coal into the furnace, waiting for some sign from him that they needn’t worry: Their Christmas dream would come true. “Go on upstairs boys. I’ll fix you some breakfast before I go to work.”
“Santa’s not bringing the trains,” Randy said to Ronnie, disappointment in his voice. The twins turned in unison to climb the stairs to the kitchen.
“Maybe he will,” Mike said. What possessed him to give the boys hope he couldn’t really say. He was broke. But something inside, was it anger at life’s cruelty, that well to do men would make such fine things and keep them out of reach of underprivileged kids? Was it his childlike belief, however fleeting, that miracles can happen at Christmas? Miracles, he thought. He sure had never seen one. And now he would need one. That was not something he was known for.
He put the shovel down, banked the fire and headed up the stairs. Melanie was in the kitchen making breakfast. He gave her a peck on the cheek and went to get ready for work. She followed him into the bathroom. He was putting shaving cream on his face. She walked over to him, fire in her eyes. “Michael, did you just tell your sons they were getting that stupid train set for Christmas?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean? Did you or didn’t you tell them that? They are just humming out there, talking about how the train’s gonna be around the tree when they get up in the morning. Have you lost your mind?”
“All I said Mel, was maybe.”
“You might as well have guaranteed it Mike. What are we going to do? We’re behind on the rent as it is. Don’t you know they’re going to tell their friends all about it today? Then tomorrow they are going to wish they could crawl under a rock. As far as I’m concerned you can join them.”
Twenty minutes later Mike walked down the street toward the bus stop. It was an extremely cold and windy day. Snow flurries decorated the streets. Not that Mike noticed. He wasn’t cold like he was earlier. No, he was numb, inside and out. The bus came right on schedule. A lot of people took the day off so the bus wasn’t crowded. Usually he had to stand all the way to his stop which was two blocks from the mill. Today he got a seat. The bus ran through its route, making stops along the way. An old gentleman got on just two stops before Mike’s and sat down next to him.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “Looks like it’s going to be a cold one.”
Mike just nodded. He sat staring at the ads on the bus’s wall not reading them, just staring as if one of them might have the answer.
“Say, if you don’t mind my saying so, you look like a man carrying a heavy load,” the man said.
Mike turned and looked the guy over. He could be taciturn when things weren’t going well. Melanie had spoken to him about that more than once. This was one of those times. Recognizing that Mike wasn’t going to respond the old man turned away and started to read his newspaper. The bus stopped to pick up another passenger. As it pulled way from the curb Mike reached up and pulled the cord for his stop. He checked his watch and saw he was going to be late for work. He shrugged as if to say, “What else could go wrong today?”
The old man let out a sigh. He folded up his newspaper and offered it to Mike. “Go ahead and take it. There might be something in the news today that will cheer you up.”
“I doubt that.”
“Just the same, take the paper. Nothing is as bad as it seems my boy.” The bus was coming to a stop; the door opened. Mike got up to go. The man shoved the newspaper toward him. He grabbed it, mumbled a thank you and bounded off the bus. He was going to toss it in the wastebasket but he was in a hurry. He didn’t want to be a moment later than he already was.
He stood over his machine all morning as if he was in a trance. His mind raced as he considered all the possibilities. A bank loan was out of the question. But Melanie’s parents might be willing to lend him the money, a promising thought until it dawned on him that he would soon be asking them to help with the hospital bill when the new baby arrived. Another possibility was Shaughnessy an old school chum from the neighborhood. He could definitely get the money from him but Shaughnessy was a loan shark. He would be paying him for the rest of his life and unlike the electric company, missing a payment wasn’t an option. He had to face reality. The boys would be disappointed but it wasn’t fatal. Feeling sorry for himself Mike thought, “get used to the idea kids because it will happen a lot in life.” The thought shamed him.
The whistle blew signaling lunch time. He went to his locker and reached for his lunch pail. Sitting underneath it was the newspaper the old man gave him. Thinking about the old man he smiled, if only for a moment. The guy actually bore a slight resemblance to Santa Claus. Nobody would have confused him with the Santa from the Coca Cola ads, but the guy was overweight and sported a scruffy white beard. He had a red sweater under his coat and he wore heavy black boots.
Mike took the paper over to one of the picnic tables where he usually ate lunch. On most days the tables would be crowded but a lot of the guys took vacation this time of year. He sat in silence and ate his peanut butter and banana sandwich. He picked up the paper and started to turn the pages. On page 25 he saw something that brought him up short. It was a Mitchell’s Department store ad with a picture of the exact train set the boys asked for. He could not believe his eyes when he read the ad; this week only, Mitchell’s was offering to give the entire train set away to the customer that could write a limerick describing the scene in the ad which showed an enraptured little boy at the controls of the train. Mike grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper. He always enjoyed writing poems but he never showed anyone, not even Melanie, a single word he wrote. In hardy any time at all he had what he thought was the perfect limerick.

The Santa Fe Railway a red and white honey
Running the trains makes a boy’s day sunny
Lights and whistles so much to see
He’s hoping Santa puts one under his tree
It’ll happen for sure if daddy has money

The ad said the limerick had to be entered by 2:00 p.m. that day. He checked his watch. It was 12:30. He would have to ask for the afternoon off. Certainly a part of him understood how foolish he was being. What were his chances of winning? But the more he thought about it the more he believed that what he wrote was a winner. He just might deliver on his promise after all. He went looking for his boss to see if he could get leave early.
“Mike, I don’t think we can spare you,” his boss said. “We got too many people out today and we have an order that has to ship by five o’clock. Sorry buddy but you have to stay.”
Mike was crushed. He thought about telling his boss what he was up to but he was sure they guy would think he was crazy or worse, lying.
“I really have something important I need to do,” was all he could manage to say.
His boss shook his head and “Sorry.”
Mike stuffed the limerick in his shirt pocket and went back to work. At 1:30 his boss stopped by. He looked at Mike and said, “Don’t say a word. Not now. Not ever. To anyone.” With that he gently pushed Mike aside and said, “Get out of here.”
Mike practically ran out of the building, stopping only to punch his time card. He walked and ran all the way to Mitchell’s. He arrived just three minutes before the deadline. There was a long table near the train display where people could place their entries. Two judges, a man and a woman, sat at the table impeccably dressed with bored looks on their faces. They were surprised as much by Mike’s appearance in soiled work clothes, as by the lateness of his entry, coming in just under the wire.
He handed it to the woman. She read it quickly and passed it on to the man. He took his time going over it carefully. Then he looked at the woman whose eyes confirmed that they were in perfect agreement. “I’m sorry Mr. Perkins,” the man said, “This is good but we have several others that are even better.”
Mike was genuinely surprised. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
The woman averted her eyes. The man cleared his throat and said, “Well for one thing, your closing line refers to money. In fact it implies that the trains are too expensive.”
Mike could feel the blood rushing to his head. “Well they are too expensive. If they weren’t, why would you run a contest?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Perkins but you are not the winner today. Better luck next time.”
“Sure. I’ll tell my boys that tomorrow morning I guess. Better luck next time.” With that he turned to go. Just then another man who had been standing nearby walked over.
“My name is Robert J. Mitchell. Can I help you?” he said.

The next morning Randy and Ronnie woke up very early. It wasn’t even light out yet. Mike had given them strict instructions not to leave the bedroom they shared until they were told. He was up early too because he wanted to be sure they would have enough heat when it came time to open presents. He stoked the fire and got Melanie up. Then they all went into the tiny living room to see what was under the tree. Santa Claus came through at the Perkins house that year. The boys were ecstatic.
Upon seeing the shiny new train set, Melanie looked at Mike with a combined sense of fear and wonder. “Mike, I know you would never do something really crazy so I must be witnessing a Christmas miracle.”
Mike put his finger to his lips, smiled and whispered, “It’s a miracle alright. I’ll be working part time at Mitchell’s for a while.”
Melanie smiled and took Mike’s hand, her eyes glistening. “Merry Christmas Michael.”
They watched the boys as they took turns running the train. It was the best Christmas ever.

Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Happy Thanksgiving! Pass the Fish?

2009-11-25T06:57:00.001-06:00

It’s turkey day already. We’ll follow a lot of holiday traditions, perhaps without knowing exactly why. Consider this: The Pilgrims never strayed very far from the ocean. Have you ever wondered why turkey was the meal of choice on that first Thanksgiving? Why not tilapia? Surely tilapia could be found in the estuaries in the Plymouth vicinity. The idea that fish could have been the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving Day feast isn’t all that far fetched. According to a spokesperson for the living-history museum Plimoth Plantation, that first Thanksgiving the natives and the Pilgrims feasted on fish, lobster and clams, in addition to venison, birds and nuts. They had peas and carrots too. I’ll bet the Pilgrim kids fed that to the squirrels.
Of course, had they chosen tilapia, cornbread stuffing probably wouldn’t have been an option. Nor would gravy be a popular item. A lot of restaurants serve tilapia these days but I have never seen, let alone tasted, tilapia gravy. A creative chef could no doubt make one, but would it go well with mashed potatoes? No wonder turkey was the surviving tradition. Let’s face it; a tilapia sandwich Thanksgiving night, with or without cranberry sauce, is about as appealing as a Detroit Lions – Cleveland Browns football game.
Regardless, pumpkin pie would still be an important part of the holiday. But, then again, that might be by default. Did the first settlers try cranberry pie the first few years? Maybe they got tired of scrubbing the red stains out of the special tablecloth. Tide wasn’t around then to help. And beating that tablecloth on a few rocks in cold water is no match for cranberry stains, that’s for sure. They probably decided that the cranberry didn’t mix well with Cool Whip either. Yes, pumpkin pie was a safer bet.
I suppose turkey is the quintessential American meal. People from all cultures have immigrated to America, especially over the last 150 years. Regardless of their origins, most have adopted turkey on Thanksgiving wholeheartedly. But, had another culture settled America first, would turkey have become the Thanksgiving table superstar it is today? My parents were first generation Italian Americans, born in the USA. My mother dutifully prepared a traditional Thanksgiving dinner but there were a few items that I don’t think the Pilgrims ever tried. Mushrooms sautéed in olive oil and garlic come to mind. At least she never stuffed the turkey with meatballs and sausage. Listen: had the Italians arrived first (right after Christophoro Columbo) there’s a distinct possibility that the Thanksgiving menu would look more like what one can get any night of the week at Buca De Beppo. They’re open Thanksgiving if you’re so inclined.
A lot of people say they really look forward to enjoying leftovers for a couple of days. Turkey sandwiches for lunch, pie for a midnight snack and so on. Of course, if you’re having company you must cook a turkey that’s big enough to send guests home with provisions too. Advance planning is critical. There is nothing worse than having to turn over the drumsticks to your brother-in-law, leaving you with turkey gizzard and the wishbone. The Pilgrims and the natives probably didn’t have that problem. For starters, the closest thing they had to a Frigidaire was a stream filled with cold water. Without Tupperware to hold the leftovers, the tilapia still swimming would have taken revenge and eaten them.
Regardless of what’s on the menu, the purpose of the holiday hasn’t changed all that much over the centuries. Originally what is now known as thanksgiving was meant to celebrate the harvest season. Europeans, American Indians and other cultures held feasts to offer thanks to the good Lord for their sustenance and survival. Of course the vast majority of Americans were farmers in the early years. Today, not many of us are connected to farm work.
Except for the wizards of Wall Street who have the privilege of collecting huge annual bonuses, most of us don’t actually celebrate a harvest on Thanksgiving. But we are thankful for what we have.
Like Old Glory and raucous town hall meetings, Turkey on Thanksgiving is truly an American touchstone. President Obama should be grateful for that. If tradition holds, he will pardon a turkey today. He should be grateful tilapia isn’t the centerpiece of dining room tables. Dropping a gasping fish into a river would have been a lousy photo-op.

Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

A Couple of Historic Moments

2009-11-12T05:47:00.001-06:00

I got an email from President Obama just before midnight (11:56 p.m.) Saturday night. Yes, he wanted to tell me as soon as he could that at 11:15 p.m. the House of Representatives passed a health insurance reform bill. His email ran 8 short paragraphs. I found myself wondering about that. I mean the President is surely a good writer but to crank out such a long message and send it in just 41 minutes is amazing. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one he sent it to. It was addressed to me personally but we’ve never actually met.
The President said it was a historic moment and he praised the bravery of those in Congress that voted yes. The he cautioned me that it was “a night to celebrate but not to rest.” Next, the President expressed worries about the Senate bill’s prospects. Insurance companies are sure to do whatever they can to derail the bill. I have to say I was with the President all the way up to this point in his message. Regardless of how I feel about health care reform, I think it’s wonderful that the President is living up to his campaign promise to change the way things are done in Washington. Barack Obama is a busy man. Yet he thinks enough of me to write and so late on a Saturday night! I mean I never heard a word from George Bush.
But then the President said something that brought me up shorter than the period at the end of this sentence. He asked me for money. He wanted to know if I would donate $25 to the cause. Here was the President of the United States, our 44th President, asking for money to help him push his agenda.
Presidents have asked citizens to contribute to worthy causes like helping the people that suffered so much from Hurricane Katrina. But a sitting President asking working stiffs for money to help win an ongoing political battle marks another historic moment. I guess it was inevitable really. Vested interests, big corporations and rich people with more money than they need, have been engaged in a titanic struggle to hold onto their particular pieces of the pie for years now. Reforming big spending by well heeled lobbies is probably impossible given the advantages of the current system that accrue to lawmakers. Instead the answer seems to be, “Let’s get the little guy in on the action.” I’m not sure it will work though. Right now middle class America puts up with an enormous amount of electronic dueling during Presidential elections. How many of us are willing to spend our hard earned money for media ads with their laser like focus on dividing us further apart?
Still, it seems to me that the President’s asking for donations to fight for his agenda is an unprecedented step. If it works can we expect more of this type of behavior? Will we get Christmas cards praising artificial trees along with a request for a donation to get the administration’s version of global warming legislation passed?
Maybe when the President speaks to school children again he can ask them to donate 50% of their lunch money to get his education program done.
Will the President and his successors wind up hosting telethons, staying up all night a la Jerry Lewis mixing issues talk with entertainers that support the President’s views? (Note to Barack: Labor Day is taken and Jerry’s cause is worthy.)
As the most powerful man in the world, the President of the United States certainly has the right to use Teddy Roosevelt’s bully pulpit to advocate his agenda. But making a direct appeal for money is unseemly. It’s as if being President isn’t enough. He wants to be the president of a PAC as well.
We are living in a time when well reasoned argument isn’t enough anymore. The idea that together we will ultimately do what’s right based on good thoughtful ideas, has been replaced by money plays. I understand the President’s dilemma, but in the long term his strategy is not a winner for him or us.

Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. Al rights reserved.

