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.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Pundit Game
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Menu Fatigue
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.
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.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Learning New Tricks
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.
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.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Do You Have a License to Use That Thing?
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.
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.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Are You Hiding Something Honey?
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Was That You I Saw on the Restaurant Wall?
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Requiem for the Wristwatch?
“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.
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.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I Knew You Before I Didn't
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.
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.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Using the Drive-thru? Don't Be Rude
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.
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.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Breakfast of Champions
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
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
Friday, October 3, 2008
I Remember That
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.
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.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Sixties Music: Did I get it Backwards?
“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
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
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