The Impact We Make

2009-10-29T05:43:00.000-05:00

I was complaining about the state of my tennis game. I started playing the game later in life and I wasn’t particularly athletic during my school years. I play two types of players: Guys half my age that seem to run down my best shots effortlessly and guys around my age that have been playing since they were two years old. I was lamenting my sad fate to my buddy when he asked me why I played the game. “Because I love it,” I said.
Then he said something to me that completely changed my outlook. “Len, you’ve been successful in other areas of your life, why do you feel you have to be so successful at tennis? Could tennis be a game you just play for fun without worrying about whether you win or lose?” Had I been undergoing a brain MRI when he said those words the technicians would have been treated to a light show rivaling the Pinball Wizard’s pinball machine.
How many times in your life does someone drop a gem into a casual conversation that wipes the clouds away, and allows you to see things with the clarity of the Hubble Space Telescope? It’s not the kind of thing that occurs every day but when it happens we are more than grateful. My friend’s tip wasn’t a life changing experience. Yet it has helped me enjoy tennis even more and, I am happy to note, my game seems to have improved now that I’ve relaxed. (If by some chance you’ve seen me play recently, go along. It makes the story better.)
Once in a while someone says something to you that does dramatically change your life for the better. It’s happened to me more than once. My wife said yes when I asked her to marry me. Certainly men and women I have worked for have given me a nudge in a better direction, often when I was drifting. I write because friends and colleagues said I had potential.
Saying something insightful requires exquisite timing, an impeccable choice of words and a listener who has stopped watching The Food Channel just long enough to connect the dots. With the possible exception of motivational speakers, being profound is not the kind of thing one goes around doing all the time. It would be nice to be able to routinely dispense sage advice. But who can plan for such moments? I suppose the best we can do is listen carefully for opportunities to help, do our best to keep our motives pure and speak the truth as we know it, recognizing that our “truth” has its limitations. Naturally, knowing when to say something and when to be still is yet another challenge. Silence at the right time can also be profound.
As a sophomore in high school, Brother Quigley, a member of the Irish Christian order, said something that stuck with me. “When your life is over,” he said, “even if you don’t make it to heaven, you will be amazed by how much good you’ve done.”
Well, if we each have a heavenly bank account that stores good works, all I can say is this: The longer I live the more I worry about whether my account balance is large enough to alleviate some of the things I’ve done that would have been better left unrecorded. Does helping someone improve his life for the better count if I do it by accident?
Most of us have not chosen lives in any way similar to Mother Teresa’s. Yet, in our daily lives we probably unknowingly say and do things that inspire others to change their behavior, take a chance, or become more giving in their relationships. It isn’t always immediately obvious when someone’s words and actions change the way we think or feel. Too often probably, we don’t appreciate the impact others have on us in the moment. When someone’s good work finally dawns on us, how often do we make the effort to tell them how much it meant to us? And do we get points for that too? Don’t laugh! I’m in the September of my years.
My friend probably never imagined he was dispensing marvelous wisdom about my tennis game. At least not consciously; most likely, he felt he was just going along with the flow of the conversation. Sometimes my friend reads The Observer. I hope he recognizes himself. If he doesn’t I’ll have to tell him what his words meant to me. I need the points.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

That Enthusiastic New Kid

2009-10-15T06:26:00.001-05:00

Pity the new employee. She comes into the job excited that her new boss picked her over a slew of other candidates. She is ready to love her new co-workers. She’s ready to make dramatic changes in her department.
She’s also the only person in the office that doesn’t know the tribal secrets. With just a few false steps she can and will be voted off the island. If she lasts long enough to become a full fledged member of the tribe she may wish she had been voted out. More likely, she’ll rue the day she agreed to set foot in the office she now believes is Limbo, Dante’s first circle of hell.
As my friend Heather said, “We’ve all seen the enthusiasm of the new person at work. It’s intriguing to watch what happens to them.” All of us have been in the new kid’s shoes at one time or another. It’s hard not to feel a little pity for her. At the same time it’s probably even harder not to find the newbie’s rose colored glasses annoying. Maybe it’s because we envy her. For those of us who have chosen the rat race, is there a better feeling than the notion, however fleeting, that we can make a difference?
What happens to the enthusiasm of the new person? I’m sure you know, but let’s review for old time’s sake. For starters, exactly three months after your first day on the job, they make you turn in your halo. Until that moment your brain works perfectly. You are infallible. Every idea, every suggestion and every analysis is greeted with knowing nods of agreement. You’re a breath of fresh air, bright and even funny. The boss thinks you’re wonderful. After all he picked you didn’t he? Who are the chowder heads in the chorus to disagree? But, once the halo is gone, turned over the guy who started work this morning, you suddenly morph from sage to sagebrush. Wasn’t that why you left your last job?
Right around the time the halo is transferred to the newer kid, you hear a rumor, never confirmed, that someone with less experience and the work ethic of the proverbial grasshopper is making a lot more than you do.
Then you decide that accountability is not exactly the coin of the realm in the organization you came to change. Your co-workers seem vaguely annoyed that they are required to show up for work to be paid. Would expecting them to do something productive during the 40 hours they are on the premises be unreasonable? You notice that their supervisors spend an inordinate amount of time on Monday mornings collecting money for lottery tickets. On Fridays they make the same rounds for the weekend’s football games. Once the Super Bowl is over and done, March Madness is on the horizon. Anyone whose team makes it to the Final Four is exempted from answering phones or responding to emails until the boss notices they’ve stopped working.
It’s about this time that you come to believe the guy in the corner office is crazy. By no means is this a metaphorical term. It’s merely an unkind word for a legitimate, if non-specific, diagnosis. The chief executive insists on making all the decisions, including the most important decision of all, which is not to make them. He schedules an all day meeting with an agenda full of important topics. After a six hour monologue he closes the meeting by saying, “We got a lot done today.” As you nod your head in vigorous agreement it dawns on you, now the formerly enthusiastic new person, that it’s over. It’s not going to be different here than it was the last place you worked.
If you’re nodding your head in agreement, thinking, “Yes, I have been there and done that,” an eerie feeling should come over you. What if this is the best Americans can do now? Obviously there are many people in this country doing great things and succeeding admirably. But I worry about creeping mediocrity in too many areas of our lives. A flight went down over Buffalo last winter while the pilot and co-pilot of a doomed commuter plane discussed their inexperience and lack of expertise in coping with icy conditions. Recently the media ran a story about a couple given the wrong embryo.
Shouldn’t we embrace and then emulate the enthusiasm of the new person? The pursuit of excellence is a communicable condition. Catch it if you dare.

Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Job Interview? I Might be Rusty

2009-10-01T07:46:00.004-05:00

I heard from a recruiter the other day who, against all odds, thought I might be a good candidate for a management position with a health care company. Interested in me? I’m at the age now where my resume is far less interesting than my Outlook contacts list.
I’m more than happy to help of course, working on the assumption that those who preceded me may have mentioned my name and given my career a boost. Still, it is flattering to be asked whether I might be interested in an opportunity. Somewhere between age fifty and today, the calls dwindled down to a precious few. I have loads of experience and enough energy to stoke the growth engines of a company on the move, but my hair is gray and no matter what the hair color commercials say, a return to black won’t change the fact that I was in the class of ’70.
Regardless, I got to thinking about how I might handle an interview. I’m a bit rusty and the role of the green, eager beaver on the make is a distant memory. Do interviewers still ask the same questions they were asking ten or fifteen years ago? Some of the questions are bound to trip me up. Interview queries I used to handle with aplomb might turn into a bomb if not handled carefully. Consider some of the time honored questions and responses I might offer having spent six full decades on earth.
“Where would you like to be in five years?”
“Not dead,” comes to mind immediately. It’s honest but probably not what my prospective employer has in mind. Could I keep a straight face if I give the response conventional wisdom demands? “I hope to be in a position with more responsibility once I have proven my ability and added value to the company in my current position.” Chances are I will have already accomplished more than my new and much younger boss has even attempted with 14 months of experience in his current position. Let’s face it, in five years I hope to be still turning down Social Security payments because, having won the Power Ball lottery, my annual annuity is way above the SSA threshold.
“Why are you thinking of changing jobs?” Again the traditional response, “I am seeking a new challenge that will help me to grow…” seems woefully inappropriate. Lately my interests run toward not growing things like tumors and the size of my stomach. The most accurate answer might be, “I’m here because I can’t believe you saw my resume, guessed my age and still asked to meet me.” I have to admit I would be excited if the interviewer turned out to be around my age. Maybe my new boss will be as perplexed as I am about exactly how annuities work. We would have a lot in common I’m sure.
“Tell me about yourself.”
Yikes! “How much time do you have?” Thanks to the natural shrinkage of my frontal lobes, the part of the brain that enables us to edit ourselves, my answer could run long and might include an episode where I called a high level executive an SOB and nearly blew a multi- million dollar deal.
“Tell me about a time when you overcame a serious problem and how you did it.”
“Weren’t you listening? Or didn’t I mention that I hid in my office for two years every time the SOB came to our company for a meeting.”
“Why should we hire you instead of someone else?”
Here again experienced professionals know that this is a good time to reiterate your strengths, accomplishments and burning desire to be part of an outstanding team. At this stage of my life though, I am sorely tempted to say, “How should I know? You’re the one doing the interviews. If you like, I’ll interview the other candidates and give you an assessment.” Of course it’s quite possible that I will come out the winner. If nothing else I’ll be able to answer the interviewer’s query specifically. “You should hire me because the other candidates don’t have enough experience. And I might add I have yet to be indicted for anything.”
“Would you like to have this job?
“Maybe. How far is the restroom from my office?”
“When can you start?”
“Thursday assuming the Power Ball ticket I bought Wednesday is another five bucks down the drain.”

Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Disneyland or MY Hotel Room...Hmmm

2009-09-16T23:25:00.001-05:00

So I’m sitting in my hotel room in Anaheim, California not two blocks from Disneyland and I have nothing to do. Now some people might take a stroll over to the famous amusement park and take in the sights, jump on a few rides and buy a set of Mickey Mouse ears. Not me.
Call me boring but the idea of visiting a place that has loads of couples and families reveling in the Magic Kingdom is unattractive to say the least. As I write this I’m not lonely. I have a book and my laptop to keep me company in my non-smoking, king bed cocoon. Yet, if I were to venture out to be among all these people, loneliness would set in like the thick fog that settles into the smoker’s lounge at the airport. Not having someone to turn to and say, “Isn’t that Dumbo over there” is depressing you know?
This is the nature of business travel really. My work here is done. All I have left to do now is fly back to Nashville tomorrow morning. People that don’t travel for business often think the road warrior’s life is glamorous. To be honest, when you first start traveling it is exciting. You feel as though you are doing important work; so important that the company is sending YOU to the meeting in Boston. It’s YOU that is flying off to San Francisco, through two or three time zones, to meet with the prospect that can change everything. Certainly cities like Boston and San Francisco come to mind when non-travelers fantasize about hitting the road. It never occurs to them that, more often than not, people are headed to places like Springfield, MO and Waterloo, IA.
And it’s not until you’ve done it for a while that you notice the looks on the faces of other business travelers. They look weary. They look bored. Some of them look angry. When you’ve run your laptop and shoes through airport security checkpoints enough times, eaten a fishy tasting piece of chicken in yet another chain restaurant, and slept in a strange bed for enough nights that it adds up to years of your life, glamorous is not the word that comes to mind.
Yes, business travel has its perks. There are travel related points that you can use to pay for vacations. (If your vacation requires air travel, your companion may have to resort to gunplay to get you to board.) You meet many fine people you would otherwise never know. I’ve made friends that have made my life immeasurably better. Of course, business travelers also meet people they could live two lifetimes without meeting and be eternally grateful. Then there are a few people who make it clear that you fall into that category for them.
Another travel perk is you might get to sit near a famous person on a flight. I’ve sat behind Fred Thompson, (bored) across the aisle from Bob Dole, (weary) and within shouting distance of one of the Mandrell sisters who definitely looked angry. None of them said or did anything I could blog about though.
You do get to see landmarks and other points of interest. Mostly you see them from your rental car, often limited to a fleeting, accidental glimpse because you are lost. Having no chance to make it to the all important meeting on time, you aren’t actually happy to see the Washington Monument when it comes down to it. Speaking of Washington, years ago I attended a seminar there that was worse than a sleepless night in hot, muggy weather. A colleague and I decided to skip an afternoon session to see the White House and the Smithsonian. It was delightful but another employee thought it was a good idea to tell my boss about it. That’s something non-travelers probably don’t consider when they are envying your expense account. Squeezing in a little time for sightseeing isn’t as easy as you might think. The boss was kind but only because my colleague had actually witnessed him shaking hands with Goofy on another trip. I’ll bet he wouldn’t have done it had he been there alone.
I wouldn’t want to discourage anyone form taking a job that requires travel. The pay tends to be good and here’s the best part. No matter what you tell people about the trials and tribulations of business travel, they won’t believe you. They’ll think you have it made.

Copyright 2009 len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Ever Work in a Factory?

2009-09-07T06:43:00.002-05:00

Have you ever worked in a factory? It’s been many years for me but I remember well the summer jobs I had while in school. They were punishing enough to make me long for fall semester, classes and even homework. I have no idea of what factory work is like in 2009, but in the sixties it was like this:
• The work was repetitive and boring
• There were long stretches of sitting or standing in one place
• Breaks were few and far between
• Wages varied from minimum wage to a living wage but no amount of overtime could make you rich
• Nobody thought a thing about workplace ergonomics or workplace environment
As I saw it, men held the great majority of factory jobs back then. No doubt, factory floors had plenty of women, just not in the industries where I found jobs. With apologies to the women that worked their fingers to the bone under bad lighting, I’ll speak of the men I watched and worked with, knowing that for women it must have been infinitely harder.
There wasn’t much to keep laborers going in plants like these. There was nothing attractive about the surroundings or the smells. Foremen stood watch to be sure workers kept working. Not much to look forward to but a lot to fear like layoffs, accidents and debilitating illnesses. How did they do it? These men lived on dreams. For many the dreams were about quitting time, about Fridays and making it to payday so they could pay the rent and buy groceries. And on a good week there might be a little left over for a beer at the corner tavern on the way home.
Some men stood over their lathes, knees hurting, and shoulders aching; dreaming only about boilermakers, the kind one drank after all those very noisy hours staring at a machine. For them, bliss was the shot that took the edge off, allowing them to forget the bone crushing, spirit smashing work they had to do every day. The tavern was a second home for some of them. Some let their wives worry about raising their kids. And, one way or another, they paid for their sins.
Men working a drill press, packing parts and pieces for shipment, loading those packets onto long hot…cold trailers bound for places they would never see, were dreamers too. They silently counted the long days until they would have a week off. Spare change placed in a can, their wives scrounging for a few extra pennies, sons and daughters collecting pop bottles for the deposit money, just so they could spend a week, a glorious week, at the beach. Never in the big cottage of course, but thanks to a little overtime, maybe a night or two on the boardwalk, Philly cheese steaks and snow cones all around. Later they watched the kids thrill to the Tilt-a-Whirl ride, wondering as they sweetly held hands, whatever happened to their childhood.
Some of the men; forklift drivers, men that put tires on new Buicks or riveted their way from skyscraper to skyscraper, dreamed bigger dreams. Johnny Junior would get an education. He would not go to work every day wearing a workman’s uniform with his name on it. He would not have to lather his hands with sand soap when the work day ended. Little Linda Sue would be a nurse or a teacher and live with her husband in a fine A-frame home that they owned. What really drove those men to work day after day were their families. Home was a sanctuary. It made their labor possible and gave it meaning.
Most of us work in service industries today. There are difficult challenges to be sure but most of us come home clean, our lungs clear. I have never met anyone that experienced both a drill press and data processing that would choose the former, given a choice.
Factory workers then and now have done their jobs. America grew and became greater than ever thanks to the strong backs, the iron wills and the dreams of these men. Labor Day is a great day for a barbecue, a swim in the community pool and yes, a day off from work. But we wouldn’t be where we are today without the men that answered the whistles call and punched the time clock. Just before you take your first bite of a hot dog, before you dive into the deep end, remember someone in your family who was willing, as JFK said, “To bear any burden,” Then whisper these words: Thank you.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Just Like Larry

2009-08-20T06:36:00.002-05:00

Occasionally people ask me why I write columns and then post them to my blog. Since we’re in the dog days of summer and I’ve been out in the heat, I’ll tell you why I write the Observer. I’m waiting to be discovered. I want to be a media big shot like Larry King. You don’t think it’s possible? Was Larry born behind a microphone? I realize he might well die behind a mike, but I can assure you he was a nobody before he was a somebody.
With every column I write I hope this is the one that goes viral, the one that everyone forwards to fifty of their closest friends. Then those people send it on to even more people. Eventually somebody, not thinking clearly perhaps, sends it to his cousin who happens to be a bigwig at MSNBC. Upon reading my stuff she says, “Get me Serafino.” Yes! A well stocked limo picks me up at the airport. My agent negotiates a long term contract. (Possibly I’m having a touch of sunstroke.)
Why would I want to be on television? The same reason Larry King likes being on TV. Being a celebrity is the only thing really worth being anymore. Like other celebrities, wherever Mr. King goes, he creates a buzz. Whether it’s the 21 Club, Charlie Trotter’s or The Dining Room, when someone like Larry strolls into these elegant spots, people notice. Well I have no trouble admitting that I want people to notice me. When I’m waiting for a table at the Cracker Barrel, I want to overhear someone say to his wife, “Isn’t that Serafino over there? The guy looking at the banana Moon Pies.” And don’t tell me you don’t want the same thing either. I know you do.
I’ll be smart like Larry too. He used to interview former presidents, well regarded actors and fabulously successful business people. Now his shows seem to focus a lot more on people who are either missing or dead. I mean really, who wants to hear what a former Secretary of State has to say? If you want to keep making all that money (I almost forgot. I want the money too) you must change with the times. Above all else keep your ratings high. Otherwise you’ll find yourself standing in line with everybody else at the local Olive Garden. No way! If you have to run a “Michael Jackson is dead” show every night for a couple of months to avoid that unhappy fate, then do that.
My show will be everything we have come to expect from cable news today and more. Not only would I have the Jackson siblings on, Michael himself would be my special guest. He probably wouldn’t say much but since his body is still around, why not break new ground? And don’t tell me you wouldn’t be watching. When you hear the promo, “Tonight on Serafino Speaks, Michael Jackson live…more or less,” you’ll be watching, TiVo-ing and tuning in for more.
I’ll be rubbing elbows with other celebrities too, all of them eager to tell us stories about their latest project, explain their most recent faux pas or best of all, share their outrageous plans for the future. “Len, I want you to be the first to know. I just signed a deal to host a new reality show called, Wedding Moos, BAAAs and Oinks. Contestants will marry farm animals, move to the city and compete for big prizes.”
Another great thing about being a TV celebrity is that behaving badly actually gets you more attention. That means higher ratings. And, of course, even more money. Listen: One day I mentioned to my wife that with my own show I could afford a trophy wife. She kinda put a damper on that one though. “I am your trophy wife,” were her exact words; hard to argue with the truth. But celebrity offers other opportunities for foolishness like speaking out on complicated issues without the advantage of understanding them. Real knowledge is hardly the point. High ratings equal gravitas. Wait till you hear my thoughts on neuroleptic discontinuation.
Having my own cable TV show, making millions of dollars and being famous to boot, doesn’t seem that far fetched to me. If I’m willing to put my scruples in the corner, consider shame an outdated emotion and feel my responsibility to viewers is secondary to my status among the media glitterati, I can have it all. But, until that glorious day I’ll have to keep writing the Observer. Keep forwarding please. CNN is this close.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Could Technology Have Saved Turkish Taffy?

2009-08-12T22:29:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I worry that technology is moving so fast that I have no hope of keeping up. For example, I know how to use an Excel Spreadsheet. That is I can handle the basics. When I watch my younger counterparts in the office manipulating data, changing scenarios and moving numbers around at the speed of light, I think about God’s wisdom when he created retirement. (On the seventh day He rested.)
Coping with technology in the workplace is not an easy task for people over a certain age. Some of us can still remember when an adding machine had numbers you punched and a crank to get those numbers imprinted on a slip of paper. The idea that paper itself, not to mention the machines, would one day be unnecessary occurred only to the wizards that invented the technology.
Adapting to rapid change isn’t limited to the work place. Even as consumers we are forced to deal with the intricacies of an electronic, cyber driven world and the seeming absurdities of time saving technologies. The other day I was trying to get a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich at a local eatery. The woman behind the counter entered the information into the cash register. Did I say cash register? This was a high powered, intelligent, touch screen marvel that happens to dispense cash but more importantly perhaps, collects oodles of information about our preferences. Unfortunately, she made a mistake. No doubt you’ve had this experience a time or two. She was flummoxed by the register, immediately trumping my blood pressure medication in the process. I knew we would be extending our relationship well beyond the amount of time it usually takes to exchange the money, get the coffee cup and move on. I’m sure she was a nice lady but I had more important things to do. My cell phone call was ringing.
Our transaction (and relationship) over, I walked away thinking that technology which is supposed to make life easier often does the opposite. With an old fashioned cash register the woman would have punched the keys, the drawer would have opened and she would have handed me my change…quickly. If she made a mistake she would not have needed a manager to help her figure out how to decline white cheddar and insert pepper jack cheese in its place. Although the guy making the sandwich was not more than ten feet away, she did not have the option of saying, “Yo! Sam make that pepper jack instead of white cheddar.” The correct cheese had to be in the computer for him to do his job and for me to get my change.
As we get older it’s tempting to assume that everything was better in the so-called old days. On reflection though, the restaurant incident isn’t exactly a prima facie example of technology run amok. For one thing, the information collected by these computer driven registers helps managers to manage their inventories and keep their costs down. That keeps our prices lower. For another, it’s not a bad thing when proprietors can validate consumer preferences rather than fly by the seat of their pants. For my money we would still be able to buy Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy if only Big Brother had come around sooner.
Then too, in the old days we didn’t use credit cards for everything and traffic in stores wasn’t nearly as heavy as it is today. Lines would certainly be longer if we didn’t have technology. The truth is that putting up with a delay caused by an occasional mistake is a small price to pay for progress.
When it comes to technology there are always tradeoffs. Like wonderful new curative drugs, side effects are found in the fine print. Great technical advances have drawbacks.
Recently, my friend Chuck observed that a major difference in today’s technology advances is that they are no longer passive. Radio and TV were passive advances. Our grandparents sat in the parlor and gathered around the radio to be entertained and hear the news. Not so today. From video games to blogging, it’s an interactive world. So many jobs today demand creativity engineered by computerized applications. We can no longer rely on the geek in the tiny cubicle to “work this contraption.”
Listen: We can spend as much free time as we like remembering the good old days. But the deal is this: Get in the game or you will have even more time to reminisce. Now, when is the next Excel class?

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

You Struck Out? Wonderful! It Wasn't Always Like That

2009-07-30T19:37:00.004-05:00

I was talking to my friend Evelyn the other day about childhood. Specifically, we were reminiscing about summers spent in the streets playing baseball, riding bikes and running around the neighborhood seemingly without parental oversight. As recently as 40 years ago it was still possible for mothers to tell their kids to go out and play without worrying about what might happen to them.
When I was a kid we spent summer days playing hardball in the street, touch football and other ball games from morning till dinnertime. After dinner we were back out there for more. We organized ourselves into teams choosing sides, the older boys usually doing the choosing. If there were an odd number of kids it might mean as the youngest or the worst player you were left out. It happened every day. Not a single kid in my neighborhood had a nervous breakdown because he didn’t get picked that day.
We didn’t have adults coaching us either. No fathers showed up wearing baseball caps, ready to supervise our games. We didn’t have to put up with practice two nights a week so we could play one game on Saturday morning. We played two and sometimes three games a day, often with as little as three guys on each side. A pitcher a first baseman an outfielder and a little imagination were all we needed. Our mother’s did not come out to watch us play. In fact if a boy’s mother showed up it usually meant he would be leaving and we would need little Jimmy after all if we wanted to keep playing.
And you can be sure that striking out with the bases loaded was never met with a few words of encouragement let alone praise. In those days one of your teammates would no doubt say, “You stink Lenny. Why don’t you go play with dolls?” It hurt to hear those words but the next day we were out there again trying to make like Mickey Mantle. In the process we learned something about resilience.
The world has changed beyond our wildest imaginations since I was a kid. Homogeneous neighborhoods gave way to subdivisions around the same time married women entered the workforce. Without all the moms around to secretly keep an eye on their progeny, giving the kids free run of the neighborhood became impossible.
Fast forward to the brave new world we live in today. I have attended my grandson’s little league games. “Way to go Timmy. Nice swing.” This after the kid swung three times and missed a ball sitting big as a grapefruit on a tee. I find myself wondering how these kids are going to cope with failure and criticism later in life when everything they do is met with a cheer.
The praise is constant in our politically correct world now. The experts have somehow convinced us that we can do permanent damage to a kid’s psyche if we even hint that he’s not as good as every other kid out there. Results are irrelevant. Effort, talent and determination are not important if you’re a kid. Apparently, showing up is the great equalizer. The really stupid thing about this is that the kid getting a pat on the back for letting the ball go through his legs can easily tell the difference between the tepid sign of approval (You’re still a good person Jason) and the all out riot that takes place when one of the other kids manages to hit the ball over somebody’s head. Imagine an error prone boy's shock twenty years later when his boss tells him he’s fired if he doesn’t make a sale soon. (But I looked for the customer’s office. Is it my fault I couldn’t find it on MapQuest?)
There’s probably nothing to be done about this. Certainly I’m not suggesting that adults tell the lousy players they stink. But that type of talk isn’t even allowed kid to kid. If one of them were to say, “Hey Brian, we lost because of you,” any parents overhearing that remark would be all over the poor kid who said it, making sure he knew that it’s better to say nothing if telling the truth will hurt another boy’s tender feelings.
Who knows, maybe it’s better this way. I never liked being told I wasn’t any good at something. Inevitably though, it happens. I get criticized. It hurts. But the next day I just try to make like Andy Rooney again.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

The Secret to Good Customer Service

2009-07-16T10:22:00.002-05:00

“Good morning!”
“Can I help you find something?”
“Did you find everything you were looking for?”
These days, shopping in a supermarket or chain drug store is a love fest. Everyone working there cares about me. Whether the employees are high school students working part time or grizzled veterans with worn out name badges, they are always glad to see me and happy to help. Have you noticed this too?
How can that be? A lot of these people are paid low wages. And let’s face it, high school kids aren’t even sure you exist if you’re over a certain age. Any actual eye contact is purely accidental. So how do store managers persuade their employees to behave with such grace? Do they just have a knack for picking happy people, the kind that would be soup kitchen volunteers if they didn’t happen to see an opening for a supermarket cashier? Is the training so fantastic that employees are motivated to provide consistently high levels of service with multitudes of smiles?
Perhaps the orientation session goes something like this:
“Class, when a customer walks into our store looking for milk and bread he is counting on you for more than just the correct change. His entire day, nay his very life, depends on your smile, your encouraging words and your helpful suggestions.”
“But Mr. Kelloggs, a lot of the customers are talking on their cell phones while they walk down the aisles and even when they check out.”
“That’s true Ms. Del Monte but that is merely a sign that they crave attention. We want them to think of our store as an extension of their lives, beyond their cell phones, a place where the price of ground beef runs a distant second to the joy they see in your face whenever they glance your way even as they decide between peach pie and pound cake.”
Something is very wrong here. I mean if you were a student making the minimum wage, hoping to be the next American Idol winner, would customer satisfaction be a priority for you? The fact that your drug store’s sales only rank 29th in the region, probably doesn’t keep you awake at night. Your manager may fret but she’s trying to climb the corporate ladder.
So how do they do it? How do these stores whip their employees into shape? Ready? They use secret shoppers. Yes, they hire people to shop in their stores and spy on their employees. A friend of mine who manages a department in one of the big supermarket chains let me in on the secret. It works like this. Employees are told how to act and what to say. In his store for example, employees are expected to approach customers based on the so-called ten-by-ten rule, which means if a customer is within ten feet of you for ten seconds, you ask how their day is going and whether you can help them.
If a secret shopper happens to catch an employee in the act of behaving like a normal human being, i.e.; minding his own business, the employee is written up. Three write-ups can get you canned.
Since my friend’s revelation, I have become a less enthusiastic shopper. Before I learned about secret shoppers, I was happy to believe store employees were excited to see me. Now I am suspicious of everything they say. The other day I stopped at the local drug store to pick up a carton of milk. It was 7:30 a.m. The woman at the register said, “Would you like to add a couple of Kit Kat bars to your order?”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Why would I want a Kit Kat bar at this hour?” I said. “Is it something good to dunk in my milk for breakfast?” She got very nervous. I could see her expression change from a bland smile to a worried frown. Immediately I assured her that I wasn’t a secret shopper. She wasn’t convinced though. She said, “Oh, I treat all customers the same no matter what.” I felt bad and resolved to be more careful in the future, unless of course, the service is bad.
What’s it like to be a secret shopper? I can only imagine the pep talk managers must give people who take these jobs. “As a secret shopper you can help us make sure that customers get what they need. Someone who wants a Crenshaw melon should be able to ask any employee where to find it. Don’t you agree?” Indeed and I’ll bet the job pays more than minimum wage too.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Air Conditioners Never Die in Winter

2009-07-02T08:50:00.001-05:00

So our air conditioner decided to die. Naturally they never die when it’s 80 degrees. There is something built into the mechanism that guarantees that they will only fail when the temperature is above 90 degrees. It works the same way with washing machines. They never fail until the tub is full of water and there are six loads waiting to be done. Car batteries never die in your garage on a Saturday morning in March when you have all day to do something about it. No, batteries go to heaven on Tuesday nights after Sears closes and you are parked in the mall in twenty degree weather.
No one in the history of this planet has ever had a water heater die quietly after she’s taken her shower on a blustery winter day. Water heaters are programmed to fail at six o’clock in the morning on the day you have the big interview or the meeting with an important client. If you check the fine print on your warranty it says it very plainly: Within 30 days after the expiration of your warranty, this unit will break down and die at a time most inconvenient for you in accordance with the manufacturer’s secret agreement with installers that will then charge you outrageous fees to replace the unit that you cannot live without.
I mentioned my plight to a friend of mine but got no satisfaction. The only thing this guy wanted to talk about was life before there was air conditioning, as if reminding me there was a time when sweating to death was a routine side-effect of summer would make me feel better. Listen: We keep things ultra cool in our home. The thermometer in my hot little office says its 79.4 degrees in here. Now for most people 79 degrees probably doesn’t sound that bad. I can hear some of you saying, “What’s the big deal? That’s only about nine degrees warmer than usual.”
You don’t understand. You don’t live with my wife. Around our house it’s never more than 63 degrees regardless of the weather outside. We set the thermostat to 60 when we retire for the evening. Whether it’s 90 degrees outside or 30, that’s the setting. Sometimes I pretend I’m a detective on a stakeout who’s grabbing some shuteye in a meat locker, waiting for the bad guys to show up. As if that’s not enough, we have a ceiling fan with a torque comparable to a prop plane traveling at 300 MPH. A temperature in the seventies is unheard of in our house. Since I doubt we’ll be getting a replacement unit installed before the day is over, it will no doubt feel like a night in the tropics this evening. I wonder if I have any Marriott points I can use tonight.
In the old days, the ones my friend was romanticizing about in the cool of his air conditioned office, we would endure the day watching black and white TV. The windows would be wide open. For relief we took turns standing in front of the window with the fan. Through the rotating fan blades we could glimpse the loading dock of the turtle soup factory across the street. The smell of the turtles was channeled into our living room by the fan. We were too hot to be nauseous.
We alternated between watching TV and checking out the goings on at the factory. The factory was usually more promising. A sea turtle could escape into the street for example. My mother would give us iced tea if we behaved ourselves which meant that we didn’t complain every other minute that it was hot and why didn’t we have a pool like the kids who lived in houses that had window air conditioners?
When there was a real heat wave it stayed miserable even at night. Since there was only that one window fan in the living room, we all slept on the floor. My mother got the couch while my father and my brothers and I camped out on the floor in make shift beds my mother prepared. I can remember with complete clarity the impossibility of sleep under those conditions. Around four in the morning the combination of the outside air and the fan would cool things long enough to give us a chance to sleep. Promptly at six the first tractor trailer would pull up to the turtle soup factory and blow the horn.
I suppose I could go on but the repair guy is here. Now where did I put my checkbook?

Copyright Len Serafino 2009. All rights reserved.

Drowning in Books

2009-03-19T06:53:00.001-05:00

I’m drowning in books. There’s a mini library in my office. I love books and once I read a book I find it almost impossible to part with it. Space is a consideration however. No matter how attached I become to the books I’ve read, there comes a time when, like the laundry overflowing the hamper, something has to give.
So, there I was, going through my office bookshelves the other day trying to decide which ones to put up for adoption. It’s usually a good bet that the local library will take loving care of them. As I browsed the rows of books it occurred to me that if I went by the titles alone, I could probably provide an accurate barometer of how well my career was going when I bought them. When I purchased Socratic Selling for example, I’ll bet I had just made a big sale to an important customer. I must have been feeling intelligent and full of unwarranted assumptions about my ability to understand Socrates, a prerequisite for anyone reading that book. On the other hand, I was probably feeling desperate when I picked up Send ‘Em One White Sock.
One of my books is entitled, Your Marketing Sucks. Sitting next to it is a book called, Buyers are Liars and Sellers are Too. I don’t recall being particularly angry with the world, but these titles certainly suggest I had some unresolved issues. By the time I bought How to Become a Rainmaker I must have been feeling much better.
Not all of my books are about sales and marketing of course. My collection includes 21 titles on public speaking alone. Is it possible there are 21 ways to make eye contact with your audience? When it comes time to prepare a speech it’s not like I consult any of these tomes for guidance or inspiration. I just write the speech, make sure there’s a beginning, middle and an end and hope that I get through my talk without valium or needing a 911 call to revive me. One thing I can tell you for certain is this: When you’re in front of an audience, having read Do Not Go Naked into Your Next Presentation will not make you sound like the next Martin Luther King Jr.
Then there are books on writing. I’ve stopped counting how many of those I have. Have you ever thought about writing a book? Permit me to offer you a tiny bit of advice. Buying a book that promises to teach you how to write one is no place to start. Over the years I’ve been a real sucker for books on writing. It’s easy to fall into that trap. “Say, I think I should write a novel. I know… I’ll buy a book that will show me how it’s done.” Thus, The Weekend Novelist, for example. By the time I finished reading that book I had decided to write a play. The Elements of Playwriting sits on my bookshelf next to the place I was going to put my Tony Award. You get the idea. Naturally, I have two books on column writing, neither of which is helping me get this column written.

I have even more books in my loft. I have a lot of biographies, works of fiction and social commentary. I still have a few books that were required reading in high school, like A Separate Peace, Red Badge of Courage and Jack London’s Call of the Wild. These shelves get overloaded too. When I absolutely must have more space for new books I wait until my wife is out shopping so I can pull hers off the shelf and take them to the library. I’m certain she would approve. Of course she may be dropping some of mine off when I’m out of town. I haven’t noticed really.
So why is it so hard to part with my books? You might think I’m eager to impress people with what I’ve read. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, if you picked one of these books and asked me to discuss it, I’d be in serious trouble unless it was made into a movie that I happened to catch on cable last week. I think deep down I believe that one day I’ll have time to read all of them again at a leisurely pace.
When that day comes I know just where I’m going to start too, at the beginning, which for me was Fun with Dick and Jane.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Flying Soon? You'll Survive

2009-03-12T07:01:00.003-05:00

I’ve been reading a book entitled The Survivors Club. It’s all about why some people survive and others don’t. It’s a fascinating read. One section that really got my attention was the one about flying. As someone who flies regularly, I was more than a little bit interested in learning anything I could that would improve my chances of surviving a plane crash. I know what you’re thinking. Is this discussion absolutely necessary? Let me start with the good news.
Everybody doesn’t automatically die when a jetliner crashes. The survival rate is as high as 95%. Even in the most serious crashes more than 76% survive. And, your chances of dying in a plane crash are only about one in 60 million every time you fly.
In spite of such encouraging news, Ben Sherwood, The Survivors Club author still felt it was important to give his readers tips on how to make sure you are one of the survivors in the event of a crash. Here are some of his suggestions along with a bit of commentary from this observer.
Recognize that the first 3 minutes of a flight and the last 8 are the most critical. Okay, that means you’re most likely to encounter a problem during takeoff and landing. That’s when you should be at your best, ready to jump out of the plane as soon as it stops careening along the runway just short of long term parking where your car is waiting. Most flyers are so nervous about being confined to a metal cylinder traveling at 500 MPH that being alert is the exact opposite of what they want to feel. They want something to calm them down.
If most flyers had their way, the security checkpoint would offer a shot from a tranquilizer gun right after the X-ray. Isn’t that why every airport I’ve ever been in has a sports bar? No matter what time of day it is, the bar has customers. A couple of vodka martinis not only take away the jitters. By the time you step on the plane you’re convinced that should the pilot bail out, you could guide the plane to a safe landing on any runway including I-75.
The author also recommends that when the flight attendants are giving you the safety instructions you should pay strict attention. They are trying to help you save your life. Maybe so but I never detect even the slightest sense of urgency in their voices. They might as well be talking about a recipe for macaroni and cheese. If they want to get our attention maybe they should begin their announcements by saying, “Thank you for flying with us today. There’s only a one in sixty million chance that you’ll die but just in case…
And honestly, does anybody really believe the seat cushion is a flotation device? If I’m taking anything with me when I jump off the plane I’ll take my chances with my laptop. It’s lighter than the seat cushion and, resting my chin on that as I float through the debris sounds a lot more appealing then putting any part of my anatomy on a well traveled seat cushion. Plus with wireless access to the Internet maybe I could get a few emails done while we wait to be rescued.
Speaking of seats, which seats are the safest? Conventional wisdom says it’s the back of the plane but government experts disagree. According to a study, done at the University of Greenwich in London, survivors move an average of 5 rows before they escape. So the best seats are within 5 rows of the nearest exit. With this kind of information available why are any of the seats more than five rows from an exit? Are the airlines too cheap to add a few exits? When they make seat assignments are they telling me the truth about which seats are available or do they have some formula based on age and looks that determines how far you sit from an exit? That might explain why my seats are always 14 rows from any door including the bathroom.
Here’s one I completely agree with. Make sure your seat belt is properly fastened: buckle your belt low and tight across your hips. If only the shuttle bus from the parking service had seat belts. Talk about a harrowing ride.
Plane crash survivors are Darwinian types. They wear lace up running shoes and they drink a caffeine drenched protein supplement moments after they board. Members of the survivor’s club are prepared to climb over seats and force their way past people frozen with fear and blocking their way out. I wonder if they use the seat cushion to help clear a path.

copyright 2009 len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Help! My Friends Are Poking Me

2009-03-05T07:27:00.002-06:00

When the editor of the weekly newspaper invited me to be her friend on Facebook, I couldn’t resist. I had no idea she wanted us to be friends but I was excited to receive her invitation. She is one of the movers and shakers in town and she is a very nice lady. There was only one problem: I wasn’t a Facebook member. If I wanted to be friends with my editor I had to sign up. So I did and now I have 24 friends, some of whom I am well acquainted with, some I’ve met once or twice, and a handful of relatives to round things out.
For my money, it was a lot easier to find friends in the third grade when the kid sitting next to you in class just whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Hey jerkweed, wanna be friends?” I’ll confess that I am bewildered at times by Facebook. For instance, I always thought that relatives automatically qualified as friends even if you hate them. Not that I hate any of mine. I’m just saying. And, now that I’m friends with relatives, they can follow my every move if I’m foolish enough to post them. If my kids were to see a notation like, “Went to Vegas for the day but told my wife I had business in Phoenix,” I have no doubt they would squeal on me. What can I really post that will be interesting and keep me out of hot water?
Some of my Facebook friends post messages describing what they are doing at this very moment, along with photos to burn the image in my mind. One friend, perhaps a bit bored with life, (or maybe he has kid problems too) wrote he was eating potato chips on his couch. I loved the picture, one hand dipped in a giant bag of salt and vinegar chips the other holding the remote. His elderly mother probably isn’t interested in social networking. She doesn’t even own a computer. Too bad because I would like nothing better than to invite her to be my friend so she could see what’s clearly visible in the picture. My friend was getting crumbs on the couch and even worse, he didn’t have a napkin nearby to wipe the grease off his fingers. If the poor woman could see this site she would be beside herself. She’s very old fashioned though so rather than email chiding words to him she would reach for the phone and call.
My friend Cindy poked me a couple of months ago. I had no idea what that meant. I still don’t. I can tell you she hasn’t poked me again but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe I was supposed to give her a poke. To be honest I haven’t been able to get a full night’s sleep since she poked me, worrying that my social networking skills might be costing me friends.
I have no doubt that my clumsy business networking activities are costing me many fine opportunities. Linkedin, a business networking site geared toward business contacts, is a case in point. Some of my Linkedin connections are also Facebook friends. There’s no place to hide. I have a whopping 32 Linkedin connections. Obviously I’m not exactly a ball of fire on this site either. My friend Don has 149 connections. Rick has more than 250.
And, I’ve already had one very unpleasant experience on this site. I was asked to connect with someone I thought I successfully disconnected years ago. I refused her invitation, an option Linkedin clearly provides. I thought that was the end of the matter but instead I got a nasty message back from my suitor which, in its own way, provided ample justification for my refusal. Still, it must be painful to be turned down. One of my connections wanted to recommend me to others. I refused that too. He said something about my track record that while accurate in every way, didn’t create the value add you expect from such things.
Social networking can be fun and it does offer a way to keep up with people that live far away. I have heard that some people actually get addicted to social networking. They become so immersed in the lives of their friends and business connections that they spend hours on these sites. I am not worried about that in the least. I lead a balanced life, filled with…hold on, It’s my cell. There’s a tweet from Twitterer…Can I get back to you in a sec?

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Groovin

2009-02-26T07:05:00.001-06:00

Peter Fonda was looking right at me behind those Easy Rider sunglasses. He was wearing the cool leather jacket. Only it wasn’t the movie. Momentarily confused, I was forced to focus on what he was saying, my finger resting uneasily on the remote. It was 2:30 a.m. and I was channel surfing. Ever have one of those nights when you wake up at two in the morning and just know you won’t be drifting off soon? I had one of those nights recently. It was either toss and turn for a couple of hours or get up and face the wee small hours of the morning. That’s how I found Mr. Fonda, who probably has his share of sleepless nights wondering about self parody.
My first thought was, “Is Peter Fonda doing a financial planning commercial? Dennis Hopper does them, why not Fonda? Could Nicholson be far behind?” I soon saw how wrong I was. This was no 30 second spot. I was watching an infomercial. He was hawking Time-Life’s Flower Power CD set, 175 hits from the late sixties and early seventies available with easy installment payments.
As I watched a succession of clips from acts that performed forty years ago I couldn’t help but smile. As infomercials go, Time Life has some of the most entertaining. For people of a certain age, looking at black and white images of the Temptations, Linda Ronstadt and The Rascals, is pure joy. Well it is if you can’t sleep. I’ll bet they sell lots of CDs that way, even if only insomniacs ever see their pitch. I got a kick out of watching baby boomers cavorting freely in a time now recalled as one long festival. The Viet Nam War and the struggle for civil rights must have separate sound tracks. Naturally, they showed us scenes from Woodstock and Haight Ashbury during the summer of love. We were young and beautiful then. And at 68, I’ll admit Peter Fonda still looks great. His female partner was a young woman who probably wasn’t even born when these songs hit the airwaves. Why didn’t Time Life pair up Fonda with Grace Slick?
Time Life also solicits endorsements from people that claim to have been there when it was a happening. Big mistake! These Boomers, now in their fifties and sixties, reminisced the way my aunts and uncles did about the 1940s. I’ll tell you it shattered my reveries. Who were these people? It’s weird to look at men and women “your age” describing how deliriously happy those songs made them. I stared at them and thought of my parents, not me. Suddenly, the infomercial seemed sad. Not for me personally of course. I still look a lot younger than I actually am. Don’t you? But what about the millions of baby boomers that look their age? Watching a bunch of AARP members talk about meeting their true love while the Turtles sing Happy Together hardly put me in the mood to reach for my credit card.
Then there was this: With Steppenwolf singing Born to Be Wild a woman in her late fifties was saying that she always felt she was born to be wild and still felt that way. Now most of us who heard that song back then probably had a secret desire to be wild, especially when the song was playing on the car radio. Most of us however, were born to be mild. Our idea of wild is spending six days instead of three at Disney World so we can hop on Space Mountain again with its top speed of 28 miles per hour. The prim dress the wild child was wearing belied the nice middle-aged woman’s claim that she is still “born to be wild.”
Once I got over mourning my lost youth, I began to pay more attention to the catalogue of songs in the 10 CD set, two of which are free. It didn’t take long for me to see the folly in paying for all those hits when I could simply download the songs I really wanted for about a buck a piece. Believe me, if I never hear Incense and Peppermints by Strawberry Alarm Clock again, not to mention In the Year 2525, I think I Will Survive.
Of course I will have to forgo the Flower Power collector’s box with the groovy VW bus and its psychedelic images. Where would I put it anyway? Wait! Maybe there’s a spot between the love beads and the strobe light.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

A Few Choice Words

2009-02-19T06:18:00.002-06:00

“You didn’t have to do that.” This is what people say when you give them a gift whether it’s expected or it’s a surprise. Can you imagine a situation where someone does something nice for you and you respond, without the slightest trace of sarcasm, “You had to do that?” We say many things to each other without really thinking about the words we use.
I was in a meeting a couple of weeks ago. Someone asked me a question. My answer began, “Too be honest…” The guy laughed and said, “You mean up till now you haven’t been honest?” It’s not like I didn’t know better. I have said the same thing to others when they uttered that particular verbal tic. To be honest…actually…you know…well…uhm, are all well worn kick starters. It’s as if we’re born with an internal ignition system that must be cranked before we can say something intelligible.
Americans are also great at abandoning perfectly good words for no reason whatsoever. When was the last time you heard someone say “You’re welcome?” You still say thank you but no one says you’re welcome anymore. Instead we say, “No problem.” It’s not as if “no problem” takes less time to say than you’re welcome. But there is a difference.
“Can you tell me the time please?”
“Sure it’s 2:30.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Welcome to the knowledge I have. Welcome to my momentary assistance in establishing the correct time.
No problem seems to suggest that at the moment you asked for the time, it could have caused a problem, but since it didn’t, rest assured that this time it wasn’t a problem. That’s a relief.
The word thanks has also taken a beating. Business conversations these days end with thanks regardless of what just transpired.
“Didn’t we just meet on that issue an hour ago?”
“No it was this morning. It’s 2:30 now.”
“Well, I have to get ready for the 3:00 meeting.”
“Me too.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Thanks.”
Thanks for what exactly? Sometimes “thank you” is exchanged simultaneously. It’s a meaningless departure ritual meant to convey that a conversation has ended. The thank you exchange is now official protocol between superiors and subordinates. They rarely part company without exchanging a thank you. When an employee says it the word is rich with meaning and subtexts. “I’m very happy to be here. I’m grateful that someone so intelligent thinks I’m worthy of employment here. Please don’t fire me.” When the boss says thanks it means, “Get out of my office.” Sometimes co-workers use thank you with each other but only when one of them thinks the other one might be the boss someday.
And what about the word please? When did that word come to denote sarcasm? “You’re sister really looked good at the party the other night, didn’t she?”
“Please. She looked like a half-peeled orange in that outfit.” In such a context, the word please is short for, “Please don’t patronize me,” or “Please stop treating me like I was born yesterday,” or “Please be serious for once in your life.” One thing it isn’t is a polite request.
Another work place favorite that drives me up the wall, even when I’m the one using it, is “Do me a favor.” This is what you say just before you ask an employee to do his job, you know, the thing you pay him for.
It’s not like you’re about to ask for a real favor like, “Geraldine, do me a favor and stick these scissors in Mario’s back.” That would be a favor: A big favor. But we constantly ask people to do their jobs as if the work was optional. “Do me a favor and make three copies of this report.”
“I’ve done three favors for you already today. What have you done for me Mister?”
“Sorry.”
Yes, the word sorry is another word that’s spoken so often it has all but lost its meaning. I’m walking down the supermarket aisle. I turn the corner and nearly do the bumper car thing into a lady’s shopping cart. She says, “Sorry.” Now I know she’s not really sorry for anything. Why should she be? I’m the idiot that wasn’t paying attention. It’s merely a social convention. If that same woman put a dent in my car door the size of Lake Michigan she would say the same thing, “Sorry.”
I hope that never happens but if it does I’ll probably say, “To be honest, sorry isn’t going to help. I mean, please, why don’t you do me a favor and be more careful. Thanks.”

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Hot Stuff: Blood Pressure Parties

2009-02-12T07:27:00.005-06:00

I was at my cousin’s home in San Clemente, California Sunday night. Whenever I’m out there on business I make it a point to see my aunt and cousins. Fellow expatriates of Newark, we don’t see each other very often. They’re full of life and they are good company. What’s more, there is always a story. The last time I saw Connie she told me her plans to sail around the world with her husband Rick and earn a few bucks in the process as a Wal-Mart greeter in every port. I think she was kidding but you never know.
Since I came all the way from Tennessee to visit them, they threw a party. My cousin is an outstanding cook. She could have made any number of Italian dishes that she knows I like. But for some reason instead of asking me what I wanted to eat she asked her sister-in-law Lida whether she wanted pizza or Chinese. When the woman said, “Chinese,” I could feel my blood pressure rising. Immediately, I started looking for my car keys. As it turned out the party wasn’t entirely for my benefit. They were also celebrating Lida’s sixtieth birthday. I figured there might be cake involved so I decided to endure the Kung Pao chicken. I’m glad I did.
For starters, there wasn’t one person in the house under the age of sixty. With the exception of my lovely aunt, we were all baby boomers. Then, neighbors arrived with their 14 year old daughter. This bright young lady was working on a school project about the impact of caffeine on blood pressure. She wanted to take the blood pressures of a few of us, give us a cup of coffee and then repeat the test 30 minutes later. Considering Lida’s inexplicable craving for Chinese food, tea might have been a better choice. Everybody wanted in. Now you might think the free coffee was the main attraction. Certainly it was the perfect antidote to the red wine we were drinking. It wasn’t the coffee though.
“Take my blood pressure!”
“No me; do mine first.”
The sex, drugs and rock and roll generation morphed into the cholesterol, blood pressure and glaucoma set before my eyes. At least drugs are still a big part of our lives even if they require a co-pay now. The readings came quickly as we rolled up our sleeves in turn and slid our arms into the magic cuff. I suddenly remembered a party years ago where somebody pulled out a deck of Tarot cards. She quickly became the center of attraction, telling our fortunes; predicting romance, big money and exotic travel. Now some thirty years later here was this kid with a blood pressure cuff capable of making better predictions than the fortune teller could hope for in her wildest dreams. Untreated high blood pressure has a tendency to cost money and make romance problematic. Frequent travel to the nearest medical center is assured.
One after another we sat on the couch and waited for the readout. No HIPAA privacy allowed in this family, everyone had to announce their results. Where once upon a time we would have been playing thumper, chugging beers to chug-a-lug chants, we now played school nurse, offering sober warnings to those with abnormal results about the need to make a doctor’s appointment. People already on blood pressure medication offered those with elevated pressure one of their own in hushed tones the way a priest offers absolution. For all the right reasons, there were no takers.
The 40 year span between twenty and sixty sounds like a lot of time until you get there. Most boomers have worked hard and certainly once we were beyond our formative years, learned to avoid high risk behavior. That’s one of the reasons we’re still here. Yet, in spite of enormous advances in science and medicine, sooner or later our gears don’t shift as smoothly as they once did.
You reach a certain age and just like that your index finger hurts for no reason. The newspaper you read every morning might as well be in Bengali because you can’t see the words. You become an expert in logistics to make sure the distance between the bathroom and your parking space at the mall is never more than a few limps away.
Yet, boomers still have fun. We still throw parties. The strobe lights are long gone but that’s okay. The next time I visit my cousin I’ll bring an eye chart.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Junk Mail

2009-02-05T07:27:00.001-06:00

I work from home. Like a dog with an attitude, one of the things I look forward to is seeing the mail carrier fill my mailbox. As soon as the carrier leaves, I head outside to get my mail. It’s a silly habit really. For one thing, hardly any of the mail I get is valuable. By valuable I mean something that provides me with a form of leisure or education, like a magazine subscription. I want packages I ordered. Even bills are okay if they’re for something I’ve already used like electricity. Bills for things like lawn fertilizer, which I can’t even see let alone use, get under my skin but it is mail, and at least they’re a valuable reminder that I can throw money away with the best of them.
The majority of my mail though, is junk mail. According to the non profit organization, ForestEthics, every year American households receive a total of 104.7 billion pieces of junk mail. That’s 848 pieces of junk mail per household, which requires 6.5 million tons of paper.
What exactly is junk mail? Anything in the form of catalogues, circulars, sales announcements and requests for charitable contributions from butterfly adoption clubs are junk mail to me. Service offers, like heating, plumbing, landscaping and roofing, qualify as junk mail too. In short, junk mail is mail I didn’t ask for. Had I been asked, I would have politely declined. Do you really want your local department store to notify you whenever they’re about to run a moonlight madness sale? I’ll bet they never called you to ask for your permission did they? It’s not like the blowout bargain extravaganza is a rare event. They run one every week.
And, I’ll bet you didn’t look through the phone book for real estate agents so you could call and ask them to remind you of their existence twice a week. Have you ever wondered how realtor marketing campaigns came about? They all do pretty much the same thing.
I have a sneaking suspicion that one day a diabolic so-and-so, bored out of his mind, contacted every real estate agent in his community. The conversation must have gone something like this:
“Thank you for taking my call. Are you a realtor?
“Why yes, I am.”
“Oh good! Some day, I have no idea when, I may decide to sell my home. Would you mind sending me a weekly reminder that you’re available to list it for me?”
“Well, sure we can do that.”
“Great! Another thing, I really want to know what you look like. So please send me a glossy photo.”
“Glad to do it. Say, would you like a cheap little calendar too?”
That one guy’s mischief probably explains why every homeowner in the USA receives correspondence from at least nine realtors a day. Maybe if we all wrote a letter back every week it might persuade them to rethink their never ending and mostly fruitless branding campaign.
It’s not just realtors. My insurance agent likes to keep in touch once or twice a week too. You would think he would want to cut down on expenses. Just last week I got my car insurance bills. Since we have two cars we received two bills in separate envelopes, of course. Along with the bills were two identical policy endorsements that said, “Please keep this endorsement with your policy.” If I actually did that every time they sent a new endorsement, I would have to rent space from a storage facility. Not that finding a storage facility would be a problem. Just yesterday I received attractive offers from six of them.
The phone company does the same thing. I have separate phone and fax lines. Naturally I get separate bills. I also get the same sales pitch in each envelope. Even mail I need is stuffed with tons of junk mail. There is no respite to be had. Get this: The back of the phone company’s envelope had an advertisement.
Junk mail exists because it works. It’s an effective sales tool. Response rates vary from two to three percent depending on the boredom and gullibility of the recipients. Since I qualify on both counts, I do what I can to keep it coming in spite of my growing irritation. Environmental groups would like to put a stop to junk mail. Fat chance: But this year I’m going green. I’m using my junk mail to insulate my attic. ForestEthics will be proud.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

The Southern Way

2009-01-29T06:23:00.002-06:00

The Southern Way has many facets; southern hospitality, unique cuisine and impeccable manners quickly come to mind. It’s easy to be charmed by southerners. Sincere warmth is their specialty.
As a Yankee with 15 years of southern living under my belt, I’ve learned to appreciate some of the subtleties of the culture. I wish I could say I’ve adopted all of them, but that would be a stretch. My friends who are Dixie natives seem to accept me as I am. They realize that I can’t really help being direct to a fault but forgive me, perhaps because sometimes my antics make them smile. They assume my heart’s in the right place and those that know me really well can vouch for my sincere love of grits.
Most intriguing about the Southern Way is the southerner’s ability to be polite under even trying circumstances. I shall never forget my first exposure to the gentle courtesies so routinely displayed in the south. It happened in my own home during a home owner’s association meeting about a year after my wife and I moved to Tennessee. We had a guest speaker. Bless his heart, the man droned on. An endless stream of words, he was a prototype for Ambien. I tried my best to be attentive. But my eyes, with a glaze worthy of a country ham, betrayed me. An hour later the guy was still talking.
It was getting late and most of us had to go to work the next morning. The association president got up and walked into my kitchen. Seizing the opportunity, I followed him. While he poured a cup of coffee, I asked him, “Steve, are we done with this guy?” He nodded. “I think so.”
“Then why don’t we kick him out of here?”
Steve smiled. “It’s your house Len.” When the meeting finally ended I asked my fellow board members if they felt that our visitor had wasted our time. They agreed.
“Why didn’t we cut him off then?” I demanded. Glances were exchanged. Finally someone spoke up. “It’s not the Southern Way, Len.” Lesson learned.
Well, maybe not completely learned. Five years later I was working for an Internet startup. I interviewed a prospect for an executive sales position. I thought he was a promising candidate so I sent him to my boss, the company’s CEO. He liked him enough to send him on to the chairman of our board. The next day I asked my boss what the chairman thought of our candidate. He said, “Well, he was neutral, about him.”
“Does that mean its okay to hire him?” I asked. The CEO gave me a funny look. If you saw that look watching a TV movie, you would easily recognize it as an event foreshadowing my imminent departure for the unemployment line. How was I supposed to know that neutral translated into “Northernese” would sound something like, “Are you out of your mind? Your candidate is completely unsuitable for the job. What were you thinking?” Bless my heart.
Even after all these years my translation skills are less than reliable. It may not be hopeless for me though. My editor Nancy was also born and raised in the north. She was a grown-up when she moved here but she thoroughly adapted to the Southern Way. As a sensitive writer (is there any other kind?) I appreciate her gentle approach to editing.
Nancy reads a draft of everything I write. When she offers praise with a sparkle in her eyes, I know it’s suitable for publication. If on the other hand, she says something like, “It’s not bad,” but busies herself with other things as she speaks, then I know I have two options. I can do a substantial re-write or delete the document and hope for a better idea. A kindred spirit to the southland, she takes the time to choose her words carefully. You might think she was born in Chelsea, Alabama rather than Chelsea, Massachusetts.
What accounts for the universal elegance of people in the in the south? I emailed my good friend Brenda, a native of a small town in east Tennessee, to ask her if she could explain the unfailing politeness of southerners. Her response was almost northern. She said, “Its genes and grits.” That gave me hope, momentarily. I’m half-way there after all. But then she added, “However, eating a lot of grits is not enough – sorry! That word sorry -which it never would have occurred to me to add- saved her reputation as a bona fide southern belle.
I wrote her a thank you note in longhand. Am I a work making progress?

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Third Molar Gone: Troubles Begin

2009-01-22T07:48:00.002-06:00

I had a tooth pulled last week. It was easier than when I was a child I suppose. In those days dentists used ether which was okay, but there was always another kid before you who walked to the dentist’s chair but had to be carried out in his father’s arms with a big wad of gauze in his mouth. Even a kid could see that when the dentist’s work was done, you wouldn’t be asking for a Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews candy bar.
Nowadays oral surgeons put you to sleep. My oral surgeon certainly knocked me out cold and I could not have been happier about it. The last thing I remembered was the pinch when the needle went into my vein.
Nothing is perfect though. After the deed was done they led me into a holding area where I sat staring into space. Not exactly alert and not quite sedated, I apparently put on a little show. Two days after my procedure, when my wife figured I was about as alert as I was going to get, she informed me that it appeared to her that I had fallen in love with my oral surgeon. I don’t remember this. My wife assured me, however that I held the doctor’s hand and touched her arm repeatedly while telling her how great she was.
In the immortal words of the late Richard Milhous Nixon, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I love my wife and have for a long time. I am not in love with the good doctor. I do like her a lot. And, while she is a very pretty lady, it wasn’t her good looks that captivated me that day. Really. I am certain that what made me so ecstatic was the miracle she performed. Without causing me even the slightest twinge of pain, the doctor extracted a molar that had been warning me for months that it wanted a divorce. In fact, three days later I still felt no pain. I ask you, would you fall a little bit in love with a dentist that did that for you?
I have to admit that after my wife told me about my 30 second romance, I worried about what else I might have said or done. I was afraid to ask really. I mean suppose I asked to take the tooth home and put it under my pillow? Considering the thin ice I was on, all I needed was to make a move on the tooth fairy. Believe me the love of my life would have seen to it that I got to spend lots of time with an oral surgeon.
We go through a lot of trouble to avoid pain. In fact, we’ll put up with pain until the pain of not taking action is greater than the pain of righting the ship. People stay in miserable marriages, soul searing jobs and even live with mammoth tooth aches for years just waiting for the scales to tip. Getting a divorce or changing jobs is time consuming and fraught with risks and undesirable consequences. And, there are commitments that can’t be dismissed lightly. Until death us do part is a rather clear statement. And, even a really boring job that offers health insurance is worth a certain amount of pain. Toothaches, on the other hand, are easily dispensed with in modern times. Yet, we’ll do anything to avoid dental work.
In the old days, when removing a tooth was an excruciating experience, it made sense to hang in there as long as you could. Novocain’s been around for a hundred years and laughing gas was first synthesized 225 years ago. These options are still available to anybody with a gene that makes extreme cage fighting sound attractive. However, if pain is not your friend, chances are you’ll take something a bit stronger when its time to part company with that molar. Except for the bad behavior thing, sedation works wonders.
Still, notwithstanding the benefits of sleeping through the pain, I wonder now if I should have opted for a quick yank, a muffled scream and been done with it. Then I wouldn’t have any worries. As it turns out, I have another date with my oral surgeon in May. I’ve decided to have an implant procedure to replace the departed third molar. She will no doubt put me to sleep again when she surgically implants the post. Will she remember my previous performance and insist on putting me in restraints? That doesn’t sound like fun. Still better than the alternative though. Who knows what I might say if they give me a bit of laughing gas?

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Way Deep into Nothing Special

2009-01-15T07:15:00.002-06:00

Last week I wrote a column about disciplining children by giving them a time out. For a few readers, notably my closest friends, the word time struck an odd chord. Walter, a Miami resident and long time Bob Dylan fan, kicked things off by mentioning Time Out of Mind, a 1967 Dylan composition. Everything went downhill from there. Paul, two Mikes and I spent last Friday afternoon exchanging song titles with the word time in them. Great fun until I had this thought: A line from a Steely Dan song, without the word time in it, provided an accurate description for our little game and, not coincidentally, the way I spend too much of my time. “I’m way deep into nothing special” is the line.
Does “way deep into nothing special” in any way describe you? If your big plans for this weekend are watching the AFC and NFC championship games, you’re way deep into nothing special. For the record, I’ll be watching the Eagles and the Cardinals. If seeing Valkyrie with Tom Cruise is a top priority for you you’re way, way deep into nothing special. Jerry Seinfeld built an extraordinary sitcom on the idea that nothing is something. Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer were the pluperfect role models for being way deep into nothing special.
With the New Year already under way is it too late to set some meaningful goals that might get me way deep into something special? Certainly I set goals every year. Some of them aren’t completely self-centered either. Not that it matters. I took a look at last year’s goals the other day. Let me put it to you this way: If you were grading the results like a final exam in say, geology, I’d be studying rocks again this year.
I’m reminded of the Nationwide commercial, “Life comes at you fast…” Indeed it does. It comes at you so fast that just keeping track of our goals is an Olympic level event. Do you ever feel that life is mostly about distractions? For me it’s not just the toys I have or concerns about job, money, relationships, health and so on. While weighty matters like these can certainly keep anyone from focusing on their goals, as distractions, they pale compared to some of the things that I worry about daily.
I’m perplexed for example by the way drug companies come up with idiotic brand names like Cymbalta, Plavix and Enbrel that describe neither the condition nor the cure. And there are so many prescription drugs being advertised on TV every night, that I have no idea of what to ask my doctor for when I have a problem. Suppose I ask for Cymbalta for asthma when I really meant Advair? Will the doctor know I have confused one drug name for the other or will she see that as a symptom that I really am depressed?
I also find it very distracting when characters on shows like Law and Order politely take turns talking. If there are five people standing in the captain’s office, each one says something in turn until its time for a Cialis commercial. Even more unbelievable, each character has something important to add. In real life only two people out of the five standing around in an office will actually have anything to say. And there’s only a 50/50 chance that either one of them says something useful. I can distinctly remember the last time I said something worthwhile in a meeting. It was March 12, 1978. I said, “Why don’t we break for lunch.” It’s not that I don’t try to work on the goals I set. The other day I sat down in front of the TV and began to prepare a business plan that would make hundreds if not thousands of people rich. The idea was pure inspiration, one in a million. No sooner did I pick up my pen when the phone rang. It was my boss, another distraction. He wanted to know where we were on signing an agreement with a very important prospect. I filled him in and went back to my project. For some reason I couldn’t find my pen. Then my Blackberry pinged. An email, something I can’t resist. It was one of the Mikes. He had looked through his voluminous vinyl album collection and found another song with time in the title. To head off any more distracting emails, I called him. Now, about my brilliant idea, what was it exactly? Maybe later. Right now I’m way deep into nothing special. Care to join me?

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Time Out

2009-01-08T06:09:00.002-06:00

Do you put your kids in “time out” when they misbehave? Lot’s of people do these days but it’s a relatively new concept. Baby boomers weren’t raised that way. And, from an informal but thoroughly rigorous scientific survey I conducted of three of my friends, not many baby boomers handled problems with their kids by declaring a time out either.
When I was a child there were two kinds of punishment for getting out of line. One was a stiff beating (okay a good swat on my behind) and the other was loss of privileges that lasted days or even weeks and certainly not just minutes. I suppose child rearing experts will be quick to point out that violence merely begets violence. That spanking a child that has just deliberately poured chocolate milk all over his little sister’s dress solves nothing. Children will only understand that it was wrong to do that if they are placed in time out.
No doubt, the experts can site readily available examples of the violence baby boomers inflict, constantly smacking each other at Starbucks when yet another patron slips into their place in line when they weren’t looking. Just the other day, I paddled a 49 year old man for touching an electrical outlet after I told him it was dangerous to do so. That he was an electrician didn’t matter. I had been paddled myself for doing that very thing when I was four years old. If only my parents had put me in time out instead of swatting me, I wouldn’t be facing an assault and battery charge.
Now I will be the first to admit that my parents also used the time honored three-count to achieve behavior modification. I did it with my children too. It worked because everyone understood completely that if things hadn’t changed by the time the three was spoken, swift retribution was definitely in store. I’ve seen today’s parents use the three count but somehow through the years, reaching number three only leads to a recount or, in some cases, an extended count. I think the record, which will soon be published in the Guinness Book of Records, is 1,109, by which time an eight year old had driven off with the family car. He probably didn’t even hear any of the numbers after 12.
Putting a child in time out is so silly that even a three year old knows it. I have seen the looks on their faces when they hear the words “time out.” It’s a license to do exactly as they please. One reason time out doesn’t seem to faze them is they know that if mommy actually puts them on the couch, they have two excellent options. One would be to watch television, which is conveniently tuned to cartoons. These are the same cartoons the child momentarily forgot about when she decided to see if her doll would fit in the garbage disposal. The other option (in the event that Meet the Press is on) is to cry. Loud crying works every time. Mommy will say, “Do you promise not to do that again? Say you’re sorry to your doll.” The actual length of the time out would be about 16 seconds.
Disciplining a child is never an easy thing. Although I have to tell you that a friend told my wife and I that when her kids asked her why she spanked them when they were little, she smiled and said, “Because it gave me pleasure,” a universal truth that many parents will identify with immediately. Still, she was a terrific mom apparently. Her children all live nearby and they call her every day to make sure she is doing alright. Obviously, she did something right.
Parents with young children will read this and say, “As much as I hate to admit it, time out doesn’t work that well. But I don’t believe in corporal punishment. What are my options?” That’s a fair question. Punishment is more complicated than it was years ago. My mother could refuse to let me watch TV, or play the radio. By the time today’s parents get through the list of things their kids have to do without; the TV, the laptop, cell phone, i-Pod, Guitar Hero and so on, they can’t even remember what they were punishing the kids for. Something new and different is required. How about this: Refuse to do their homework for them for a whole week. Think of it as a time out for parents.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

If Ony it wasn't the Food

2009-01-01T07:17:00.002-06:00

My friend Dennis wrote to tell me he started a weight loss program. Since it was almost a week before New Year’s Day, when he would make his annual resolution to lose weight, he was way ahead of schedule. In fact he’s so far ahead of schedule, he’s already told me it probably won’t work. I know exactly how he feels.
Five short years ago I decided to lose 20 pounds. I got on the South Beach diet and stuck with it for months. It worked too. I lost exactly 20 pounds. I was proud of myself and people told me I looked good which after all is why we go on diets to begin with. Nobody goes on a diet for health reasons. Doctors can tell us we’re going to have a stroke, a heart attack or both. Our knees can ache and our arches can collapse like the Roman Empire and it doesn’t faze us. If it comes down to a choice between a pepperoni pizza and a six pack versus a salad with green tea, it’s no contest. We’ll ask the ambulance driver to stop for a pizza even as the EMT is saying “City General emergency room,” while she’s placing the oxygen cannula in our noses.
There are good reasons for our behavior. Although it’s never been fully explained in medical journals, I am sure that excess fat never really leaves. It remains lurking around the corner, in hiding if you will, while we dabble in celery and watercress. I don’t know how, but it knows that your diet plan, like your savings account, is temporary. In no time you’ll be begging that fat to come home and what’s more, to make amends, you’ll ask it to call it’s relatives in Margaritaville and invite them to live with you too. Dennis says fat is more like a suit you hang in a closet. Without thinking one day you put it on again and you’re stuck with it.
When it comes to food, the temptations are enormous. Anyone that travels on business for example, knows that the only way to maintain your weight is to walk to your destination, a highly improbably solution. If you fly you can count on thirty fast food kiosks in the airport, not one of which will sell you a piece of fruit. I have actually gained a couple of pounds just walking from one terminal to another in Philadelphia. The aromas contain more calories than I can possibly burn by running to my gate.
It’s not much better driving either. The Interstate Highway system, a product of the Eisenhower Administration, apparently was built with funds supplied by the fast food industry. Why else would there be billboards trumpeting an infinite number of burger, taco, donut and soft ice cream joints? Have you ever seen a roadside sign that said, “Health food store ½ mile on the right?”
People that don’t travel are no better off. Every neighborhood supermarket in America is set up to defeat any diet you can name. The fresh bakery section is on the same aisle as the fresh vegetables. Both offer fresh goods of course, but like perfume and sweat socks, one of them smells better. Consider the frozen food section with refrigerated foods running down both sides of the aisle. You think it’s an accident that the ice cream is on one side and frozen lima beans are on the other? That’s a tough choice. Even high calorie cold cuts are displayed under lights worthy of a jewelry store display case. It’s hard to look away.
A key ingredient of any diet always includes regular exercise. But exercise alone won’t get the job done. Thankfully, makers of diet pills, supplements and high -in -everything -but -calories shakes are eager to help us with those resolutions. You have to love all those commercials touting easy remedies. Of course, pills alone won’t do the trick either. The fine print appears at the bottom of your TV screen: Works best with 14 hours of exercise daily. I might be willing to try some of these diet aids if the average Americans with the before and after photos agreed to appear next year, live and in person in my living room. Are they still sporting svelte figures?
Regardless, a new year has arrived and there’s work to be done. I’ll bet somebody will check themselves out in the mirror after reading this and decide they can’t live with the image staring back at them. Something has to give. If only it wasn’t the food.

Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Christmas Spirit

2008-12-24T08:58:00.001-06:00

Tis the Season when priests and ministers will surely remind you during Christmas services that Christmas is first and foremost a religious celebration for Christians. Some Christians send emails making the same point: “Keep Christ in Christmas,” they say. We hear many messages about the true meaning of Christmas in the days leading up to the Holiday, sometimes delivered gently in a sermon and other times with the force of a sledgehammer.
Believers and non-believers certainly know that Christmas celebrates the miracle of the birth of Christ, a gift to mankind. That fact doesn’t slip many minds really. Aside from attending church services what should we be doing? Is it that we should spend a few moments reflecting on the birth of the savior before we shred all that colorful paper, open the boxes and pretend to love what’s inside? Is saying Grace before we devour the sumptuous foods sitting on the table sufficient acknowledgement?
A lot has been said about the way the secular aspects of Christmas have overwhelmed the religious observation of the day. I’m not sure it’s true. We attend Christmas parties in the office, in social clubs, and with friends and neighbors. I’ve never been to one that was focused on religion. Still, when I look around the room at one of these parties it’s nearly impossible to miss the smiles on the faces of the people. They may not be gathered around the piano singing the First Noel but there is a genuine softening of their features, warmth that is perhaps hidden at other times of the year. Genuine good will toward others manifests itself in conversation, hand shakes and hugs. There are no pews and no sermons but there is kindness aplenty.
And what about the parents that run out to buy gifts for their children? Yes they buy something for each other if the budget allows, but all discussion revolves around what’s best for each child. For that matter, anyone that takes the time to fight the crowds, choose a gift, buy it and wrap it simply because it’s Christmas, seems to be doing God’s work. If your heart is in the right place it seems to me that giving gifts at Christmas is a wonderful example of God’s commandment that we love our neighbors.
Many fine people donate time, money, food and clothing items during the Holiday season. They too keep Christ in Christmas and if it so happens that they are atheists, well, God is smiling just the same. His purpose in being born 2000 years ago is well served when his children lend a helping hand to those that need it. God doesn’t actually need the credit for our good works.
Consider if you will the harried moms that probably should celebrate the day after Christmas. They cook up a storm, bake till they drop, clean the house, do the lion’s share of the Christmas shopping, wrap the gifts and still they manage to look beautiful and even happy come Christmas morning. That, my friends is love on steroids. That is the marathon that in its own marvelous way is both a beautiful prayer and an angel’s Christmas Carol. What would possess a woman to run herself ragged if not a belief in the message of the Christ Child?
And while daddy may not be checking to make sure the cookies aren’t burning, he is usually the one that climbs on the roof to put decorations up, runs string after string of lights around bushes and trees, knowing just one thing for certain: In a few weeks he’ll have to take them down and it will be even colder than the day he put them up. He’s also the guy that goes to great lengths to keep his babies belief in Santa alive for one more year. He may wrestle with doubts 364 days a year, but when it comes to Christmas, count him in.
I may be crazy but people seem more forgiving this time of year. People are just cheerful at Christmas. I suppose this unbridled happiness is an artifact of childhood memories. No one ever really forgets how exciting it was to go to bed on Christmas Eve with visions of sugar plums dancing in your head. Kids go to bed that night with hope in their hearts. At Christmas, we’re all kids. We all hope. Merry Christmas.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

The Pundit Game

2008-12-18T05:59:00.002-06:00

I’ll bet you’ve never played the pundit game. But I’m sure you have seen the game many times. If you watch what passes for television news, you can’t possibly miss it. Supposedly educated people take positions that are impossible to defend but they cling to them tenaciously in exchange for name recognition and book sales. The game is actually quite simple and you should learn to play it. Assuming self respect is no biggie for you, that you would do anything to be on TV even if it’s only a perp walk, you too could get rich playing the pundit game.
First, you write a short book. Let’s say the subject is, “The Spaghetti Diet: How to lose 15 pounds a week eating spaghetti.” It really helps if you have no credentials beyond your own claim that you personally lost 275 pounds on the diet. MSNBC calls. Morning Joe wants you on their show next week.
Since you don’t have any expertise, the Morning Joe people will invite a certified nutritionist on the show so they can create tension, and if all goes well, a shouting match. At first, this might sound like bad news. Trust me its not. You are about to sell more books than you ever imagined possible when you were quietly typing your manuscript in between bites of fettuccine alfredo.
On the day of the show the producer will no doubt tell you that it’s important to stick to your talking points. Regardless of how lucid or logical another guest’s ideas may be, if it contradicts your view, ignore it. If you can remember that simple rule, everything will go as smooth as swallowing ravioli marinara.
You’re on the air…
Joe: “Let’s welcome Wally Walter the man who lost 275 pounds on the spaghetti diet. Tell us how the spaghetti diet works Wally.”
Wally: “Sure. All you do is eat macaroni five times a day. Just one portion of any size will do the trick. No bread, no desserts and no liquids other than Chianti.”
Joe: “That is interesting. Let’s bring in our nutritional expert, Patty Lightness. Patty has a PhD in nutrition. Patty, what do you think of Wally’s diet?”
Patty: “It’s ridiculous, that’s what I think. Do you realize that eating all that pasta, with rich toppings will load you up with carbohydrates? Anyone on that diet would gain weight, not lose it.”
Joe: “What do you say to that Wally?”
Wally: “First of all, macaroni isn’t made up exclusively of carbohydrates. It has protein and some good vitamins that interact well with the fats that come from the meat sauce, the olive oil and butter used to enhance the flavor of the macaroni. By the way Patty, I find your use of the word pasta instead of macaroni very condescending.”
Patty: “Well, certainly there are fats and proteins in pasta and its various toppings but that is beside the point. The toppings merely add to the all important calorie count, which after all ultimately determines whether we gain or lose weight. Wally’s diet is very unhealthy taken in such large quantities.”
Wally: “I’m glad you brought that up Patty. Not all calories are alike. If they were, someone eating five pounds of spinach every day would gain as much weight as someone who ate five pounds of chocolate. Macaroni is not a really high calorie meal. And, it takes time to prepare. Just standing over the hot stove is like being in a sauna which many people have done to lose weight.”
Joe: “Patty, does a food’s density determine how many calories it contains? Would five pounds of spinach equate to five pounds of chocolate?”
Patty: “Of course not! That is pure nonsense. I assure you that you would have to eat an enormous amount of spinach to equal the calories in five pounds of chocolate. And, for the record, pasta is a very calorie dense meal.”
Wally: “My point exactly except for what you just said. You would absolutely have to eat a lot of spaghetti to take in as many calories as you would get eating five pounds of chocolate.”

Now, isn’t that easy? Notice the way Wally sidestepped well known facts, obscured legitimate points and frustrated his opponent. Wally is absolutely brilliant at the pundit game. There is little doubt that he would sell millions of books and become a regular on shows like Ellen and Oprah. Having his own show would only be a matter of time.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Menu Fatigue

2008-12-10T21:27:00.001-06:00

My good friend Tom and I walked into a restaurant and sat down. We were quickly greeted by the waitress. She handed each of us two menus and a third that we could share. Tom shook his head and said, “Why don’t you write about this?” He was referring to the plethora of menus that casual dining establishments are so fond of.
He has a point. In fine dining establishments your server will offer you a menu and perhaps a wine list. Not so in mid-level joints. They have so many choices to offer they can’t possibly fit them all on one menu. Even a large bill of fare won’t do. They load you up with gastric greeting cards and hope for the best. I ate breakfast a while back at a pancake house. Alone with nothing better to do, I counted the items on the menu. I would tell you exactly how many items they offered but I lost count after four hundred and nineteen.
And it’s not enough for them just to list what they offer. Oh no. They offer pictures, glossy, color shots of everything from pancakes to steak which is supposed to whet your appetite. I would be willing to bet a bottomless pot of coffee that the pictures aren’t selected at random. Sorry, but I have a strong suspicion that the featured items have the best profit margin. Let me put it this way: While I’ve seen plenty of juicy steak glamour shots, I have never seen a picture of an open face turkey sandwich on a menu.
The funny thing is that the photos themselves are not always attractive. You would think they would spend a lot of time and money to show you a USDA prime steak with all the trimmings. To my eye, admittedly untrained, the glossy photos displayed on these menus often give me reason to pause. Actual food stains would be more appealing.
Another thing that drives me crazy: The menus are humongous. Sitting at a table for two, we’re forced to wrestle with two-story pieces of plastic. Holding a conversation behind these barricades isn’t easy. You’re reading the menu but it feels like you’re playing hide and seek. Your dinner partner could take a powder and you’d never know it. Of course having a menu to hide behind can be good if you have personal business to attend to like blowing your nose, applying some lipstick or taking a furtive glance at the attractive person at the table next to you.
The second menu serves one of three purposes. 1. The specials: stuff they can’t seem to move but think some of us will go for if it looks like a bargain. One of my favorites is surf and turf. The term itself brings to mind filet mignon and lobster tails. The picture on the menu is hamburger and haddock. 2. New menu items: Entrees that common sense tells you will never make the regular menu. When a casual dining spot announces that it is proud to introduce its special Beef Wellington recipe, even a neophyte is smart enough not to order it. 3. Desserts: Everybody loves dessert. Have you ever noticed that pictures of death by chocolate cake and cheesecake are always front and center? Apparently, FDA regulation 604A requires it. Unfortunately, since your server confiscates all menus as soon as you order your main meal, you’ll probably forget which dessert you picked. Don’t worry though, your server will return later waving that menu in your face ready to bully you into ordering one.
What about that third menu? If the server doesn’t actually hand one to you then you can find it disguised as a flip chart sitting next to the salt and pepper shaker. You know what’s on there don’t you? That’s the alcoholic beverage menu which lists all the colorful drinks, with designer names. Selections include broken heart martinis, watermelon manhattans, and mango margaritas. So many flavors, to choose from, so little time to decide -all sporting happy hour prices.
One of the biggest challenges in the first decade of the 21st century is information overload. Having to contend with so much information and too many choices when all you want is lunch seems silly. Recently, some well known restaurant chains spent gobs of money rebranding their restaurants. They changed décor, color schemes, uniforms and logos in an effort to win back customers. Tom and I could have saved them a lot of money. Just give us an uncomplicated, easy to read menu.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Learning New Tricks

2008-12-04T07:07:00.001-06:00

I found the game of tennis a bit late in life. I was 57 to be exact when I took my first lesson. For me it was love at first sight. The game didn’t exactly reciprocate. I was surprised by how demanding the sport is. The game requires physical dexterity, athletic ability and mental agility, none of which are in my arsenal. Watching the pros on television makes tennis look like a simple game, especially the way its played today with players seemingly just bashing the ball from baseline to baseline.
The speed and incredible finesse necessary to compete at that level isn’t readily apparent to the casual observer on the tube. Out on the court though, even at the club level, it’s obvious that consistently placing the ball where you want it to go is about as easy as consistently investing your money in exactly the right instrument at the right time.
Still, I press on with unabashed enthusiasm for the game. I take lessons, play in leagues and last year I attended a three day tennis camp at a prestigious tennis academy. I have loads of tennis paraphernalia and now that my left knee has begun to give me fits I’m outfitted with one of the game’s main side effect as well.
I play tennis for the exercise. It’s an enjoyable pastime, much more interesting than the loneliness of a treadmill or the frustration or the deadly monotony of a stationary bike. Tennis is so much fun I can hardly stand it. I have experienced some unexpected benefits from playing the game too. For starters, I’ve become an observer of the way I learn something new.
How many times do I need to hear that footwork is extremely important if I want to produce good, solid ground strokes? How often does an instructor need to tell me that it’s necessary to move to the ball rather than waiting for it to come to me like an obedient Bassett Hound? How often must I read a sentence that says something like, “Concentrate on the ball whenever it’s in play?” Let me put it this way: After three years of instruction I’m still struggling with the basics. Had I learned the alphabet at the same pace I would just be completing my third year of the first grade. I think adults tend to be stubborn about learning new tricks. We struggle with the notion that we don’t know how to do something, especially when it looks a lot easier than it is. I don’t mind paying for the lessons or reading instruction books. But really, how can a guy thirty years my junior really know more than I do about anything? Don’t answer that.
At least the game gives me the chance to experience athletic competition. League play, both singles and doubles, has sharpened my competitive instincts and helped me to manage performance anxiety in a positive way. I don’t mind telling you I was feeling pretty good last week when I managed to get the best of a 22 year old in an early morning singles match. The fact that he had been out all night and was drinking beer between sets didn’t diminish the accomplishment in my own eyes one bit. On the other hand, I’m still learning to accept defeat gracefully. Considering how often I lose you might think that losing was the entire point of the game. Yet, I never take losing lightly regardless of how experienced the other player is. Just last week I endured a thorough beating in another singles match at the hands of a 75 year old. To add insult to injury, when the match was over he lit a cigarette. It was probably wrong of me to let the air out of his tires when he went to the restroom.
Like golf, tennis is a game steeped in tradition. Unlike golf, the game doesn’t require that observers –or players for that matter- speak in hushed tones if they must speak at all during a match. If you’ve seen any professional tennis lately you know that the game has spawned a legion of grunters. Imagine Tiger Woods letting out a 50 decibel grunt every time he putts. Grunting is supposed to help with concentration. I’ve tried it and all it does for me is remind me that eating fried chicken fifteen minutes before the match was another thing I had been warned about and ignored.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Do You Have a License to Use That Thing?

2008-11-27T09:38:00.001-06:00

We are required to have a license to drive, a license to fish, and a license to get married. Medical professionals need licenses before they can cut out your appendix or give you an antibiotic. It wasn’t always that way of course. Requiring a license for something usually comes about when it dawns on government that certain activities seem to affect the well being of others. Not to mention that licensure fees are a marvelous source of revenue. Elected officials are always looking for ways to get more of your money without using the T word.
Naturally, licensure involves more than simply paying a fee. To get a license for most things you have to take courses or earn a degree. Then you have to pass a test. These hurdles usually tend to result in upgrading the standards of performance for professions and skilled trade groups that require them. One of the best things about requiring a license to say, practice dentistry, is that you can be reasonably sure that your dentist knows the difference between a molar and an incisor. And he won’t suggest that since you’re sitting in the comfortable chair; why not also take care of your bunion?
There comes a time in nearly all endeavors when the idea of licensure begins to make sense. I’m afraid we’ve reached that point with microphones. What we need now is a license to use a microphone. I’m serious. If you’ve ever been trapped in an airport or an airplane listening to someone blather on and on, well past the requisite talk about boarding rules and regulations, and way deep into the weather in Portland or trying to sing a cute parody, you are no doubt nodding your head in full agreement with me. Mind you there are precious few people using microphones these days that have any shot at replacing Dave Letterman.
We’re approaching an epidemic when cashiers at big box retail stores, bus drivers and hostesses at smorgasbord restaurants feel comfortable making interminable announcements without any training in the art of microphone use.
Shouldn’t there be a school that teaches would-be public broadcasters the art of making announcements? Most of the people making these announcements have little or no knowledge about where to set the volume or how close they should put their lips to the mike. They have no knowledge of how to do a sound check or what causes the screeching noise that makes you want to pull out a snub nose 38 and start shooting.
And, while requiring instruction in the technical aspects of microphone use would be a step in the right direction, it’s not enough. Not by a long shot. The thing that’s needed most is to test would-be announcers for self awareness and the ability to put things in perspective. As someone who has done a fair amount of public speaking I can tell you that it takes very little time to fall in love with the sound of your own voice. The problem is your audience. They’re not so easily charmed. Once you get beyond the basic message, audiences have an annoying habit of insisting that if you must continue on you have to say something useful or entertaining to them.
Here’s a case in point. Yesterday, the day before Thanksgiving, someone at the local supermarket got the idea that it might be fun to let anyone, I’m quoting here, “below the age of 90 come up to the customer service desk and demonstrate their turkey gobble.” Innocent shoppers were most likely picking up a few last minutes things for the Holiday when this fiasco was imposed on us. Trust me it didn’t make me want to add anything to my cart that I hadn’t planned on buying. Rather, it made me want to get out of there before I heard another grating gobble or more inane patter from the lady with the microphone. Judging from the number of contestants though, it’s obvious that people who don’t have access to a mike want that chance, even if it means imitating the sound of a bird whose brain weighs a quarter of an ounce.
And don’t tell me that in the scheme of things this is a trivial matter. If we don’t get this epidemic under control soon, we’ll regret it. Everybody will be walking around with mini hand-held mikes. NOW HERE THIS: We won’t be safe anywhere. Turkey gobbling is just the tip of the iceberg.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Are You Hiding Something Honey?

2008-11-20T05:34:00.001-06:00

Call me naïve, but I was shocked to learn recently that husbands and wives hide money from each other. Okay, the idea itself isn’t really that surprising. Money makes us crazy. But, did you know that an astounding 71% of us squirrel away money behind our spouses’ backs? Yes, says Money magazine which surveyed 1,001 men and women a while back. That’s huge.
Lately, I’ve been asking friends if they have ever hidden a few bucks from their better half. One brave woman told me, sheepishly perhaps, that at that very moment she had $700 hidden in the pocket of a fur coat that was permanently hibernating in her closet. When I think about how much money I could have socked away over the thirty plus years I’ve been married I’m nearly heartbroken.
Using a simple back of the envelope calculation, I estimate I could have at least a million bucks stashed between the pages of books, behind a filing cabinet or under my Jack Daniel’s barrel. What I could do with that money now. I wonder if my wife has a few million put away that she hasn’t mentioned. Just kidding, in fact here’s a full disclosure: When I heard about spouses hiding money I started doing it immediately. My wife, who could be a genuine CSI, found my stash in just 32 minutes. And, after editing this piece for me, she informed me that PricewaterhouseCoopers would soon be performing a full blown audit of the Len Fund.
Considering how many of us do secret cash, I’m surprised that banks haven’t developed programs to help us hide the dough and put it to good use in the bargain. I suppose it would be hard to keep secrets if the money was earning interest. I have no idea how I would explain a bank statement to my wife showing that I earned thousands of dollars in interest on money she didn’t know existed. Of course we could decide to file separate tax returns. But then there’s the CSI thing.
What do people actually do with the tens and twenties they hide? Maybe they use it for guilty pleasures like betting on the Super Bowl or buying a pair of scandalously expensive shoes. Of course with the economic mess we’re in, maybe the shoes can wait. And what is it that compels us to hide money in the first place? Maybe it’s simple human nature. Like squirrels hiding nuts for winter, we’re compelled to store up cash even if it’s a symbolic gesture. In our grandparents’ day, money was very scarce, given the depression and all. Afraid of banks, they hid money in plain sight in the old coffee can in case of a rainy day. Our parents probably followed suit and squirreled away loose change and a bit of paper money under the mattress. If Mama did it she must have had a reason.
Our motives are different today. Sadly, marriages don’t always last the way they did in times past. Some people hide cash because they aren’t sure about the future of their relationship. I believe the reasons are benign in the majority of cases though. The woman with the $700 in the fur coat told me she might want to splurge a little without having to justify her actions to her husband. She admitted that she might just slip a few extra dollars into the hands of one of her children from time to time. I’m sure many women can easily identify with that.
Regardless of motive, statistics don’t lie. There is a very good chance there is cash somewhere in your home that you don’t know about. I’m not trying to cause trouble, but isn’t a treasure hunt in order? Look at it this way. If you find, say $1,500, wouldn’t that really come in handy? When you combine it with the $1,800 you have stashed away, you could surprise your spouse with new drapes for the sunroom or a wide screen TV, depending on which one of you finds the Benjamins first.
Now before you start your treasure hunt let me save you some time. If you Google “where to hide money” you’ll get plenty of ideas about where to look. By the way, don’t overlook the freezer. Now if you do a thorough search and don’t find anything don’t panic. Show this column to your loved one and say something like, “Who would ever have thought people did such things?” Trust me planting that little seed will bear fruit. A year from now you’ll be measuring the windows for drapes.

Copyright 2008 len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Was That You I Saw on the Restaurant Wall?

2008-11-12T22:16:00.003-06:00

I was having dinner one night in an Italian restaurant that does a decent job of recreating the look and feel of the old fashioned neighborhood Italian restaurants in the great Northeast. Those places with their simple tablecloths, hardwood floors and weighty dishes with tiny floral patterns had a homespun feel to them. Sitting in the chain operated restaurant I got a bit fixated on the large photos that seemed to cover every wall in the place.
Most of the photos were black and white shots taken between the turn of the last century and the 1950s: Ordinary people doing ordinary things. Some were posed and others were candid camera shots. Of course the pictures aren’t on the walls to hide cracks in the wallboard. They’re intended to make us feel like guests in the home of friends with lots of warm family photos on display. Such schmaltzy marketing is not limited to Italian restaurants either. Lots of restaurants adorn their walls with photos that remind us of simpler times. The selections often match the restaurant’s theme. In a country cooking spot for example, you’re likely to see men in overalls standing next to an old John Deere. Italian restaurants have pictures of people that look a lot like my grandparents.
Lately, I’ve taken to wondering who the people in these photos were. Whenever I eat in a restaurant that uses old time photos I find myself trying to imagine what their lives were really like. I also wonder how happy they would be to discover that their likenesses are plastered all over the walls in 570 Cracker Barrel locations in 41 states for example. Celebrities are happy to give restaurants a glossy 8x12 including an autograph. They want people to remember them. But I don’t think people that led quiet lives actually gave their permission to display their images in all these restaurants. It’s just as unlikely that they all happened to be professional models that were paid for the photo shoot and then signed releases in exchange for a few bucks.
I know it sounds like a small thing but put yourself in their shoes. After you’re gone do you want your picture hanging in a rib joint, a seafood shanty, or heaven forbid, a fast food outlet? What if the photo some marketing guru happens to select fails to take into account that you had a cold the day the picture was taken? (Is that a cold sore just under my lower lip?) Besides, what if the photographer was in a hurry and got your bad side? I know what you’re thinking. Who cares? I’ll be long gone by then. Well, some people might care if they knew about it.
Legally, there probably isn’t a thing to be done. But consider this: What if your picture is hanging on the wall of thirty-something diners in 14 states right now? Yes, how do you know your mug isn’t smiling down on table number 22 at a local bar and grill hundreds of miles from here? Face it, there’s no rule that says you have to be dead before they can make 500 copies of your likeness and put them on the wall overlooking the restaurant counter stools at Waffle Houses all over the south.
Right now my high school prom picture could be hanging in a delicatessen somewhere in Poughkeepsie. With my luck there’s probably a gravy stain on my cummerbund. If I knew which deli it was I suppose I could do something about it. But I don’t. I just checked to see if the photography studio that took my prom picture is still in business. They are. Just to be safe, tomorrow I will call them. I’ll demand that they cease and desist from selling or otherwise distributing my likeness to restaurants that think customers are more likely to have a good time if they’re surrounded by photos of perfect strangers.
You might think that in an era of digital cameras and camera equipped cell phones, easily downloaded to the Web, the possibility that your picture might be hanging on an eatery wall, is the least of your worries. Fair enough but if my picture is on the Web I can locate it and possibly have it removed. If my snapshot is hanging on the wall of Rudy’s Deli without my knowledge, that’s a problem. In addition to making a restaurant feel homey, those photos are implied endorsements. Suppose I don’t think Rudy makes a decent Reuben?

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Requiem for the Wristwatch?

2008-11-05T19:44:00.004-06:00

“Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody really care?
If so I can’t imagine why
We’ve all got time enough to cry”
Robert Lamm - Chicago

I’ll admit it. I’ve fallen a little behind the times lately. I was in the waiting area of a major medical center when I first noticed it. There was something missing on the wrists of many passersby. As I made my way to the hospital cafeteria I grew even more concerned. I checked my watch. It was still there. Only now it seems I may soon be in the minority. There was a time when most of us never left the house without wearing a wristwatch. I remember when forgetting my watch would ruin my entire day. Would the executives I ran across in meetings and in the hallways notice I was without a timepiece? Would they suspect that I was a footloose and fancy-free sort who wasn’t concerned about being on time?
Well, times certainly do change. One of the reasons fewer people are wearing watches these days is that they have so many other options, PDAs and cell phones for example. But even if you’re just sitting at home there’s rarely a need to get up and check the time. It’s right there on your TV, it’s in the lower right hand corner of your laptop. Your microwave, your coffee maker, refrigerator, stereo and your DVD player all tell time. Start your car and you’ll get the time.
In our house we have no fewer than 21 gadgets that give us the time. Of those, only 7 are exclusively time pieces. The rest do the job they were intended to do and give us the time as a little bonus. Some people are afraid of thunder and lightening. Not me. What I live in mortal fear of is a power failure. Thankfully it doesn’t happen often but when it does it takes me a week to get all my timepieces synchronized again. It’s murder. Switching back to standard time last week was another nightmare. I think we’re completely synchronized now. Wait! The golf ball clock…
There’s another reason why people don’t need watches the way they once did. We live in a much more casual world than we did 50 years ago. Workers used to routinely punch a time clock. You could be fired for being late for work. Lunch and break times were strictly monitored and enforced. When was the last time you were reprimanded for not being at your desk by 8:00 A.M.? Have you signed out before lunch lately? I didn’t think so.
We don’t adhere to strict schedules the way we once did. Of course, there aren’t nearly as many of us producing widgets on an hourly basis anymore. Work today involves a great deal more mental productivity than physical output. Most of us don’t turn pieces of steel into something useful. We think, we communicate and we tap the result into a computer so it can be sent to other thinkers and tappers. Factory workers once did their work in the plant and left it there at day’s end. Modern workers are just as likely to get an idea at a cocktail party or at three a.m. There’s no way to control that. Time may still be money but it’s no longer limited to the day shift.
Activities outside of work also ran on schedule once upon a time. If you wanted to see your favorite evening news show at 6:00 P.M. you had to be in front of your TV set on time. Nowadays we have TiVo so there’s no need to worry. The appointed hour for many things isn’t as definite as it once was. You have a two o’clock doctor’s appointment? No worries. The only reason to be there by 2:00 is to improve your odds that the doctor will see you by 3:00.
As a practical matter wristwatches have been around since late in the seventeenth century. That’s a 300 plus year run. Is it over for the wristwatch? Thanks to evolution, I wouldn’t count out the watch yet. For one thing, watches still work as jewelry. Having a Rolex remains a noteworthy status symbol. And, creative technology and component miniaturization could give the watch new life. Already available are watches that combine a digital watch, music player, and video player in one unit. Some day we’ll probably use a wristwatch to control all those home appliances that also keep time for us. Will anybody really know what time it is? Care or not, you will.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

I Knew You Before I Didn't

2008-10-22T20:25:00.002-05:00

I’m going to take a wild guess that this has happened to you before. Not only that, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb if I suggest you’ve done this before yourself. Most of us have. Here’s the situation: I gave a speech at a Rotary function. As will happen in local business meetings, I met a guy I knew by sight as the manager of the local supermarket. We had a brief and amiable chat.
After having been introduced to each other, when I saw him in the store we would shake hands and exchange pleasantries. We did that for a few weeks. Then we simply waved when we spotted each other. Gradually we only made eye contact as a way of acknowledging each other. Of course the final step was to ignore each other, acting as if we had never met.
What’s up with that? It wasn’t his fault and it certainly wasn’t mine. We just did it. Or should I say didn’t? Now when I see him I can’t help but wonder if he decided I wasn’t someone he needed to know now or for future reference. In other words maybe he decided I wasn’t important enough or interesting enough to even say hello. Of course that’s a two way street. He might be wondering the same thing about me.
Admit it. You’ve had that experience. After having been known you were gradually relegated to stranger status. Why do human beings behave like that? How could a simple hello become such a burden? Certainly we’ve all met someone that we’ve had to expel from our roster of casual acquaintances because they wanted the peripheral role they were playing in your life to be a lead role. When they wouldn’t take the hint that they were extras in your play, you had to blow them off.
Such a person can indeed be a pain. But the situation I’m describing is one where you haven’t even auditioned for a major part. You’re happy being an extra. But even that’s too much for some people. They ease you out moving from good morning and a warm handshake to pretending they don’t see you, even crossing the street to avoid having to say hello.
I liked knowing the supermarket manager. If there was ever a problem with the fresh peaches or a broken jar of spaghetti sauce, I could tell him, as a friend of course, that he had a cleanup to handle in aisle five. Not that I ever got that far. I wonder if he suspected I might be the presumptuous type. That a gentle complaint about too ripe bananas would morph into a full blown recommendation about how to organize the fresh seafood case.
That never would have happened by the way. I am a firm believer that unless you’re in the same line of work, there is very little you can add to someone else’s work. When someone has invested years to learn their business we should respect their knowledge. Still, maybe I lingered too long near the bakery or squeezed one too many loaves of bread to suit him.
Sometimes when I see this guy I wonder if he thought my speech was lousy. Is that why he put me in the deep freeze? I’m wracking my brain to remember my topic that day. I know for sure it had nothing to do with the grocery business so I am safe on that score.
The other possibility is that having met me he just decided he didn’t like me. Nothing personal you understand. Perhaps, I’m just not his cup of tea. If that’s the case, he is absolutely wrong about me. If I wasn’t a nice guy I would be including his first and last name in this story not to mention the name of his supermarket and its location.
I’m not sure we consciously decide to delete people. I suspect sometimes it just happens. If pressed to explain it we probably couldn’t come up with a good reason in most cases. But I think we wind up feeling just a little bit uncomfortable every time we bump into a former acquaintance. Pretending you don’t know someone is hard work. Maybe the answer is to start over. Walk up to that person and say hello. I think I’ll do just that with the supermarket manager. Probably we’ll both be relieved. And I’ll never ask him why the self service cash registers are programmed to say stupid things like, “don’t forget to take you’re receipt.”

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Using the Drive-thru? Don't Be Rude

2008-10-16T09:31:00.003-05:00

A friend of mine was ranting a while back about the way little things can really get under your skin. She began with a rant about people that use the drive through at fast food restaurants and then place huge orders which take 15 minutes to complete. “It’s not okay to do that,” she said, “and people should know better.”
She went on to complain about people who stick their kids in these Hummer sized shopping carts provided by the store and then take up the entire aisle while they shop at a snails pace. Actually that was the second time in a week I heard a complaint about shopping carts. Another friend suggested I devote an entire column to people that don’t know how to drive shopping carts. He is annoyed with people that don’t watch where they are going. They slam (not bump) into you rounding the corner and don’t even say excuse me, he complained.
You might think we have much bigger fish to fry these days. The economy has tanked. There’s global warming, terrorism and out of control healthcare spending to contend with. These are big problems but not many of us are equipped to provide solutions to them. We’re lucky if we can grasp the nature of problems of such magnitude. While these major issues will surely haunt us in the macro, they don’t always have a measurable impact on our day to day lives.
Rudeness however, is another matter. We know it when we see it. No explanation required. No complicated formulas to study. Indeed, careless cart driving and thoughtless hogging of the drive thru lanes shouldn’t be tolerated. If only we could be certain that we’re dealing with rudeness. After all, being rude is a conscious and deliberate act.
There’s no doubt that someone using the drive through to place multiple and large orders could be called rude if you accept the premise that the drive through window is designed for the quick order like a cup of coffee or a hamburger and a shake. The thing is restaurants never make that point. In fact the lighted sign next to the intercom has every menu item including combo options. Is this not a license to order whatever you like? To make matters worse, the lettering is small and poorly organized. And, I’ll bet you’ve never heard a fast food restaurant employee say, “Oh that order is too large to place here. You’ll have to come inside.”
It would certainly be courteous to opt for parking your car and going into the restaurant but people probably feel like they’re saving lots of time by using the drive thru. After all wasn’t that why it was invented?
What about slow shoppers and careless cart drivers? Are they just blatantly rude? Nah. Again, the grocery stores encourage this behavior by making the kiddy ride-along carts huge and heavy. This forces Moms to slow down, giving them more time to peruse the items on the shelves. Other shoppers, namely adults in a hurry, are forced to slow down too. If they’re not jabbering on their cell phones, what choice do they have but to bite their lips and add a box of cookies they know they want but swore they wouldn’t buy?
Careless cart drivers are victims too. Big-box stores offer just one kind of shopping cart. It’s the heavy duty big rig. There’s a reason why drivers of on the road big rig trucks are required to go to school to learn to handle them. Important things like turning radius and breaking distance are core parts of the curriculum in these schools.
Big-box retail stores, where most of these tragic bumper car like incidents occur, are only interested in whether you have a valid membership card. They assume you can handle their carts. They never give a thought to the laws of physics that come into play when you’re pushing a cart laden down with number ten cans of peanut butter. Talk about breaking distance. And, who can control a full shopping cart when one of the wheels is bent, wobbly or even missing? No wonder there are accidents.
Of course my friends will say that I’ve missed the point…again. They just want people to use common sense. Failing that, simple courtesy will do. They might argue that just because businesses encourage bad behavior doesn’t make it all right. A civilized society depends on courteous behavior. Point well taken. Still, I’ll keep my eyes open for the big rigs just in case.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Breakfast of Champions

2008-10-09T10:30:00.004-05:00

Breakfast is one of my favorite meals. Actually all meals are favorites for me which explains why I’m currently enduring the rigors of the South Beach diet. But I do enjoy a good breakfast. Whether its eggs and grits, pancakes, French toast or Cheerios and bananas, I’m happy. Add a cup of hot coffee and my day is off to an excellent start. Sometimes I’ll drink a glass of water too. And orange juice with lots of pulp is always a welcome treat.
One thing I have never had with breakfast though is an alcoholic beverage. Oops, check that. I did have a sazerac with eggs Benedict at Brennan’s in New Orleans once. Very classy. I felt urbane that entire morning, a feeling that few natives of Newark, New Jersey are acquainted with. Other than that I’ve limited my alcohol consumption to meals served later in the day.
To be honest it never occurred to me that a cocktail or even a beer might enhance my breakfast meal. That is until last week. I was strolling down to my gate at Nashville International Airport when a chalkboard sign caught my eye. One of the taverns in Terminal C had a neatly printed sign that read, “Now serving breakfast along with your favorite beer and cocktails.” I’ll admit it the sign shook me up. A cocktail with breakfast? Who would have thought? My shock quickly gave way to panic. Isn’t it hard enough to select an appropriate wine with dinner? Just when I finally have the courage to open a bottle of Zinfandel to accompany my wife’s meatloaf, I have a whole new set of rules to learn. Now I have to figure out which beer goes with breakfast?
Consider this: Which cocktail would you prefer with your breakfast? I’m getting a hangover just thinking about it. As usual, I’m probably getting carried away. Maybe it’s not that hard. After all, a bottle of Corona should be a natural with a breakfast burrito, right? And an orange blossom might be a good match with cherry pancakes. I wonder if Cracker Barrel will start serving liquor. What about eggs and grits though? Could I get away with a Jack Daniels served neat if the eggs are prepared over easy? But what do I do if I want scrambled eggs? Maybe there’s an urbane reader (with or without a zazerac) out there that can offer a suggestion on that.
Now before you start to think I’ve led a completely sheltered life or that I am close-minded when it comes to alcohol for breakfast, I am vaguely aware that drinks like the Bloody Mary and Mimosa have long been popular breakfast choices. There are some who claim that originally, the cocktail was a breakfast drink, due in part to the belief that alcoholic beverages were perhaps safer than drinking water was centuries ago. Considering how many of us choose to drink bottled water instead of tap, maybe breweries and distillers should be marketing their beverages as healthy breakfast alternatives.
In spite of the time honored history of a morning eye-opener, I doubt that most of us are starting our day with a jigger of something 80 proof though. I do know that Terminal C had a line for coffee. Not so for the bar next door. Yet, that little sign I saw at the airport made it seem so natural, as if what most of us are doing at home every morning is now also available at the airport. Maybe a good stiff drink is a marvelous way to start the day. Is it possible that a morning martini might improve my performance at a staff meeting? Would a drink be a suitable substitute for watching the tube last night instead of reviewing my notes? I don’t know about you but in my experience alcohol tends to slow me down. I have a drink in the evening because I’m done negotiating, selling and writing. My editor kind of insists on that last one.
Times are tough right now. We’ll all have to make sacrifices and we’ll be asked to work harder than ever. Under the circumstances, I am tempted to put some Scotch in my cornflakes. But the airlines don’t serve cereal and I just might want a chaser.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved

I Remember That

2008-10-03T16:36:00.006-05:00

Yankee Stadium just closed its gates for the last time, ending it’s run as the best sports venue of all time. To honor the House that Ruth built, Yankee Stadium was the site of the Major League All Star Game in July. Mike and Paul, two guys I went to school with back when the Beatles were in their prime, are huge Yankee fans so I decided to tell them a couple of stories about memorable games I attended at the Big Ballpark.
My all time favorite was on June 21, 1959. It was a Father’s Day double header against the Cleveland Indians. The Indians won both games and Rocky Colavito hit a home run in each game. I wasn’t there with my father that day. Along with three other kids in the neighborhood, I took the 118 bus to the New York Port Authority, the A train to 59th and the D train to 161st and River Ave. We each paid $1.50 for a general admission seat.
That wasn’t my first trip to Yankee Stadium though. So I had to tell Mike and Paul about my first game too. That’s when I got into trouble. The year was 1954. I was six years old. My father took me to that game and the Yankees beat the White Sox 9-4 behind rookie sensation, Bob Grim. Only it never happened. Not in 1954 or 1955 for that matter. The Yankees didn’t beat anybody 9-4 in Yankee Stadium that year or the next. How do I know? I went on line and checked the Baseball Almanac. Memory is a funny thing. If you asked me 30 years ago, or even the day before I sent the email to my buddies, about my first trip to the Big Ballpark I would have said with complete confidence it was 1954, the Yankees beat the White Sox 9-4. Bob Grim was the winning pitcher.
You know, I was very fond of that memory. Notwithstanding what the Baseball Almanac says, I called my father see what he remembered. He thought it was the Polo Grounds, New York Giants versus the St Louis Cardinals.
The World Wide Web, so loaded with information on so many topics, is a marvel; maybe the most incredible thing since Gutenberg’s printing press. There’s no question the Web has become indispensible for many of us. As a writer I am very grateful for the Net. Only now I wonder if it’s too easy to dig up things that should be left alone. Precious memories are a case in point. When you discover that something so ingrained in your memory never actually happened, it shakes your foundation you know? What other recollections do I have rolling around in my head that are nothing more than figments of my imagination?
Future generations probably won’t have such conundrums to deal with. What hasn’t been captured on the Web as a matter of public information, they will no doubt capture themselves and put it on MySpace. From their moment of birth to school days, birthdays, weddings and anniversaries, much of what our children and grandchildren do will be documented and available to the world. No need to wonder whether Aunt Stella was there for your Christening or whether your cousin Jimmy really punched your best man during the wedding rehearsal dinner. You’ll be able to go to your personal library and find the event. Could memory as we know it cease to exist? I mean if it’s all easily retrieved on your computer, just waiting in cyberspace anytime you want to access it, will we become too lazy or otherwise preoccupied to reflect on our experiences and, over time learn from them?
Nicholas Carr posed that very question in an article he wrote for Atlantic Monthly. In his article, Is Google Making Me Stupid, he says, “…I’ve had an uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, remapping the neural circuitry, reprogramming the memory.”
If studies should prove that the Internet does affect the way we think and our ability to remember, maybe future generations won’t have to worry about discovering some long held memory was wrong. Computers, serving as our adjunct brains, will keep memories straight with no worry that time or life experience will jumble several events together to form ersatz but satisfying memories. Memories will always be clinically correct. Isn’t that great?

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Sixties Music: Did I get it Backwards?

2008-09-25T20:19:00.007-05:00

“I’ll be the roundabout the words will make you out n out.” Recognize the line? It’s the opening lyrics to Roundabout, a song by the early seventies rock group Yes.
I have it on my i-Pod nano. After we gave iPods to our granddaughters for Christmas last year I got curious enough to buy one for myself and began the process of downloading my favorite music from iTunes. As I remember a song I really like I add it to my playlist. Most of what I have on my nano is sixties and seventies vintage stuff. (Note that “vintage” is in the eye of the beholder.) The obvious picks, Beatles, Rolling Stones, Four Seasons and a cornucopia of sentimental jukebox favorites make up the vast majority of the works I’ve complied. There are a few surprises in my iPod too like Sunday Morning by Maroon 5. I am happy to report that there is nothing in my iPod by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company or the Archies. On the other hand Harper Valley PTA and Okie from Muskogee are on my play list.
Merle Haggard’s number is there because it reminds me of being old enough to order a beer in a tavern. The New Warren Lounge was a typical corner bar near the campus. Okie From Muskogee was on the jukebox and we played it often, singing along and laughing, our tone, mocking. That was a long time ago.
It’s still a weird feeling to have the ability to listen to the songs I most want to hear when I feel like it, no matter where I am. When these songs were actually hit records, not CDs -records, we had to wait until they came on the radio. If we bought the album we had to be sitting next to a record player if we wanted to skip a song or two. In the late sixties eight track tapes were introduced, giving us the option to listen while we drove around. The smart thing to do was to install the tape player in the glove compartment. It reduced the chances that you would wake up one morning only to find one of your car windows broken and the tape player gone. By the way if you’re reading this and you took my friend Frank’s tape player and the Moody Blues Days of Future Passed album out of his ’62 Buick Electra, he still wants it back.
With an iPod or any MP3 player we have the luxury of listening to our favorites anywhere, anytime and in any order. If I want to listen to the same song twenty times in a row it’s easy to do. So where do I use it? Most of my listening is confined to early morning workouts. Sometimes I take my iPod along when I travel. I can easily kill a few hours listening to golden oldies on a long flight.
I hate to admit it but there is something comical about listening to the lyrics of some of the old songs. In my early twenties I often listened for messages with deep philosophical meaning, something that might point me in the right direction. Listening to the same songs almost forty years later it’s now plain to see that other guys in their early twenties, just as confused as we were, wrote this stuff. Here’s a case in point: More lines from Roundabout.
“I will remember you
Your silhouette will charge the view
Of distance atmosphere
Call it morning driving thru the sound and
Even in the valley”
With the guitars and near falsetto voice of Jon Anderson it all sounded profound at the time. Interestingly enough, Anderson himself acknowledged that they were just words he happened to think of while driving to the recording studio. If I still had my old record player I could play the song backwards. The hidden meaning is in there somewhere.
I made fun of Merle Haggard back then. Looking back, did I have it backwards? Read a few lines from Okie From Muskogee.
“I'm proud to be an Okie from Muskogee,
A place where even squares can have a ball
We still wave Old Glory down at the courthouse, And white lightnin's still the biggest thrill of all”
The words are neither eloquent nor clever. Yet, it’s hard to recall these words without thinking about how sweet life was back then. Recent polls say that 84% of Americans think we’re on the wrong track. Maybe things will improve if being a square makes a comeback.

Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved