Mike Perkins woke up with a start. He was cold. His fingers looked blue in the dim light of his bedroom. He was about to curse but thought better of it. It was the day before Christmas. He shook his head which, now that he thought about it, ached from a cold. Already his nose was running again. No wonder, he thought. “It must be forty-something degrees in here,” he murmured aloud to himself.
The furnace must have died during the night. Shoveling coal was a chore he hated but this was worse. He would have to light a new fire and wait till the wood was burning good and hot before he could add some coal to it.
He forced himself out of bed. He looked over and saw that his wife Melanie was still sleeping. How could she sleep when winter had invaded their bedroom? He wondered. Maybe being pregnant kept a woman warm somehow. He grabbed an extra blanket and gently placed over her body. Then he headed to the cellar and got to work lighting a fire.
As he added heavier pieces of lumber to the paper and light kindling sticks, his head began to clear. He hadn’t even checked on the twins yet. His 8 year old sons were his pride and joy. Secretly he hoped the new baby due in a couple of weeks would be a girl. Of course he told all the guys at the mill he wanted another boy. Melanie was praying for a girl though, so he wanted one too.
Now the fire was roaring. The wood crackled as the red, yellow and blue flame devoured it. He could add the coal soon.
“Daddy? Is it Christmas yet?”
That would be Randy. Although the boys were spitting images of each other he could always tell the difference between the two by the timbre of their young voices.
“Not yet Randy, tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait for it to come,” Randy said.
“Why is that?”
“Well tomorrow Santa is bringing me a new train set, just like I asked for.” Mike’s heart sank. The fire had warmed his bones but suddenly he felt cold again. He forgot all about what the boys had been asking for all these weeks, ever since Thanksgiving. He had priced train sets at Mitchell’s department store again, just like last year. Nothing had changed. No way could he afford something like that. The set the boys asked for, Santa Fe Railway diesel engines with a line of box cars, oil tankers and a shiny red caboose, was priced right at $100, about $70 more than he had to spend. He couldn’t understand why Mitchell’s would display something so expensive when most of the kids in the neighborhood had at least one parent that worked in the mill. Money problems were routine. He even wrote Mr. Mitchell a letter to complain about it. Melanie thought he was crazy. “What good will that do?” she asked. Mike had to admit he didn’t know but he was always writing letters anyway. Some went to politicians, others to the editor of the County Times. It was just something he did.
He turned to face his son. Ronnie was standing next to Randy now. The boys didn’t agree on much but they were united in their desire for that train set. “Now boys, Santa has to take care of a lot of other kids this year. It might have to wait until next year.”
“No Daddy.” It was Ronnie who spoke this time. “He didn’t give us a train last year. You said he ran out of them but we would be first in line this year, remember?”
Mike nodded. “I remember,” he said. He wished he could crawl back into bed and wake up in the middle of January. He started shoveling coal. He and Melanie had talked about it a few days ago. She felt the boys would be disappointed but they would soon get over it. Anyway, they were each getting a new baseball mitt. She pointed out that neither of the boys had mentioned the trains for nearly a week. “They understand Mike, really. They can see we’re struggling. And, with another mouth to feed, well we just can’t do it.”
Randy and Ronnie stood there, neither of them moving a muscle. They watched their father shovel coal into the furnace, waiting for some sign from him that they needn’t worry: Their Christmas dream would come true. “Go on upstairs boys. I’ll fix you some breakfast before I go to work.”
“Santa’s not bringing the trains,” Randy said to Ronnie, disappointment in his voice. The twins turned in unison to climb the stairs to the kitchen.
“Maybe he will,” Mike said. What possessed him to give the boys hope he couldn’t really say. He was broke. But something inside, was it anger at life’s cruelty, that well to do men would make such fine things and keep them out of reach of underprivileged kids? Was it his childlike belief, however fleeting, that miracles can happen at Christmas? Miracles, he thought. He sure had never seen one. And now he would need one. That was not something he was known for.
He put the shovel down, banked the fire and headed up the stairs. Melanie was in the kitchen making breakfast. He gave her a peck on the cheek and went to get ready for work. She followed him into the bathroom. He was putting shaving cream on his face. She walked over to him, fire in her eyes. “Michael, did you just tell your sons they were getting that stupid train set for Christmas?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean? Did you or didn’t you tell them that? They are just humming out there, talking about how the train’s gonna be around the tree when they get up in the morning. Have you lost your mind?”
“All I said Mel, was maybe.”
“You might as well have guaranteed it Mike. What are we going to do? We’re behind on the rent as it is. Don’t you know they’re going to tell their friends all about it today? Then tomorrow they are going to wish they could crawl under a rock. As far as I’m concerned you can join them.”
Twenty minutes later Mike walked down the street toward the bus stop. It was an extremely cold and windy day. Snow flurries decorated the streets. Not that Mike noticed. He wasn’t cold like he was earlier. No, he was numb, inside and out. The bus came right on schedule. A lot of people took the day off so the bus wasn’t crowded. Usually he had to stand all the way to his stop which was two blocks from the mill. Today he got a seat. The bus ran through its route, making stops along the way. An old gentleman got on just two stops before Mike’s and sat down next to him.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “Looks like it’s going to be a cold one.”
Mike just nodded. He sat staring at the ads on the bus’s wall not reading them, just staring as if one of them might have the answer.
“Say, if you don’t mind my saying so, you look like a man carrying a heavy load,” the man said.
Mike turned and looked the guy over. He could be taciturn when things weren’t going well. Melanie had spoken to him about that more than once. This was one of those times. Recognizing that Mike wasn’t going to respond the old man turned away and started to read his newspaper. The bus stopped to pick up another passenger. As it pulled way from the curb Mike reached up and pulled the cord for his stop. He checked his watch and saw he was going to be late for work. He shrugged as if to say, “What else could go wrong today?”
The old man let out a sigh. He folded up his newspaper and offered it to Mike. “Go ahead and take it. There might be something in the news today that will cheer you up.”
“I doubt that.”
“Just the same, take the paper. Nothing is as bad as it seems my boy.” The bus was coming to a stop; the door opened. Mike got up to go. The man shoved the newspaper toward him. He grabbed it, mumbled a thank you and bounded off the bus. He was going to toss it in the wastebasket but he was in a hurry. He didn’t want to be a moment later than he already was.
He stood over his machine all morning as if he was in a trance. His mind raced as he considered all the possibilities. A bank loan was out of the question. But Melanie’s parents might be willing to lend him the money, a promising thought until it dawned on him that he would soon be asking them to help with the hospital bill when the new baby arrived. Another possibility was Shaughnessy an old school chum from the neighborhood. He could definitely get the money from him but Shaughnessy was a loan shark. He would be paying him for the rest of his life and unlike the electric company, missing a payment wasn’t an option. He had to face reality. The boys would be disappointed but it wasn’t fatal. Feeling sorry for himself Mike thought, “get used to the idea kids because it will happen a lot in life.” The thought shamed him.
The whistle blew signaling lunch time. He went to his locker and reached for his lunch pail. Sitting underneath it was the newspaper the old man gave him. Thinking about the old man he smiled, if only for a moment. The guy actually bore a slight resemblance to Santa Claus. Nobody would have confused him with the Santa from the Coca Cola ads, but the guy was overweight and sported a scruffy white beard. He had a red sweater under his coat and he wore heavy black boots.
Mike took the paper over to one of the picnic tables where he usually ate lunch. On most days the tables would be crowded but a lot of the guys took vacation this time of year. He sat in silence and ate his peanut butter and banana sandwich. He picked up the paper and started to turn the pages. On page 25 he saw something that brought him up short. It was a Mitchell’s Department store ad with a picture of the exact train set the boys asked for. He could not believe his eyes when he read the ad; this week only, Mitchell’s was offering to give the entire train set away to the customer that could write a limerick describing the scene in the ad which showed an enraptured little boy at the controls of the train. Mike grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper. He always enjoyed writing poems but he never showed anyone, not even Melanie, a single word he wrote. In hardy any time at all he had what he thought was the perfect limerick.
The Santa Fe Railway a red and white honey
Running the trains makes a boy’s day sunny
Lights and whistles so much to see
He’s hoping Santa puts one under his tree
It’ll happen for sure if daddy has money
The ad said the limerick had to be entered by 2:00 p.m. that day. He checked his watch. It was 12:30. He would have to ask for the afternoon off. Certainly a part of him understood how foolish he was being. What were his chances of winning? But the more he thought about it the more he believed that what he wrote was a winner. He just might deliver on his promise after all. He went looking for his boss to see if he could get leave early.
“Mike, I don’t think we can spare you,” his boss said. “We got too many people out today and we have an order that has to ship by five o’clock. Sorry buddy but you have to stay.”
Mike was crushed. He thought about telling his boss what he was up to but he was sure they guy would think he was crazy or worse, lying.
“I really have something important I need to do,” was all he could manage to say.
His boss shook his head and “Sorry.”
Mike stuffed the limerick in his shirt pocket and went back to work. At 1:30 his boss stopped by. He looked at Mike and said, “Don’t say a word. Not now. Not ever. To anyone.” With that he gently pushed Mike aside and said, “Get out of here.”
Mike practically ran out of the building, stopping only to punch his time card. He walked and ran all the way to Mitchell’s. He arrived just three minutes before the deadline. There was a long table near the train display where people could place their entries. Two judges, a man and a woman, sat at the table impeccably dressed with bored looks on their faces. They were surprised as much by Mike’s appearance in soiled work clothes, as by the lateness of his entry, coming in just under the wire.
He handed it to the woman. She read it quickly and passed it on to the man. He took his time going over it carefully. Then he looked at the woman whose eyes confirmed that they were in perfect agreement. “I’m sorry Mr. Perkins,” the man said, “This is good but we have several others that are even better.”
Mike was genuinely surprised. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
The woman averted her eyes. The man cleared his throat and said, “Well for one thing, your closing line refers to money. In fact it implies that the trains are too expensive.”
Mike could feel the blood rushing to his head. “Well they are too expensive. If they weren’t, why would you run a contest?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Perkins but you are not the winner today. Better luck next time.”
“Sure. I’ll tell my boys that tomorrow morning I guess. Better luck next time.” With that he turned to go. Just then another man who had been standing nearby walked over.
“My name is Robert J. Mitchell. Can I help you?” he said.
The next morning Randy and Ronnie woke up very early. It wasn’t even light out yet. Mike had given them strict instructions not to leave the bedroom they shared until they were told. He was up early too because he wanted to be sure they would have enough heat when it came time to open presents. He stoked the fire and got Melanie up. Then they all went into the tiny living room to see what was under the tree. Santa Claus came through at the Perkins house that year. The boys were ecstatic.
Upon seeing the shiny new train set, Melanie looked at Mike with a combined sense of fear and wonder. “Mike, I know you would never do something really crazy so I must be witnessing a Christmas miracle.”
Mike put his finger to his lips, smiled and whispered, “It’s a miracle alright. I’ll be working part time at Mitchell’s for a while.”
Melanie smiled and took Mike’s hand, her eyes glistening. “Merry Christmas Michael.”
They watched the boys as they took turns running the train. It was the best Christmas ever.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Happy Thanksgiving! Pass the Fish?
It’s turkey day already. We’ll follow a lot of holiday traditions, perhaps without knowing exactly why. Consider this: The Pilgrims never strayed very far from the ocean. Have you ever wondered why turkey was the meal of choice on that first Thanksgiving? Why not tilapia? Surely tilapia could be found in the estuaries in the Plymouth vicinity. The idea that fish could have been the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving Day feast isn’t all that far fetched. According to a spokesperson for the living-history museum Plimoth Plantation, that first Thanksgiving the natives and the Pilgrims feasted on fish, lobster and clams, in addition to venison, birds and nuts. They had peas and carrots too. I’ll bet the Pilgrim kids fed that to the squirrels.
Of course, had they chosen tilapia, cornbread stuffing probably wouldn’t have been an option. Nor would gravy be a popular item. A lot of restaurants serve tilapia these days but I have never seen, let alone tasted, tilapia gravy. A creative chef could no doubt make one, but would it go well with mashed potatoes? No wonder turkey was the surviving tradition. Let’s face it; a tilapia sandwich Thanksgiving night, with or without cranberry sauce, is about as appealing as a Detroit Lions – Cleveland Browns football game.
Regardless, pumpkin pie would still be an important part of the holiday. But, then again, that might be by default. Did the first settlers try cranberry pie the first few years? Maybe they got tired of scrubbing the red stains out of the special tablecloth. Tide wasn’t around then to help. And beating that tablecloth on a few rocks in cold water is no match for cranberry stains, that’s for sure. They probably decided that the cranberry didn’t mix well with Cool Whip either. Yes, pumpkin pie was a safer bet.
I suppose turkey is the quintessential American meal. People from all cultures have immigrated to America, especially over the last 150 years. Regardless of their origins, most have adopted turkey on Thanksgiving wholeheartedly. But, had another culture settled America first, would turkey have become the Thanksgiving table superstar it is today? My parents were first generation Italian Americans, born in the USA. My mother dutifully prepared a traditional Thanksgiving dinner but there were a few items that I don’t think the Pilgrims ever tried. Mushrooms sautéed in olive oil and garlic come to mind. At least she never stuffed the turkey with meatballs and sausage. Listen: had the Italians arrived first (right after Christophoro Columbo) there’s a distinct possibility that the Thanksgiving menu would look more like what one can get any night of the week at Buca De Beppo. They’re open Thanksgiving if you’re so inclined.
A lot of people say they really look forward to enjoying leftovers for a couple of days. Turkey sandwiches for lunch, pie for a midnight snack and so on. Of course, if you’re having company you must cook a turkey that’s big enough to send guests home with provisions too. Advance planning is critical. There is nothing worse than having to turn over the drumsticks to your brother-in-law, leaving you with turkey gizzard and the wishbone. The Pilgrims and the natives probably didn’t have that problem. For starters, the closest thing they had to a Frigidaire was a stream filled with cold water. Without Tupperware to hold the leftovers, the tilapia still swimming would have taken revenge and eaten them.
Regardless of what’s on the menu, the purpose of the holiday hasn’t changed all that much over the centuries. Originally what is now known as thanksgiving was meant to celebrate the harvest season. Europeans, American Indians and other cultures held feasts to offer thanks to the good Lord for their sustenance and survival. Of course the vast majority of Americans were farmers in the early years. Today, not many of us are connected to farm work.
Except for the wizards of Wall Street who have the privilege of collecting huge annual bonuses, most of us don’t actually celebrate a harvest on Thanksgiving. But we are thankful for what we have.
Like Old Glory and raucous town hall meetings, Turkey on Thanksgiving is truly an American touchstone. President Obama should be grateful for that. If tradition holds, he will pardon a turkey today. He should be grateful tilapia isn’t the centerpiece of dining room tables. Dropping a gasping fish into a river would have been a lousy photo-op.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Of course, had they chosen tilapia, cornbread stuffing probably wouldn’t have been an option. Nor would gravy be a popular item. A lot of restaurants serve tilapia these days but I have never seen, let alone tasted, tilapia gravy. A creative chef could no doubt make one, but would it go well with mashed potatoes? No wonder turkey was the surviving tradition. Let’s face it; a tilapia sandwich Thanksgiving night, with or without cranberry sauce, is about as appealing as a Detroit Lions – Cleveland Browns football game.
Regardless, pumpkin pie would still be an important part of the holiday. But, then again, that might be by default. Did the first settlers try cranberry pie the first few years? Maybe they got tired of scrubbing the red stains out of the special tablecloth. Tide wasn’t around then to help. And beating that tablecloth on a few rocks in cold water is no match for cranberry stains, that’s for sure. They probably decided that the cranberry didn’t mix well with Cool Whip either. Yes, pumpkin pie was a safer bet.
I suppose turkey is the quintessential American meal. People from all cultures have immigrated to America, especially over the last 150 years. Regardless of their origins, most have adopted turkey on Thanksgiving wholeheartedly. But, had another culture settled America first, would turkey have become the Thanksgiving table superstar it is today? My parents were first generation Italian Americans, born in the USA. My mother dutifully prepared a traditional Thanksgiving dinner but there were a few items that I don’t think the Pilgrims ever tried. Mushrooms sautéed in olive oil and garlic come to mind. At least she never stuffed the turkey with meatballs and sausage. Listen: had the Italians arrived first (right after Christophoro Columbo) there’s a distinct possibility that the Thanksgiving menu would look more like what one can get any night of the week at Buca De Beppo. They’re open Thanksgiving if you’re so inclined.
A lot of people say they really look forward to enjoying leftovers for a couple of days. Turkey sandwiches for lunch, pie for a midnight snack and so on. Of course, if you’re having company you must cook a turkey that’s big enough to send guests home with provisions too. Advance planning is critical. There is nothing worse than having to turn over the drumsticks to your brother-in-law, leaving you with turkey gizzard and the wishbone. The Pilgrims and the natives probably didn’t have that problem. For starters, the closest thing they had to a Frigidaire was a stream filled with cold water. Without Tupperware to hold the leftovers, the tilapia still swimming would have taken revenge and eaten them.
Regardless of what’s on the menu, the purpose of the holiday hasn’t changed all that much over the centuries. Originally what is now known as thanksgiving was meant to celebrate the harvest season. Europeans, American Indians and other cultures held feasts to offer thanks to the good Lord for their sustenance and survival. Of course the vast majority of Americans were farmers in the early years. Today, not many of us are connected to farm work.
Except for the wizards of Wall Street who have the privilege of collecting huge annual bonuses, most of us don’t actually celebrate a harvest on Thanksgiving. But we are thankful for what we have.
Like Old Glory and raucous town hall meetings, Turkey on Thanksgiving is truly an American touchstone. President Obama should be grateful for that. If tradition holds, he will pardon a turkey today. He should be grateful tilapia isn’t the centerpiece of dining room tables. Dropping a gasping fish into a river would have been a lousy photo-op.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A Couple of Historic Moments
I got an email from President Obama just before midnight (11:56 p.m.) Saturday night. Yes, he wanted to tell me as soon as he could that at 11:15 p.m. the House of Representatives passed a health insurance reform bill. His email ran 8 short paragraphs. I found myself wondering about that. I mean the President is surely a good writer but to crank out such a long message and send it in just 41 minutes is amazing. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one he sent it to. It was addressed to me personally but we’ve never actually met.
The President said it was a historic moment and he praised the bravery of those in Congress that voted yes. The he cautioned me that it was “a night to celebrate but not to rest.” Next, the President expressed worries about the Senate bill’s prospects. Insurance companies are sure to do whatever they can to derail the bill. I have to say I was with the President all the way up to this point in his message. Regardless of how I feel about health care reform, I think it’s wonderful that the President is living up to his campaign promise to change the way things are done in Washington. Barack Obama is a busy man. Yet he thinks enough of me to write and so late on a Saturday night! I mean I never heard a word from George Bush.
But then the President said something that brought me up shorter than the period at the end of this sentence. He asked me for money. He wanted to know if I would donate $25 to the cause. Here was the President of the United States, our 44th President, asking for money to help him push his agenda.
Presidents have asked citizens to contribute to worthy causes like helping the people that suffered so much from Hurricane Katrina. But a sitting President asking working stiffs for money to help win an ongoing political battle marks another historic moment. I guess it was inevitable really. Vested interests, big corporations and rich people with more money than they need, have been engaged in a titanic struggle to hold onto their particular pieces of the pie for years now. Reforming big spending by well heeled lobbies is probably impossible given the advantages of the current system that accrue to lawmakers. Instead the answer seems to be, “Let’s get the little guy in on the action.” I’m not sure it will work though. Right now middle class America puts up with an enormous amount of electronic dueling during Presidential elections. How many of us are willing to spend our hard earned money for media ads with their laser like focus on dividing us further apart?
Still, it seems to me that the President’s asking for donations to fight for his agenda is an unprecedented step. If it works can we expect more of this type of behavior? Will we get Christmas cards praising artificial trees along with a request for a donation to get the administration’s version of global warming legislation passed?
Maybe when the President speaks to school children again he can ask them to donate 50% of their lunch money to get his education program done.
Will the President and his successors wind up hosting telethons, staying up all night a la Jerry Lewis mixing issues talk with entertainers that support the President’s views? (Note to Barack: Labor Day is taken and Jerry’s cause is worthy.)
As the most powerful man in the world, the President of the United States certainly has the right to use Teddy Roosevelt’s bully pulpit to advocate his agenda. But making a direct appeal for money is unseemly. It’s as if being President isn’t enough. He wants to be the president of a PAC as well.
We are living in a time when well reasoned argument isn’t enough anymore. The idea that together we will ultimately do what’s right based on good thoughtful ideas, has been replaced by money plays. I understand the President’s dilemma, but in the long term his strategy is not a winner for him or us.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. Al rights reserved.
The President said it was a historic moment and he praised the bravery of those in Congress that voted yes. The he cautioned me that it was “a night to celebrate but not to rest.” Next, the President expressed worries about the Senate bill’s prospects. Insurance companies are sure to do whatever they can to derail the bill. I have to say I was with the President all the way up to this point in his message. Regardless of how I feel about health care reform, I think it’s wonderful that the President is living up to his campaign promise to change the way things are done in Washington. Barack Obama is a busy man. Yet he thinks enough of me to write and so late on a Saturday night! I mean I never heard a word from George Bush.
But then the President said something that brought me up shorter than the period at the end of this sentence. He asked me for money. He wanted to know if I would donate $25 to the cause. Here was the President of the United States, our 44th President, asking for money to help him push his agenda.
Presidents have asked citizens to contribute to worthy causes like helping the people that suffered so much from Hurricane Katrina. But a sitting President asking working stiffs for money to help win an ongoing political battle marks another historic moment. I guess it was inevitable really. Vested interests, big corporations and rich people with more money than they need, have been engaged in a titanic struggle to hold onto their particular pieces of the pie for years now. Reforming big spending by well heeled lobbies is probably impossible given the advantages of the current system that accrue to lawmakers. Instead the answer seems to be, “Let’s get the little guy in on the action.” I’m not sure it will work though. Right now middle class America puts up with an enormous amount of electronic dueling during Presidential elections. How many of us are willing to spend our hard earned money for media ads with their laser like focus on dividing us further apart?
Still, it seems to me that the President’s asking for donations to fight for his agenda is an unprecedented step. If it works can we expect more of this type of behavior? Will we get Christmas cards praising artificial trees along with a request for a donation to get the administration’s version of global warming legislation passed?
Maybe when the President speaks to school children again he can ask them to donate 50% of their lunch money to get his education program done.
Will the President and his successors wind up hosting telethons, staying up all night a la Jerry Lewis mixing issues talk with entertainers that support the President’s views? (Note to Barack: Labor Day is taken and Jerry’s cause is worthy.)
As the most powerful man in the world, the President of the United States certainly has the right to use Teddy Roosevelt’s bully pulpit to advocate his agenda. But making a direct appeal for money is unseemly. It’s as if being President isn’t enough. He wants to be the president of a PAC as well.
We are living in a time when well reasoned argument isn’t enough anymore. The idea that together we will ultimately do what’s right based on good thoughtful ideas, has been replaced by money plays. I understand the President’s dilemma, but in the long term his strategy is not a winner for him or us.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. Al rights reserved.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The Impact We Make
I was complaining about the state of my tennis game. I started playing the game later in life and I wasn’t particularly athletic during my school years. I play two types of players: Guys half my age that seem to run down my best shots effortlessly and guys around my age that have been playing since they were two years old. I was lamenting my sad fate to my buddy when he asked me why I played the game. “Because I love it,” I said.
Then he said something to me that completely changed my outlook. “Len, you’ve been successful in other areas of your life, why do you feel you have to be so successful at tennis? Could tennis be a game you just play for fun without worrying about whether you win or lose?” Had I been undergoing a brain MRI when he said those words the technicians would have been treated to a light show rivaling the Pinball Wizard’s pinball machine.
How many times in your life does someone drop a gem into a casual conversation that wipes the clouds away, and allows you to see things with the clarity of the Hubble Space Telescope? It’s not the kind of thing that occurs every day but when it happens we are more than grateful. My friend’s tip wasn’t a life changing experience. Yet it has helped me enjoy tennis even more and, I am happy to note, my game seems to have improved now that I’ve relaxed. (If by some chance you’ve seen me play recently, go along. It makes the story better.)
Once in a while someone says something to you that does dramatically change your life for the better. It’s happened to me more than once. My wife said yes when I asked her to marry me. Certainly men and women I have worked for have given me a nudge in a better direction, often when I was drifting. I write because friends and colleagues said I had potential.
Saying something insightful requires exquisite timing, an impeccable choice of words and a listener who has stopped watching The Food Channel just long enough to connect the dots. With the possible exception of motivational speakers, being profound is not the kind of thing one goes around doing all the time. It would be nice to be able to routinely dispense sage advice. But who can plan for such moments? I suppose the best we can do is listen carefully for opportunities to help, do our best to keep our motives pure and speak the truth as we know it, recognizing that our “truth” has its limitations. Naturally, knowing when to say something and when to be still is yet another challenge. Silence at the right time can also be profound.
As a sophomore in high school, Brother Quigley, a member of the Irish Christian order, said something that stuck with me. “When your life is over,” he said, “even if you don’t make it to heaven, you will be amazed by how much good you’ve done.”
Well, if we each have a heavenly bank account that stores good works, all I can say is this: The longer I live the more I worry about whether my account balance is large enough to alleviate some of the things I’ve done that would have been better left unrecorded. Does helping someone improve his life for the better count if I do it by accident?
Most of us have not chosen lives in any way similar to Mother Teresa’s. Yet, in our daily lives we probably unknowingly say and do things that inspire others to change their behavior, take a chance, or become more giving in their relationships. It isn’t always immediately obvious when someone’s words and actions change the way we think or feel. Too often probably, we don’t appreciate the impact others have on us in the moment. When someone’s good work finally dawns on us, how often do we make the effort to tell them how much it meant to us? And do we get points for that too? Don’t laugh! I’m in the September of my years.
My friend probably never imagined he was dispensing marvelous wisdom about my tennis game. At least not consciously; most likely, he felt he was just going along with the flow of the conversation. Sometimes my friend reads The Observer. I hope he recognizes himself. If he doesn’t I’ll have to tell him what his words meant to me. I need the points.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Then he said something to me that completely changed my outlook. “Len, you’ve been successful in other areas of your life, why do you feel you have to be so successful at tennis? Could tennis be a game you just play for fun without worrying about whether you win or lose?” Had I been undergoing a brain MRI when he said those words the technicians would have been treated to a light show rivaling the Pinball Wizard’s pinball machine.
How many times in your life does someone drop a gem into a casual conversation that wipes the clouds away, and allows you to see things with the clarity of the Hubble Space Telescope? It’s not the kind of thing that occurs every day but when it happens we are more than grateful. My friend’s tip wasn’t a life changing experience. Yet it has helped me enjoy tennis even more and, I am happy to note, my game seems to have improved now that I’ve relaxed. (If by some chance you’ve seen me play recently, go along. It makes the story better.)
Once in a while someone says something to you that does dramatically change your life for the better. It’s happened to me more than once. My wife said yes when I asked her to marry me. Certainly men and women I have worked for have given me a nudge in a better direction, often when I was drifting. I write because friends and colleagues said I had potential.
Saying something insightful requires exquisite timing, an impeccable choice of words and a listener who has stopped watching The Food Channel just long enough to connect the dots. With the possible exception of motivational speakers, being profound is not the kind of thing one goes around doing all the time. It would be nice to be able to routinely dispense sage advice. But who can plan for such moments? I suppose the best we can do is listen carefully for opportunities to help, do our best to keep our motives pure and speak the truth as we know it, recognizing that our “truth” has its limitations. Naturally, knowing when to say something and when to be still is yet another challenge. Silence at the right time can also be profound.
As a sophomore in high school, Brother Quigley, a member of the Irish Christian order, said something that stuck with me. “When your life is over,” he said, “even if you don’t make it to heaven, you will be amazed by how much good you’ve done.”
Well, if we each have a heavenly bank account that stores good works, all I can say is this: The longer I live the more I worry about whether my account balance is large enough to alleviate some of the things I’ve done that would have been better left unrecorded. Does helping someone improve his life for the better count if I do it by accident?
Most of us have not chosen lives in any way similar to Mother Teresa’s. Yet, in our daily lives we probably unknowingly say and do things that inspire others to change their behavior, take a chance, or become more giving in their relationships. It isn’t always immediately obvious when someone’s words and actions change the way we think or feel. Too often probably, we don’t appreciate the impact others have on us in the moment. When someone’s good work finally dawns on us, how often do we make the effort to tell them how much it meant to us? And do we get points for that too? Don’t laugh! I’m in the September of my years.
My friend probably never imagined he was dispensing marvelous wisdom about my tennis game. At least not consciously; most likely, he felt he was just going along with the flow of the conversation. Sometimes my friend reads The Observer. I hope he recognizes himself. If he doesn’t I’ll have to tell him what his words meant to me. I need the points.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
That Enthusiastic New Kid
Pity the new employee. She comes into the job excited that her new boss picked her over a slew of other candidates. She is ready to love her new co-workers. She’s ready to make dramatic changes in her department.
She’s also the only person in the office that doesn’t know the tribal secrets. With just a few false steps she can and will be voted off the island. If she lasts long enough to become a full fledged member of the tribe she may wish she had been voted out. More likely, she’ll rue the day she agreed to set foot in the office she now believes is Limbo, Dante’s first circle of hell.
As my friend Heather said, “We’ve all seen the enthusiasm of the new person at work. It’s intriguing to watch what happens to them.” All of us have been in the new kid’s shoes at one time or another. It’s hard not to feel a little pity for her. At the same time it’s probably even harder not to find the newbie’s rose colored glasses annoying. Maybe it’s because we envy her. For those of us who have chosen the rat race, is there a better feeling than the notion, however fleeting, that we can make a difference?
What happens to the enthusiasm of the new person? I’m sure you know, but let’s review for old time’s sake. For starters, exactly three months after your first day on the job, they make you turn in your halo. Until that moment your brain works perfectly. You are infallible. Every idea, every suggestion and every analysis is greeted with knowing nods of agreement. You’re a breath of fresh air, bright and even funny. The boss thinks you’re wonderful. After all he picked you didn’t he? Who are the chowder heads in the chorus to disagree? But, once the halo is gone, turned over the guy who started work this morning, you suddenly morph from sage to sagebrush. Wasn’t that why you left your last job?
Right around the time the halo is transferred to the newer kid, you hear a rumor, never confirmed, that someone with less experience and the work ethic of the proverbial grasshopper is making a lot more than you do.
Then you decide that accountability is not exactly the coin of the realm in the organization you came to change. Your co-workers seem vaguely annoyed that they are required to show up for work to be paid. Would expecting them to do something productive during the 40 hours they are on the premises be unreasonable? You notice that their supervisors spend an inordinate amount of time on Monday mornings collecting money for lottery tickets. On Fridays they make the same rounds for the weekend’s football games. Once the Super Bowl is over and done, March Madness is on the horizon. Anyone whose team makes it to the Final Four is exempted from answering phones or responding to emails until the boss notices they’ve stopped working.
It’s about this time that you come to believe the guy in the corner office is crazy. By no means is this a metaphorical term. It’s merely an unkind word for a legitimate, if non-specific, diagnosis. The chief executive insists on making all the decisions, including the most important decision of all, which is not to make them. He schedules an all day meeting with an agenda full of important topics. After a six hour monologue he closes the meeting by saying, “We got a lot done today.” As you nod your head in vigorous agreement it dawns on you, now the formerly enthusiastic new person, that it’s over. It’s not going to be different here than it was the last place you worked.
If you’re nodding your head in agreement, thinking, “Yes, I have been there and done that,” an eerie feeling should come over you. What if this is the best Americans can do now? Obviously there are many people in this country doing great things and succeeding admirably. But I worry about creeping mediocrity in too many areas of our lives. A flight went down over Buffalo last winter while the pilot and co-pilot of a doomed commuter plane discussed their inexperience and lack of expertise in coping with icy conditions. Recently the media ran a story about a couple given the wrong embryo.
Shouldn’t we embrace and then emulate the enthusiasm of the new person? The pursuit of excellence is a communicable condition. Catch it if you dare.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
She’s also the only person in the office that doesn’t know the tribal secrets. With just a few false steps she can and will be voted off the island. If she lasts long enough to become a full fledged member of the tribe she may wish she had been voted out. More likely, she’ll rue the day she agreed to set foot in the office she now believes is Limbo, Dante’s first circle of hell.
As my friend Heather said, “We’ve all seen the enthusiasm of the new person at work. It’s intriguing to watch what happens to them.” All of us have been in the new kid’s shoes at one time or another. It’s hard not to feel a little pity for her. At the same time it’s probably even harder not to find the newbie’s rose colored glasses annoying. Maybe it’s because we envy her. For those of us who have chosen the rat race, is there a better feeling than the notion, however fleeting, that we can make a difference?
What happens to the enthusiasm of the new person? I’m sure you know, but let’s review for old time’s sake. For starters, exactly three months after your first day on the job, they make you turn in your halo. Until that moment your brain works perfectly. You are infallible. Every idea, every suggestion and every analysis is greeted with knowing nods of agreement. You’re a breath of fresh air, bright and even funny. The boss thinks you’re wonderful. After all he picked you didn’t he? Who are the chowder heads in the chorus to disagree? But, once the halo is gone, turned over the guy who started work this morning, you suddenly morph from sage to sagebrush. Wasn’t that why you left your last job?
Right around the time the halo is transferred to the newer kid, you hear a rumor, never confirmed, that someone with less experience and the work ethic of the proverbial grasshopper is making a lot more than you do.
Then you decide that accountability is not exactly the coin of the realm in the organization you came to change. Your co-workers seem vaguely annoyed that they are required to show up for work to be paid. Would expecting them to do something productive during the 40 hours they are on the premises be unreasonable? You notice that their supervisors spend an inordinate amount of time on Monday mornings collecting money for lottery tickets. On Fridays they make the same rounds for the weekend’s football games. Once the Super Bowl is over and done, March Madness is on the horizon. Anyone whose team makes it to the Final Four is exempted from answering phones or responding to emails until the boss notices they’ve stopped working.
It’s about this time that you come to believe the guy in the corner office is crazy. By no means is this a metaphorical term. It’s merely an unkind word for a legitimate, if non-specific, diagnosis. The chief executive insists on making all the decisions, including the most important decision of all, which is not to make them. He schedules an all day meeting with an agenda full of important topics. After a six hour monologue he closes the meeting by saying, “We got a lot done today.” As you nod your head in vigorous agreement it dawns on you, now the formerly enthusiastic new person, that it’s over. It’s not going to be different here than it was the last place you worked.
If you’re nodding your head in agreement, thinking, “Yes, I have been there and done that,” an eerie feeling should come over you. What if this is the best Americans can do now? Obviously there are many people in this country doing great things and succeeding admirably. But I worry about creeping mediocrity in too many areas of our lives. A flight went down over Buffalo last winter while the pilot and co-pilot of a doomed commuter plane discussed their inexperience and lack of expertise in coping with icy conditions. Recently the media ran a story about a couple given the wrong embryo.
Shouldn’t we embrace and then emulate the enthusiasm of the new person? The pursuit of excellence is a communicable condition. Catch it if you dare.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Job Interview? I Might be Rusty
I heard from a recruiter the other day who, against all odds, thought I might be a good candidate for a management position with a health care company. Interested in me? I’m at the age now where my resume is far less interesting than my Outlook contacts list.
I’m more than happy to help of course, working on the assumption that those who preceded me may have mentioned my name and given my career a boost. Still, it is flattering to be asked whether I might be interested in an opportunity. Somewhere between age fifty and today, the calls dwindled down to a precious few. I have loads of experience and enough energy to stoke the growth engines of a company on the move, but my hair is gray and no matter what the hair color commercials say, a return to black won’t change the fact that I was in the class of ’70.
Regardless, I got to thinking about how I might handle an interview. I’m a bit rusty and the role of the green, eager beaver on the make is a distant memory. Do interviewers still ask the same questions they were asking ten or fifteen years ago? Some of the questions are bound to trip me up. Interview queries I used to handle with aplomb might turn into a bomb if not handled carefully. Consider some of the time honored questions and responses I might offer having spent six full decades on earth.
“Where would you like to be in five years?”
“Not dead,” comes to mind immediately. It’s honest but probably not what my prospective employer has in mind. Could I keep a straight face if I give the response conventional wisdom demands? “I hope to be in a position with more responsibility once I have proven my ability and added value to the company in my current position.” Chances are I will have already accomplished more than my new and much younger boss has even attempted with 14 months of experience in his current position. Let’s face it, in five years I hope to be still turning down Social Security payments because, having won the Power Ball lottery, my annual annuity is way above the SSA threshold.
“Why are you thinking of changing jobs?” Again the traditional response, “I am seeking a new challenge that will help me to grow…” seems woefully inappropriate. Lately my interests run toward not growing things like tumors and the size of my stomach. The most accurate answer might be, “I’m here because I can’t believe you saw my resume, guessed my age and still asked to meet me.” I have to admit I would be excited if the interviewer turned out to be around my age. Maybe my new boss will be as perplexed as I am about exactly how annuities work. We would have a lot in common I’m sure.
“Tell me about yourself.”
Yikes! “How much time do you have?” Thanks to the natural shrinkage of my frontal lobes, the part of the brain that enables us to edit ourselves, my answer could run long and might include an episode where I called a high level executive an SOB and nearly blew a multi- million dollar deal.
“Tell me about a time when you overcame a serious problem and how you did it.”
“Weren’t you listening? Or didn’t I mention that I hid in my office for two years every time the SOB came to our company for a meeting.”
“Why should we hire you instead of someone else?”
Here again experienced professionals know that this is a good time to reiterate your strengths, accomplishments and burning desire to be part of an outstanding team. At this stage of my life though, I am sorely tempted to say, “How should I know? You’re the one doing the interviews. If you like, I’ll interview the other candidates and give you an assessment.” Of course it’s quite possible that I will come out the winner. If nothing else I’ll be able to answer the interviewer’s query specifically. “You should hire me because the other candidates don’t have enough experience. And I might add I have yet to be indicted for anything.”
“Would you like to have this job?
“Maybe. How far is the restroom from my office?”
“When can you start?”
“Thursday assuming the Power Ball ticket I bought Wednesday is another five bucks down the drain.”
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
I’m more than happy to help of course, working on the assumption that those who preceded me may have mentioned my name and given my career a boost. Still, it is flattering to be asked whether I might be interested in an opportunity. Somewhere between age fifty and today, the calls dwindled down to a precious few. I have loads of experience and enough energy to stoke the growth engines of a company on the move, but my hair is gray and no matter what the hair color commercials say, a return to black won’t change the fact that I was in the class of ’70.
Regardless, I got to thinking about how I might handle an interview. I’m a bit rusty and the role of the green, eager beaver on the make is a distant memory. Do interviewers still ask the same questions they were asking ten or fifteen years ago? Some of the questions are bound to trip me up. Interview queries I used to handle with aplomb might turn into a bomb if not handled carefully. Consider some of the time honored questions and responses I might offer having spent six full decades on earth.
“Where would you like to be in five years?”
“Not dead,” comes to mind immediately. It’s honest but probably not what my prospective employer has in mind. Could I keep a straight face if I give the response conventional wisdom demands? “I hope to be in a position with more responsibility once I have proven my ability and added value to the company in my current position.” Chances are I will have already accomplished more than my new and much younger boss has even attempted with 14 months of experience in his current position. Let’s face it, in five years I hope to be still turning down Social Security payments because, having won the Power Ball lottery, my annual annuity is way above the SSA threshold.
“Why are you thinking of changing jobs?” Again the traditional response, “I am seeking a new challenge that will help me to grow…” seems woefully inappropriate. Lately my interests run toward not growing things like tumors and the size of my stomach. The most accurate answer might be, “I’m here because I can’t believe you saw my resume, guessed my age and still asked to meet me.” I have to admit I would be excited if the interviewer turned out to be around my age. Maybe my new boss will be as perplexed as I am about exactly how annuities work. We would have a lot in common I’m sure.
“Tell me about yourself.”
Yikes! “How much time do you have?” Thanks to the natural shrinkage of my frontal lobes, the part of the brain that enables us to edit ourselves, my answer could run long and might include an episode where I called a high level executive an SOB and nearly blew a multi- million dollar deal.
“Tell me about a time when you overcame a serious problem and how you did it.”
“Weren’t you listening? Or didn’t I mention that I hid in my office for two years every time the SOB came to our company for a meeting.”
“Why should we hire you instead of someone else?”
Here again experienced professionals know that this is a good time to reiterate your strengths, accomplishments and burning desire to be part of an outstanding team. At this stage of my life though, I am sorely tempted to say, “How should I know? You’re the one doing the interviews. If you like, I’ll interview the other candidates and give you an assessment.” Of course it’s quite possible that I will come out the winner. If nothing else I’ll be able to answer the interviewer’s query specifically. “You should hire me because the other candidates don’t have enough experience. And I might add I have yet to be indicted for anything.”
“Would you like to have this job?
“Maybe. How far is the restroom from my office?”
“When can you start?”
“Thursday assuming the Power Ball ticket I bought Wednesday is another five bucks down the drain.”
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Disneyland or MY Hotel Room...Hmmm
So I’m sitting in my hotel room in Anaheim, California not two blocks from Disneyland and I have nothing to do. Now some people might take a stroll over to the famous amusement park and take in the sights, jump on a few rides and buy a set of Mickey Mouse ears. Not me.
Call me boring but the idea of visiting a place that has loads of couples and families reveling in the Magic Kingdom is unattractive to say the least. As I write this I’m not lonely. I have a book and my laptop to keep me company in my non-smoking, king bed cocoon. Yet, if I were to venture out to be among all these people, loneliness would set in like the thick fog that settles into the smoker’s lounge at the airport. Not having someone to turn to and say, “Isn’t that Dumbo over there” is depressing you know?
This is the nature of business travel really. My work here is done. All I have left to do now is fly back to Nashville tomorrow morning. People that don’t travel for business often think the road warrior’s life is glamorous. To be honest, when you first start traveling it is exciting. You feel as though you are doing important work; so important that the company is sending YOU to the meeting in Boston. It’s YOU that is flying off to San Francisco, through two or three time zones, to meet with the prospect that can change everything. Certainly cities like Boston and San Francisco come to mind when non-travelers fantasize about hitting the road. It never occurs to them that, more often than not, people are headed to places like Springfield, MO and Waterloo, IA.
And it’s not until you’ve done it for a while that you notice the looks on the faces of other business travelers. They look weary. They look bored. Some of them look angry. When you’ve run your laptop and shoes through airport security checkpoints enough times, eaten a fishy tasting piece of chicken in yet another chain restaurant, and slept in a strange bed for enough nights that it adds up to years of your life, glamorous is not the word that comes to mind.
Yes, business travel has its perks. There are travel related points that you can use to pay for vacations. (If your vacation requires air travel, your companion may have to resort to gunplay to get you to board.) You meet many fine people you would otherwise never know. I’ve made friends that have made my life immeasurably better. Of course, business travelers also meet people they could live two lifetimes without meeting and be eternally grateful. Then there are a few people who make it clear that you fall into that category for them.
Another travel perk is you might get to sit near a famous person on a flight. I’ve sat behind Fred Thompson, (bored) across the aisle from Bob Dole, (weary) and within shouting distance of one of the Mandrell sisters who definitely looked angry. None of them said or did anything I could blog about though.
You do get to see landmarks and other points of interest. Mostly you see them from your rental car, often limited to a fleeting, accidental glimpse because you are lost. Having no chance to make it to the all important meeting on time, you aren’t actually happy to see the Washington Monument when it comes down to it. Speaking of Washington, years ago I attended a seminar there that was worse than a sleepless night in hot, muggy weather. A colleague and I decided to skip an afternoon session to see the White House and the Smithsonian. It was delightful but another employee thought it was a good idea to tell my boss about it. That’s something non-travelers probably don’t consider when they are envying your expense account. Squeezing in a little time for sightseeing isn’t as easy as you might think. The boss was kind but only because my colleague had actually witnessed him shaking hands with Goofy on another trip. I’ll bet he wouldn’t have done it had he been there alone.
I wouldn’t want to discourage anyone form taking a job that requires travel. The pay tends to be good and here’s the best part. No matter what you tell people about the trials and tribulations of business travel, they won’t believe you. They’ll think you have it made.
Copyright 2009 len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Call me boring but the idea of visiting a place that has loads of couples and families reveling in the Magic Kingdom is unattractive to say the least. As I write this I’m not lonely. I have a book and my laptop to keep me company in my non-smoking, king bed cocoon. Yet, if I were to venture out to be among all these people, loneliness would set in like the thick fog that settles into the smoker’s lounge at the airport. Not having someone to turn to and say, “Isn’t that Dumbo over there” is depressing you know?
This is the nature of business travel really. My work here is done. All I have left to do now is fly back to Nashville tomorrow morning. People that don’t travel for business often think the road warrior’s life is glamorous. To be honest, when you first start traveling it is exciting. You feel as though you are doing important work; so important that the company is sending YOU to the meeting in Boston. It’s YOU that is flying off to San Francisco, through two or three time zones, to meet with the prospect that can change everything. Certainly cities like Boston and San Francisco come to mind when non-travelers fantasize about hitting the road. It never occurs to them that, more often than not, people are headed to places like Springfield, MO and Waterloo, IA.
And it’s not until you’ve done it for a while that you notice the looks on the faces of other business travelers. They look weary. They look bored. Some of them look angry. When you’ve run your laptop and shoes through airport security checkpoints enough times, eaten a fishy tasting piece of chicken in yet another chain restaurant, and slept in a strange bed for enough nights that it adds up to years of your life, glamorous is not the word that comes to mind.
Yes, business travel has its perks. There are travel related points that you can use to pay for vacations. (If your vacation requires air travel, your companion may have to resort to gunplay to get you to board.) You meet many fine people you would otherwise never know. I’ve made friends that have made my life immeasurably better. Of course, business travelers also meet people they could live two lifetimes without meeting and be eternally grateful. Then there are a few people who make it clear that you fall into that category for them.
Another travel perk is you might get to sit near a famous person on a flight. I’ve sat behind Fred Thompson, (bored) across the aisle from Bob Dole, (weary) and within shouting distance of one of the Mandrell sisters who definitely looked angry. None of them said or did anything I could blog about though.
You do get to see landmarks and other points of interest. Mostly you see them from your rental car, often limited to a fleeting, accidental glimpse because you are lost. Having no chance to make it to the all important meeting on time, you aren’t actually happy to see the Washington Monument when it comes down to it. Speaking of Washington, years ago I attended a seminar there that was worse than a sleepless night in hot, muggy weather. A colleague and I decided to skip an afternoon session to see the White House and the Smithsonian. It was delightful but another employee thought it was a good idea to tell my boss about it. That’s something non-travelers probably don’t consider when they are envying your expense account. Squeezing in a little time for sightseeing isn’t as easy as you might think. The boss was kind but only because my colleague had actually witnessed him shaking hands with Goofy on another trip. I’ll bet he wouldn’t have done it had he been there alone.
I wouldn’t want to discourage anyone form taking a job that requires travel. The pay tends to be good and here’s the best part. No matter what you tell people about the trials and tribulations of business travel, they won’t believe you. They’ll think you have it made.
Copyright 2009 len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Ever Work in a Factory?
Have you ever worked in a factory? It’s been many years for me but I remember well the summer jobs I had while in school. They were punishing enough to make me long for fall semester, classes and even homework. I have no idea of what factory work is like in 2009, but in the sixties it was like this:
• The work was repetitive and boring
• There were long stretches of sitting or standing in one place
• Breaks were few and far between
• Wages varied from minimum wage to a living wage but no amount of overtime could make you rich
• Nobody thought a thing about workplace ergonomics or workplace environment
As I saw it, men held the great majority of factory jobs back then. No doubt, factory floors had plenty of women, just not in the industries where I found jobs. With apologies to the women that worked their fingers to the bone under bad lighting, I’ll speak of the men I watched and worked with, knowing that for women it must have been infinitely harder.
There wasn’t much to keep laborers going in plants like these. There was nothing attractive about the surroundings or the smells. Foremen stood watch to be sure workers kept working. Not much to look forward to but a lot to fear like layoffs, accidents and debilitating illnesses. How did they do it? These men lived on dreams. For many the dreams were about quitting time, about Fridays and making it to payday so they could pay the rent and buy groceries. And on a good week there might be a little left over for a beer at the corner tavern on the way home.
Some men stood over their lathes, knees hurting, and shoulders aching; dreaming only about boilermakers, the kind one drank after all those very noisy hours staring at a machine. For them, bliss was the shot that took the edge off, allowing them to forget the bone crushing, spirit smashing work they had to do every day. The tavern was a second home for some of them. Some let their wives worry about raising their kids. And, one way or another, they paid for their sins.
Men working a drill press, packing parts and pieces for shipment, loading those packets onto long hot…cold trailers bound for places they would never see, were dreamers too. They silently counted the long days until they would have a week off. Spare change placed in a can, their wives scrounging for a few extra pennies, sons and daughters collecting pop bottles for the deposit money, just so they could spend a week, a glorious week, at the beach. Never in the big cottage of course, but thanks to a little overtime, maybe a night or two on the boardwalk, Philly cheese steaks and snow cones all around. Later they watched the kids thrill to the Tilt-a-Whirl ride, wondering as they sweetly held hands, whatever happened to their childhood.
Some of the men; forklift drivers, men that put tires on new Buicks or riveted their way from skyscraper to skyscraper, dreamed bigger dreams. Johnny Junior would get an education. He would not go to work every day wearing a workman’s uniform with his name on it. He would not have to lather his hands with sand soap when the work day ended. Little Linda Sue would be a nurse or a teacher and live with her husband in a fine A-frame home that they owned. What really drove those men to work day after day were their families. Home was a sanctuary. It made their labor possible and gave it meaning.
Most of us work in service industries today. There are difficult challenges to be sure but most of us come home clean, our lungs clear. I have never met anyone that experienced both a drill press and data processing that would choose the former, given a choice.
Factory workers then and now have done their jobs. America grew and became greater than ever thanks to the strong backs, the iron wills and the dreams of these men. Labor Day is a great day for a barbecue, a swim in the community pool and yes, a day off from work. But we wouldn’t be where we are today without the men that answered the whistles call and punched the time clock. Just before you take your first bite of a hot dog, before you dive into the deep end, remember someone in your family who was willing, as JFK said, “To bear any burden,” Then whisper these words: Thank you.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
• The work was repetitive and boring
• There were long stretches of sitting or standing in one place
• Breaks were few and far between
• Wages varied from minimum wage to a living wage but no amount of overtime could make you rich
• Nobody thought a thing about workplace ergonomics or workplace environment
As I saw it, men held the great majority of factory jobs back then. No doubt, factory floors had plenty of women, just not in the industries where I found jobs. With apologies to the women that worked their fingers to the bone under bad lighting, I’ll speak of the men I watched and worked with, knowing that for women it must have been infinitely harder.
There wasn’t much to keep laborers going in plants like these. There was nothing attractive about the surroundings or the smells. Foremen stood watch to be sure workers kept working. Not much to look forward to but a lot to fear like layoffs, accidents and debilitating illnesses. How did they do it? These men lived on dreams. For many the dreams were about quitting time, about Fridays and making it to payday so they could pay the rent and buy groceries. And on a good week there might be a little left over for a beer at the corner tavern on the way home.
Some men stood over their lathes, knees hurting, and shoulders aching; dreaming only about boilermakers, the kind one drank after all those very noisy hours staring at a machine. For them, bliss was the shot that took the edge off, allowing them to forget the bone crushing, spirit smashing work they had to do every day. The tavern was a second home for some of them. Some let their wives worry about raising their kids. And, one way or another, they paid for their sins.
Men working a drill press, packing parts and pieces for shipment, loading those packets onto long hot…cold trailers bound for places they would never see, were dreamers too. They silently counted the long days until they would have a week off. Spare change placed in a can, their wives scrounging for a few extra pennies, sons and daughters collecting pop bottles for the deposit money, just so they could spend a week, a glorious week, at the beach. Never in the big cottage of course, but thanks to a little overtime, maybe a night or two on the boardwalk, Philly cheese steaks and snow cones all around. Later they watched the kids thrill to the Tilt-a-Whirl ride, wondering as they sweetly held hands, whatever happened to their childhood.
Some of the men; forklift drivers, men that put tires on new Buicks or riveted their way from skyscraper to skyscraper, dreamed bigger dreams. Johnny Junior would get an education. He would not go to work every day wearing a workman’s uniform with his name on it. He would not have to lather his hands with sand soap when the work day ended. Little Linda Sue would be a nurse or a teacher and live with her husband in a fine A-frame home that they owned. What really drove those men to work day after day were their families. Home was a sanctuary. It made their labor possible and gave it meaning.
Most of us work in service industries today. There are difficult challenges to be sure but most of us come home clean, our lungs clear. I have never met anyone that experienced both a drill press and data processing that would choose the former, given a choice.
Factory workers then and now have done their jobs. America grew and became greater than ever thanks to the strong backs, the iron wills and the dreams of these men. Labor Day is a great day for a barbecue, a swim in the community pool and yes, a day off from work. But we wouldn’t be where we are today without the men that answered the whistles call and punched the time clock. Just before you take your first bite of a hot dog, before you dive into the deep end, remember someone in your family who was willing, as JFK said, “To bear any burden,” Then whisper these words: Thank you.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Just Like Larry
Occasionally people ask me why I write columns and then post them to my blog. Since we’re in the dog days of summer and I’ve been out in the heat, I’ll tell you why I write the Observer. I’m waiting to be discovered. I want to be a media big shot like Larry King. You don’t think it’s possible? Was Larry born behind a microphone? I realize he might well die behind a mike, but I can assure you he was a nobody before he was a somebody.
With every column I write I hope this is the one that goes viral, the one that everyone forwards to fifty of their closest friends. Then those people send it on to even more people. Eventually somebody, not thinking clearly perhaps, sends it to his cousin who happens to be a bigwig at MSNBC. Upon reading my stuff she says, “Get me Serafino.” Yes! A well stocked limo picks me up at the airport. My agent negotiates a long term contract. (Possibly I’m having a touch of sunstroke.)
Why would I want to be on television? The same reason Larry King likes being on TV. Being a celebrity is the only thing really worth being anymore. Like other celebrities, wherever Mr. King goes, he creates a buzz. Whether it’s the 21 Club, Charlie Trotter’s or The Dining Room, when someone like Larry strolls into these elegant spots, people notice. Well I have no trouble admitting that I want people to notice me. When I’m waiting for a table at the Cracker Barrel, I want to overhear someone say to his wife, “Isn’t that Serafino over there? The guy looking at the banana Moon Pies.” And don’t tell me you don’t want the same thing either. I know you do.
I’ll be smart like Larry too. He used to interview former presidents, well regarded actors and fabulously successful business people. Now his shows seem to focus a lot more on people who are either missing or dead. I mean really, who wants to hear what a former Secretary of State has to say? If you want to keep making all that money (I almost forgot. I want the money too) you must change with the times. Above all else keep your ratings high. Otherwise you’ll find yourself standing in line with everybody else at the local Olive Garden. No way! If you have to run a “Michael Jackson is dead” show every night for a couple of months to avoid that unhappy fate, then do that.
My show will be everything we have come to expect from cable news today and more. Not only would I have the Jackson siblings on, Michael himself would be my special guest. He probably wouldn’t say much but since his body is still around, why not break new ground? And don’t tell me you wouldn’t be watching. When you hear the promo, “Tonight on Serafino Speaks, Michael Jackson live…more or less,” you’ll be watching, TiVo-ing and tuning in for more.
I’ll be rubbing elbows with other celebrities too, all of them eager to tell us stories about their latest project, explain their most recent faux pas or best of all, share their outrageous plans for the future. “Len, I want you to be the first to know. I just signed a deal to host a new reality show called, Wedding Moos, BAAAs and Oinks. Contestants will marry farm animals, move to the city and compete for big prizes.”
Another great thing about being a TV celebrity is that behaving badly actually gets you more attention. That means higher ratings. And, of course, even more money. Listen: One day I mentioned to my wife that with my own show I could afford a trophy wife. She kinda put a damper on that one though. “I am your trophy wife,” were her exact words; hard to argue with the truth. But celebrity offers other opportunities for foolishness like speaking out on complicated issues without the advantage of understanding them. Real knowledge is hardly the point. High ratings equal gravitas. Wait till you hear my thoughts on neuroleptic discontinuation.
Having my own cable TV show, making millions of dollars and being famous to boot, doesn’t seem that far fetched to me. If I’m willing to put my scruples in the corner, consider shame an outdated emotion and feel my responsibility to viewers is secondary to my status among the media glitterati, I can have it all. But, until that glorious day I’ll have to keep writing the Observer. Keep forwarding please. CNN is this close.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
With every column I write I hope this is the one that goes viral, the one that everyone forwards to fifty of their closest friends. Then those people send it on to even more people. Eventually somebody, not thinking clearly perhaps, sends it to his cousin who happens to be a bigwig at MSNBC. Upon reading my stuff she says, “Get me Serafino.” Yes! A well stocked limo picks me up at the airport. My agent negotiates a long term contract. (Possibly I’m having a touch of sunstroke.)
Why would I want to be on television? The same reason Larry King likes being on TV. Being a celebrity is the only thing really worth being anymore. Like other celebrities, wherever Mr. King goes, he creates a buzz. Whether it’s the 21 Club, Charlie Trotter’s or The Dining Room, when someone like Larry strolls into these elegant spots, people notice. Well I have no trouble admitting that I want people to notice me. When I’m waiting for a table at the Cracker Barrel, I want to overhear someone say to his wife, “Isn’t that Serafino over there? The guy looking at the banana Moon Pies.” And don’t tell me you don’t want the same thing either. I know you do.
I’ll be smart like Larry too. He used to interview former presidents, well regarded actors and fabulously successful business people. Now his shows seem to focus a lot more on people who are either missing or dead. I mean really, who wants to hear what a former Secretary of State has to say? If you want to keep making all that money (I almost forgot. I want the money too) you must change with the times. Above all else keep your ratings high. Otherwise you’ll find yourself standing in line with everybody else at the local Olive Garden. No way! If you have to run a “Michael Jackson is dead” show every night for a couple of months to avoid that unhappy fate, then do that.
My show will be everything we have come to expect from cable news today and more. Not only would I have the Jackson siblings on, Michael himself would be my special guest. He probably wouldn’t say much but since his body is still around, why not break new ground? And don’t tell me you wouldn’t be watching. When you hear the promo, “Tonight on Serafino Speaks, Michael Jackson live…more or less,” you’ll be watching, TiVo-ing and tuning in for more.
I’ll be rubbing elbows with other celebrities too, all of them eager to tell us stories about their latest project, explain their most recent faux pas or best of all, share their outrageous plans for the future. “Len, I want you to be the first to know. I just signed a deal to host a new reality show called, Wedding Moos, BAAAs and Oinks. Contestants will marry farm animals, move to the city and compete for big prizes.”
Another great thing about being a TV celebrity is that behaving badly actually gets you more attention. That means higher ratings. And, of course, even more money. Listen: One day I mentioned to my wife that with my own show I could afford a trophy wife. She kinda put a damper on that one though. “I am your trophy wife,” were her exact words; hard to argue with the truth. But celebrity offers other opportunities for foolishness like speaking out on complicated issues without the advantage of understanding them. Real knowledge is hardly the point. High ratings equal gravitas. Wait till you hear my thoughts on neuroleptic discontinuation.
Having my own cable TV show, making millions of dollars and being famous to boot, doesn’t seem that far fetched to me. If I’m willing to put my scruples in the corner, consider shame an outdated emotion and feel my responsibility to viewers is secondary to my status among the media glitterati, I can have it all. But, until that glorious day I’ll have to keep writing the Observer. Keep forwarding please. CNN is this close.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Could Technology Have Saved Turkish Taffy?
Sometimes I worry that technology is moving so fast that I have no hope of keeping up. For example, I know how to use an Excel Spreadsheet. That is I can handle the basics. When I watch my younger counterparts in the office manipulating data, changing scenarios and moving numbers around at the speed of light, I think about God’s wisdom when he created retirement. (On the seventh day He rested.)
Coping with technology in the workplace is not an easy task for people over a certain age. Some of us can still remember when an adding machine had numbers you punched and a crank to get those numbers imprinted on a slip of paper. The idea that paper itself, not to mention the machines, would one day be unnecessary occurred only to the wizards that invented the technology.
Adapting to rapid change isn’t limited to the work place. Even as consumers we are forced to deal with the intricacies of an electronic, cyber driven world and the seeming absurdities of time saving technologies. The other day I was trying to get a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich at a local eatery. The woman behind the counter entered the information into the cash register. Did I say cash register? This was a high powered, intelligent, touch screen marvel that happens to dispense cash but more importantly perhaps, collects oodles of information about our preferences. Unfortunately, she made a mistake. No doubt you’ve had this experience a time or two. She was flummoxed by the register, immediately trumping my blood pressure medication in the process. I knew we would be extending our relationship well beyond the amount of time it usually takes to exchange the money, get the coffee cup and move on. I’m sure she was a nice lady but I had more important things to do. My cell phone call was ringing.
Our transaction (and relationship) over, I walked away thinking that technology which is supposed to make life easier often does the opposite. With an old fashioned cash register the woman would have punched the keys, the drawer would have opened and she would have handed me my change…quickly. If she made a mistake she would not have needed a manager to help her figure out how to decline white cheddar and insert pepper jack cheese in its place. Although the guy making the sandwich was not more than ten feet away, she did not have the option of saying, “Yo! Sam make that pepper jack instead of white cheddar.” The correct cheese had to be in the computer for him to do his job and for me to get my change.
As we get older it’s tempting to assume that everything was better in the so-called old days. On reflection though, the restaurant incident isn’t exactly a prima facie example of technology run amok. For one thing, the information collected by these computer driven registers helps managers to manage their inventories and keep their costs down. That keeps our prices lower. For another, it’s not a bad thing when proprietors can validate consumer preferences rather than fly by the seat of their pants. For my money we would still be able to buy Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy if only Big Brother had come around sooner.
Then too, in the old days we didn’t use credit cards for everything and traffic in stores wasn’t nearly as heavy as it is today. Lines would certainly be longer if we didn’t have technology. The truth is that putting up with a delay caused by an occasional mistake is a small price to pay for progress.
When it comes to technology there are always tradeoffs. Like wonderful new curative drugs, side effects are found in the fine print. Great technical advances have drawbacks.
Recently, my friend Chuck observed that a major difference in today’s technology advances is that they are no longer passive. Radio and TV were passive advances. Our grandparents sat in the parlor and gathered around the radio to be entertained and hear the news. Not so today. From video games to blogging, it’s an interactive world. So many jobs today demand creativity engineered by computerized applications. We can no longer rely on the geek in the tiny cubicle to “work this contraption.”
Listen: We can spend as much free time as we like remembering the good old days. But the deal is this: Get in the game or you will have even more time to reminisce. Now, when is the next Excel class?
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Coping with technology in the workplace is not an easy task for people over a certain age. Some of us can still remember when an adding machine had numbers you punched and a crank to get those numbers imprinted on a slip of paper. The idea that paper itself, not to mention the machines, would one day be unnecessary occurred only to the wizards that invented the technology.
Adapting to rapid change isn’t limited to the work place. Even as consumers we are forced to deal with the intricacies of an electronic, cyber driven world and the seeming absurdities of time saving technologies. The other day I was trying to get a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich at a local eatery. The woman behind the counter entered the information into the cash register. Did I say cash register? This was a high powered, intelligent, touch screen marvel that happens to dispense cash but more importantly perhaps, collects oodles of information about our preferences. Unfortunately, she made a mistake. No doubt you’ve had this experience a time or two. She was flummoxed by the register, immediately trumping my blood pressure medication in the process. I knew we would be extending our relationship well beyond the amount of time it usually takes to exchange the money, get the coffee cup and move on. I’m sure she was a nice lady but I had more important things to do. My cell phone call was ringing.
Our transaction (and relationship) over, I walked away thinking that technology which is supposed to make life easier often does the opposite. With an old fashioned cash register the woman would have punched the keys, the drawer would have opened and she would have handed me my change…quickly. If she made a mistake she would not have needed a manager to help her figure out how to decline white cheddar and insert pepper jack cheese in its place. Although the guy making the sandwich was not more than ten feet away, she did not have the option of saying, “Yo! Sam make that pepper jack instead of white cheddar.” The correct cheese had to be in the computer for him to do his job and for me to get my change.
As we get older it’s tempting to assume that everything was better in the so-called old days. On reflection though, the restaurant incident isn’t exactly a prima facie example of technology run amok. For one thing, the information collected by these computer driven registers helps managers to manage their inventories and keep their costs down. That keeps our prices lower. For another, it’s not a bad thing when proprietors can validate consumer preferences rather than fly by the seat of their pants. For my money we would still be able to buy Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy if only Big Brother had come around sooner.
Then too, in the old days we didn’t use credit cards for everything and traffic in stores wasn’t nearly as heavy as it is today. Lines would certainly be longer if we didn’t have technology. The truth is that putting up with a delay caused by an occasional mistake is a small price to pay for progress.
When it comes to technology there are always tradeoffs. Like wonderful new curative drugs, side effects are found in the fine print. Great technical advances have drawbacks.
Recently, my friend Chuck observed that a major difference in today’s technology advances is that they are no longer passive. Radio and TV were passive advances. Our grandparents sat in the parlor and gathered around the radio to be entertained and hear the news. Not so today. From video games to blogging, it’s an interactive world. So many jobs today demand creativity engineered by computerized applications. We can no longer rely on the geek in the tiny cubicle to “work this contraption.”
Listen: We can spend as much free time as we like remembering the good old days. But the deal is this: Get in the game or you will have even more time to reminisce. Now, when is the next Excel class?
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
You Struck Out? Wonderful! It Wasn't Always Like That
I was talking to my friend Evelyn the other day about childhood. Specifically, we were reminiscing about summers spent in the streets playing baseball, riding bikes and running around the neighborhood seemingly without parental oversight. As recently as 40 years ago it was still possible for mothers to tell their kids to go out and play without worrying about what might happen to them.
When I was a kid we spent summer days playing hardball in the street, touch football and other ball games from morning till dinnertime. After dinner we were back out there for more. We organized ourselves into teams choosing sides, the older boys usually doing the choosing. If there were an odd number of kids it might mean as the youngest or the worst player you were left out. It happened every day. Not a single kid in my neighborhood had a nervous breakdown because he didn’t get picked that day.
We didn’t have adults coaching us either. No fathers showed up wearing baseball caps, ready to supervise our games. We didn’t have to put up with practice two nights a week so we could play one game on Saturday morning. We played two and sometimes three games a day, often with as little as three guys on each side. A pitcher a first baseman an outfielder and a little imagination were all we needed. Our mother’s did not come out to watch us play. In fact if a boy’s mother showed up it usually meant he would be leaving and we would need little Jimmy after all if we wanted to keep playing.
And you can be sure that striking out with the bases loaded was never met with a few words of encouragement let alone praise. In those days one of your teammates would no doubt say, “You stink Lenny. Why don’t you go play with dolls?” It hurt to hear those words but the next day we were out there again trying to make like Mickey Mantle. In the process we learned something about resilience.
The world has changed beyond our wildest imaginations since I was a kid. Homogeneous neighborhoods gave way to subdivisions around the same time married women entered the workforce. Without all the moms around to secretly keep an eye on their progeny, giving the kids free run of the neighborhood became impossible.
Fast forward to the brave new world we live in today. I have attended my grandson’s little league games. “Way to go Timmy. Nice swing.” This after the kid swung three times and missed a ball sitting big as a grapefruit on a tee. I find myself wondering how these kids are going to cope with failure and criticism later in life when everything they do is met with a cheer.
The praise is constant in our politically correct world now. The experts have somehow convinced us that we can do permanent damage to a kid’s psyche if we even hint that he’s not as good as every other kid out there. Results are irrelevant. Effort, talent and determination are not important if you’re a kid. Apparently, showing up is the great equalizer. The really stupid thing about this is that the kid getting a pat on the back for letting the ball go through his legs can easily tell the difference between the tepid sign of approval (You’re still a good person Jason) and the all out riot that takes place when one of the other kids manages to hit the ball over somebody’s head. Imagine an error prone boy's shock twenty years later when his boss tells him he’s fired if he doesn’t make a sale soon. (But I looked for the customer’s office. Is it my fault I couldn’t find it on MapQuest?)
There’s probably nothing to be done about this. Certainly I’m not suggesting that adults tell the lousy players they stink. But that type of talk isn’t even allowed kid to kid. If one of them were to say, “Hey Brian, we lost because of you,” any parents overhearing that remark would be all over the poor kid who said it, making sure he knew that it’s better to say nothing if telling the truth will hurt another boy’s tender feelings.
Who knows, maybe it’s better this way. I never liked being told I wasn’t any good at something. Inevitably though, it happens. I get criticized. It hurts. But the next day I just try to make like Andy Rooney again.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
When I was a kid we spent summer days playing hardball in the street, touch football and other ball games from morning till dinnertime. After dinner we were back out there for more. We organized ourselves into teams choosing sides, the older boys usually doing the choosing. If there were an odd number of kids it might mean as the youngest or the worst player you were left out. It happened every day. Not a single kid in my neighborhood had a nervous breakdown because he didn’t get picked that day.
We didn’t have adults coaching us either. No fathers showed up wearing baseball caps, ready to supervise our games. We didn’t have to put up with practice two nights a week so we could play one game on Saturday morning. We played two and sometimes three games a day, often with as little as three guys on each side. A pitcher a first baseman an outfielder and a little imagination were all we needed. Our mother’s did not come out to watch us play. In fact if a boy’s mother showed up it usually meant he would be leaving and we would need little Jimmy after all if we wanted to keep playing.
And you can be sure that striking out with the bases loaded was never met with a few words of encouragement let alone praise. In those days one of your teammates would no doubt say, “You stink Lenny. Why don’t you go play with dolls?” It hurt to hear those words but the next day we were out there again trying to make like Mickey Mantle. In the process we learned something about resilience.
The world has changed beyond our wildest imaginations since I was a kid. Homogeneous neighborhoods gave way to subdivisions around the same time married women entered the workforce. Without all the moms around to secretly keep an eye on their progeny, giving the kids free run of the neighborhood became impossible.
Fast forward to the brave new world we live in today. I have attended my grandson’s little league games. “Way to go Timmy. Nice swing.” This after the kid swung three times and missed a ball sitting big as a grapefruit on a tee. I find myself wondering how these kids are going to cope with failure and criticism later in life when everything they do is met with a cheer.
The praise is constant in our politically correct world now. The experts have somehow convinced us that we can do permanent damage to a kid’s psyche if we even hint that he’s not as good as every other kid out there. Results are irrelevant. Effort, talent and determination are not important if you’re a kid. Apparently, showing up is the great equalizer. The really stupid thing about this is that the kid getting a pat on the back for letting the ball go through his legs can easily tell the difference between the tepid sign of approval (You’re still a good person Jason) and the all out riot that takes place when one of the other kids manages to hit the ball over somebody’s head. Imagine an error prone boy's shock twenty years later when his boss tells him he’s fired if he doesn’t make a sale soon. (But I looked for the customer’s office. Is it my fault I couldn’t find it on MapQuest?)
There’s probably nothing to be done about this. Certainly I’m not suggesting that adults tell the lousy players they stink. But that type of talk isn’t even allowed kid to kid. If one of them were to say, “Hey Brian, we lost because of you,” any parents overhearing that remark would be all over the poor kid who said it, making sure he knew that it’s better to say nothing if telling the truth will hurt another boy’s tender feelings.
Who knows, maybe it’s better this way. I never liked being told I wasn’t any good at something. Inevitably though, it happens. I get criticized. It hurts. But the next day I just try to make like Andy Rooney again.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Secret to Good Customer Service
“Good morning!”
“Can I help you find something?”
“Did you find everything you were looking for?”
These days, shopping in a supermarket or chain drug store is a love fest. Everyone working there cares about me. Whether the employees are high school students working part time or grizzled veterans with worn out name badges, they are always glad to see me and happy to help. Have you noticed this too?
How can that be? A lot of these people are paid low wages. And let’s face it, high school kids aren’t even sure you exist if you’re over a certain age. Any actual eye contact is purely accidental. So how do store managers persuade their employees to behave with such grace? Do they just have a knack for picking happy people, the kind that would be soup kitchen volunteers if they didn’t happen to see an opening for a supermarket cashier? Is the training so fantastic that employees are motivated to provide consistently high levels of service with multitudes of smiles?
Perhaps the orientation session goes something like this:
“Class, when a customer walks into our store looking for milk and bread he is counting on you for more than just the correct change. His entire day, nay his very life, depends on your smile, your encouraging words and your helpful suggestions.”
“But Mr. Kelloggs, a lot of the customers are talking on their cell phones while they walk down the aisles and even when they check out.”
“That’s true Ms. Del Monte but that is merely a sign that they crave attention. We want them to think of our store as an extension of their lives, beyond their cell phones, a place where the price of ground beef runs a distant second to the joy they see in your face whenever they glance your way even as they decide between peach pie and pound cake.”
Something is very wrong here. I mean if you were a student making the minimum wage, hoping to be the next American Idol winner, would customer satisfaction be a priority for you? The fact that your drug store’s sales only rank 29th in the region, probably doesn’t keep you awake at night. Your manager may fret but she’s trying to climb the corporate ladder.
So how do they do it? How do these stores whip their employees into shape? Ready? They use secret shoppers. Yes, they hire people to shop in their stores and spy on their employees. A friend of mine who manages a department in one of the big supermarket chains let me in on the secret. It works like this. Employees are told how to act and what to say. In his store for example, employees are expected to approach customers based on the so-called ten-by-ten rule, which means if a customer is within ten feet of you for ten seconds, you ask how their day is going and whether you can help them.
If a secret shopper happens to catch an employee in the act of behaving like a normal human being, i.e.; minding his own business, the employee is written up. Three write-ups can get you canned.
Since my friend’s revelation, I have become a less enthusiastic shopper. Before I learned about secret shoppers, I was happy to believe store employees were excited to see me. Now I am suspicious of everything they say. The other day I stopped at the local drug store to pick up a carton of milk. It was 7:30 a.m. The woman at the register said, “Would you like to add a couple of Kit Kat bars to your order?”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Why would I want a Kit Kat bar at this hour?” I said. “Is it something good to dunk in my milk for breakfast?” She got very nervous. I could see her expression change from a bland smile to a worried frown. Immediately I assured her that I wasn’t a secret shopper. She wasn’t convinced though. She said, “Oh, I treat all customers the same no matter what.” I felt bad and resolved to be more careful in the future, unless of course, the service is bad.
What’s it like to be a secret shopper? I can only imagine the pep talk managers must give people who take these jobs. “As a secret shopper you can help us make sure that customers get what they need. Someone who wants a Crenshaw melon should be able to ask any employee where to find it. Don’t you agree?” Indeed and I’ll bet the job pays more than minimum wage too.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
“Can I help you find something?”
“Did you find everything you were looking for?”
These days, shopping in a supermarket or chain drug store is a love fest. Everyone working there cares about me. Whether the employees are high school students working part time or grizzled veterans with worn out name badges, they are always glad to see me and happy to help. Have you noticed this too?
How can that be? A lot of these people are paid low wages. And let’s face it, high school kids aren’t even sure you exist if you’re over a certain age. Any actual eye contact is purely accidental. So how do store managers persuade their employees to behave with such grace? Do they just have a knack for picking happy people, the kind that would be soup kitchen volunteers if they didn’t happen to see an opening for a supermarket cashier? Is the training so fantastic that employees are motivated to provide consistently high levels of service with multitudes of smiles?
Perhaps the orientation session goes something like this:
“Class, when a customer walks into our store looking for milk and bread he is counting on you for more than just the correct change. His entire day, nay his very life, depends on your smile, your encouraging words and your helpful suggestions.”
“But Mr. Kelloggs, a lot of the customers are talking on their cell phones while they walk down the aisles and even when they check out.”
“That’s true Ms. Del Monte but that is merely a sign that they crave attention. We want them to think of our store as an extension of their lives, beyond their cell phones, a place where the price of ground beef runs a distant second to the joy they see in your face whenever they glance your way even as they decide between peach pie and pound cake.”
Something is very wrong here. I mean if you were a student making the minimum wage, hoping to be the next American Idol winner, would customer satisfaction be a priority for you? The fact that your drug store’s sales only rank 29th in the region, probably doesn’t keep you awake at night. Your manager may fret but she’s trying to climb the corporate ladder.
So how do they do it? How do these stores whip their employees into shape? Ready? They use secret shoppers. Yes, they hire people to shop in their stores and spy on their employees. A friend of mine who manages a department in one of the big supermarket chains let me in on the secret. It works like this. Employees are told how to act and what to say. In his store for example, employees are expected to approach customers based on the so-called ten-by-ten rule, which means if a customer is within ten feet of you for ten seconds, you ask how their day is going and whether you can help them.
If a secret shopper happens to catch an employee in the act of behaving like a normal human being, i.e.; minding his own business, the employee is written up. Three write-ups can get you canned.
Since my friend’s revelation, I have become a less enthusiastic shopper. Before I learned about secret shoppers, I was happy to believe store employees were excited to see me. Now I am suspicious of everything they say. The other day I stopped at the local drug store to pick up a carton of milk. It was 7:30 a.m. The woman at the register said, “Would you like to add a couple of Kit Kat bars to your order?”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Why would I want a Kit Kat bar at this hour?” I said. “Is it something good to dunk in my milk for breakfast?” She got very nervous. I could see her expression change from a bland smile to a worried frown. Immediately I assured her that I wasn’t a secret shopper. She wasn’t convinced though. She said, “Oh, I treat all customers the same no matter what.” I felt bad and resolved to be more careful in the future, unless of course, the service is bad.
What’s it like to be a secret shopper? I can only imagine the pep talk managers must give people who take these jobs. “As a secret shopper you can help us make sure that customers get what they need. Someone who wants a Crenshaw melon should be able to ask any employee where to find it. Don’t you agree?” Indeed and I’ll bet the job pays more than minimum wage too.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Air Conditioners Never Die in Winter
So our air conditioner decided to die. Naturally they never die when it’s 80 degrees. There is something built into the mechanism that guarantees that they will only fail when the temperature is above 90 degrees. It works the same way with washing machines. They never fail until the tub is full of water and there are six loads waiting to be done. Car batteries never die in your garage on a Saturday morning in March when you have all day to do something about it. No, batteries go to heaven on Tuesday nights after Sears closes and you are parked in the mall in twenty degree weather.
No one in the history of this planet has ever had a water heater die quietly after she’s taken her shower on a blustery winter day. Water heaters are programmed to fail at six o’clock in the morning on the day you have the big interview or the meeting with an important client. If you check the fine print on your warranty it says it very plainly: Within 30 days after the expiration of your warranty, this unit will break down and die at a time most inconvenient for you in accordance with the manufacturer’s secret agreement with installers that will then charge you outrageous fees to replace the unit that you cannot live without.
I mentioned my plight to a friend of mine but got no satisfaction. The only thing this guy wanted to talk about was life before there was air conditioning, as if reminding me there was a time when sweating to death was a routine side-effect of summer would make me feel better. Listen: We keep things ultra cool in our home. The thermometer in my hot little office says its 79.4 degrees in here. Now for most people 79 degrees probably doesn’t sound that bad. I can hear some of you saying, “What’s the big deal? That’s only about nine degrees warmer than usual.”
You don’t understand. You don’t live with my wife. Around our house it’s never more than 63 degrees regardless of the weather outside. We set the thermostat to 60 when we retire for the evening. Whether it’s 90 degrees outside or 30, that’s the setting. Sometimes I pretend I’m a detective on a stakeout who’s grabbing some shuteye in a meat locker, waiting for the bad guys to show up. As if that’s not enough, we have a ceiling fan with a torque comparable to a prop plane traveling at 300 MPH. A temperature in the seventies is unheard of in our house. Since I doubt we’ll be getting a replacement unit installed before the day is over, it will no doubt feel like a night in the tropics this evening. I wonder if I have any Marriott points I can use tonight.
In the old days, the ones my friend was romanticizing about in the cool of his air conditioned office, we would endure the day watching black and white TV. The windows would be wide open. For relief we took turns standing in front of the window with the fan. Through the rotating fan blades we could glimpse the loading dock of the turtle soup factory across the street. The smell of the turtles was channeled into our living room by the fan. We were too hot to be nauseous.
We alternated between watching TV and checking out the goings on at the factory. The factory was usually more promising. A sea turtle could escape into the street for example. My mother would give us iced tea if we behaved ourselves which meant that we didn’t complain every other minute that it was hot and why didn’t we have a pool like the kids who lived in houses that had window air conditioners?
When there was a real heat wave it stayed miserable even at night. Since there was only that one window fan in the living room, we all slept on the floor. My mother got the couch while my father and my brothers and I camped out on the floor in make shift beds my mother prepared. I can remember with complete clarity the impossibility of sleep under those conditions. Around four in the morning the combination of the outside air and the fan would cool things long enough to give us a chance to sleep. Promptly at six the first tractor trailer would pull up to the turtle soup factory and blow the horn.
I suppose I could go on but the repair guy is here. Now where did I put my checkbook?
Copyright Len Serafino 2009. All rights reserved.
No one in the history of this planet has ever had a water heater die quietly after she’s taken her shower on a blustery winter day. Water heaters are programmed to fail at six o’clock in the morning on the day you have the big interview or the meeting with an important client. If you check the fine print on your warranty it says it very plainly: Within 30 days after the expiration of your warranty, this unit will break down and die at a time most inconvenient for you in accordance with the manufacturer’s secret agreement with installers that will then charge you outrageous fees to replace the unit that you cannot live without.
I mentioned my plight to a friend of mine but got no satisfaction. The only thing this guy wanted to talk about was life before there was air conditioning, as if reminding me there was a time when sweating to death was a routine side-effect of summer would make me feel better. Listen: We keep things ultra cool in our home. The thermometer in my hot little office says its 79.4 degrees in here. Now for most people 79 degrees probably doesn’t sound that bad. I can hear some of you saying, “What’s the big deal? That’s only about nine degrees warmer than usual.”
You don’t understand. You don’t live with my wife. Around our house it’s never more than 63 degrees regardless of the weather outside. We set the thermostat to 60 when we retire for the evening. Whether it’s 90 degrees outside or 30, that’s the setting. Sometimes I pretend I’m a detective on a stakeout who’s grabbing some shuteye in a meat locker, waiting for the bad guys to show up. As if that’s not enough, we have a ceiling fan with a torque comparable to a prop plane traveling at 300 MPH. A temperature in the seventies is unheard of in our house. Since I doubt we’ll be getting a replacement unit installed before the day is over, it will no doubt feel like a night in the tropics this evening. I wonder if I have any Marriott points I can use tonight.
In the old days, the ones my friend was romanticizing about in the cool of his air conditioned office, we would endure the day watching black and white TV. The windows would be wide open. For relief we took turns standing in front of the window with the fan. Through the rotating fan blades we could glimpse the loading dock of the turtle soup factory across the street. The smell of the turtles was channeled into our living room by the fan. We were too hot to be nauseous.
We alternated between watching TV and checking out the goings on at the factory. The factory was usually more promising. A sea turtle could escape into the street for example. My mother would give us iced tea if we behaved ourselves which meant that we didn’t complain every other minute that it was hot and why didn’t we have a pool like the kids who lived in houses that had window air conditioners?
When there was a real heat wave it stayed miserable even at night. Since there was only that one window fan in the living room, we all slept on the floor. My mother got the couch while my father and my brothers and I camped out on the floor in make shift beds my mother prepared. I can remember with complete clarity the impossibility of sleep under those conditions. Around four in the morning the combination of the outside air and the fan would cool things long enough to give us a chance to sleep. Promptly at six the first tractor trailer would pull up to the turtle soup factory and blow the horn.
I suppose I could go on but the repair guy is here. Now where did I put my checkbook?
Copyright Len Serafino 2009. All rights reserved.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Drowning in Books
I’m drowning in books. There’s a mini library in my office. I love books and once I read a book I find it almost impossible to part with it. Space is a consideration however. No matter how attached I become to the books I’ve read, there comes a time when, like the laundry overflowing the hamper, something has to give.
So, there I was, going through my office bookshelves the other day trying to decide which ones to put up for adoption. It’s usually a good bet that the local library will take loving care of them. As I browsed the rows of books it occurred to me that if I went by the titles alone, I could probably provide an accurate barometer of how well my career was going when I bought them. When I purchased Socratic Selling for example, I’ll bet I had just made a big sale to an important customer. I must have been feeling intelligent and full of unwarranted assumptions about my ability to understand Socrates, a prerequisite for anyone reading that book. On the other hand, I was probably feeling desperate when I picked up Send ‘Em One White Sock.
One of my books is entitled, Your Marketing Sucks. Sitting next to it is a book called, Buyers are Liars and Sellers are Too. I don’t recall being particularly angry with the world, but these titles certainly suggest I had some unresolved issues. By the time I bought How to Become a Rainmaker I must have been feeling much better.
Not all of my books are about sales and marketing of course. My collection includes 21 titles on public speaking alone. Is it possible there are 21 ways to make eye contact with your audience? When it comes time to prepare a speech it’s not like I consult any of these tomes for guidance or inspiration. I just write the speech, make sure there’s a beginning, middle and an end and hope that I get through my talk without valium or needing a 911 call to revive me. One thing I can tell you for certain is this: When you’re in front of an audience, having read Do Not Go Naked into Your Next Presentation will not make you sound like the next Martin Luther King Jr.
Then there are books on writing. I’ve stopped counting how many of those I have. Have you ever thought about writing a book? Permit me to offer you a tiny bit of advice. Buying a book that promises to teach you how to write one is no place to start. Over the years I’ve been a real sucker for books on writing. It’s easy to fall into that trap. “Say, I think I should write a novel. I know… I’ll buy a book that will show me how it’s done.” Thus, The Weekend Novelist, for example. By the time I finished reading that book I had decided to write a play. The Elements of Playwriting sits on my bookshelf next to the place I was going to put my Tony Award. You get the idea. Naturally, I have two books on column writing, neither of which is helping me get this column written.
I have even more books in my loft. I have a lot of biographies, works of fiction and social commentary. I still have a few books that were required reading in high school, like A Separate Peace, Red Badge of Courage and Jack London’s Call of the Wild. These shelves get overloaded too. When I absolutely must have more space for new books I wait until my wife is out shopping so I can pull hers off the shelf and take them to the library. I’m certain she would approve. Of course she may be dropping some of mine off when I’m out of town. I haven’t noticed really.
So why is it so hard to part with my books? You might think I’m eager to impress people with what I’ve read. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, if you picked one of these books and asked me to discuss it, I’d be in serious trouble unless it was made into a movie that I happened to catch on cable last week. I think deep down I believe that one day I’ll have time to read all of them again at a leisurely pace.
When that day comes I know just where I’m going to start too, at the beginning, which for me was Fun with Dick and Jane.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
So, there I was, going through my office bookshelves the other day trying to decide which ones to put up for adoption. It’s usually a good bet that the local library will take loving care of them. As I browsed the rows of books it occurred to me that if I went by the titles alone, I could probably provide an accurate barometer of how well my career was going when I bought them. When I purchased Socratic Selling for example, I’ll bet I had just made a big sale to an important customer. I must have been feeling intelligent and full of unwarranted assumptions about my ability to understand Socrates, a prerequisite for anyone reading that book. On the other hand, I was probably feeling desperate when I picked up Send ‘Em One White Sock.
One of my books is entitled, Your Marketing Sucks. Sitting next to it is a book called, Buyers are Liars and Sellers are Too. I don’t recall being particularly angry with the world, but these titles certainly suggest I had some unresolved issues. By the time I bought How to Become a Rainmaker I must have been feeling much better.
Not all of my books are about sales and marketing of course. My collection includes 21 titles on public speaking alone. Is it possible there are 21 ways to make eye contact with your audience? When it comes time to prepare a speech it’s not like I consult any of these tomes for guidance or inspiration. I just write the speech, make sure there’s a beginning, middle and an end and hope that I get through my talk without valium or needing a 911 call to revive me. One thing I can tell you for certain is this: When you’re in front of an audience, having read Do Not Go Naked into Your Next Presentation will not make you sound like the next Martin Luther King Jr.
Then there are books on writing. I’ve stopped counting how many of those I have. Have you ever thought about writing a book? Permit me to offer you a tiny bit of advice. Buying a book that promises to teach you how to write one is no place to start. Over the years I’ve been a real sucker for books on writing. It’s easy to fall into that trap. “Say, I think I should write a novel. I know… I’ll buy a book that will show me how it’s done.” Thus, The Weekend Novelist, for example. By the time I finished reading that book I had decided to write a play. The Elements of Playwriting sits on my bookshelf next to the place I was going to put my Tony Award. You get the idea. Naturally, I have two books on column writing, neither of which is helping me get this column written.
I have even more books in my loft. I have a lot of biographies, works of fiction and social commentary. I still have a few books that were required reading in high school, like A Separate Peace, Red Badge of Courage and Jack London’s Call of the Wild. These shelves get overloaded too. When I absolutely must have more space for new books I wait until my wife is out shopping so I can pull hers off the shelf and take them to the library. I’m certain she would approve. Of course she may be dropping some of mine off when I’m out of town. I haven’t noticed really.
So why is it so hard to part with my books? You might think I’m eager to impress people with what I’ve read. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, if you picked one of these books and asked me to discuss it, I’d be in serious trouble unless it was made into a movie that I happened to catch on cable last week. I think deep down I believe that one day I’ll have time to read all of them again at a leisurely pace.
When that day comes I know just where I’m going to start too, at the beginning, which for me was Fun with Dick and Jane.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Flying Soon? You'll Survive
I’ve been reading a book entitled The Survivors Club. It’s all about why some people survive and others don’t. It’s a fascinating read. One section that really got my attention was the one about flying. As someone who flies regularly, I was more than a little bit interested in learning anything I could that would improve my chances of surviving a plane crash. I know what you’re thinking. Is this discussion absolutely necessary? Let me start with the good news.
Everybody doesn’t automatically die when a jetliner crashes. The survival rate is as high as 95%. Even in the most serious crashes more than 76% survive. And, your chances of dying in a plane crash are only about one in 60 million every time you fly.
In spite of such encouraging news, Ben Sherwood, The Survivors Club author still felt it was important to give his readers tips on how to make sure you are one of the survivors in the event of a crash. Here are some of his suggestions along with a bit of commentary from this observer.
Recognize that the first 3 minutes of a flight and the last 8 are the most critical. Okay, that means you’re most likely to encounter a problem during takeoff and landing. That’s when you should be at your best, ready to jump out of the plane as soon as it stops careening along the runway just short of long term parking where your car is waiting. Most flyers are so nervous about being confined to a metal cylinder traveling at 500 MPH that being alert is the exact opposite of what they want to feel. They want something to calm them down.
If most flyers had their way, the security checkpoint would offer a shot from a tranquilizer gun right after the X-ray. Isn’t that why every airport I’ve ever been in has a sports bar? No matter what time of day it is, the bar has customers. A couple of vodka martinis not only take away the jitters. By the time you step on the plane you’re convinced that should the pilot bail out, you could guide the plane to a safe landing on any runway including I-75.
The author also recommends that when the flight attendants are giving you the safety instructions you should pay strict attention. They are trying to help you save your life. Maybe so but I never detect even the slightest sense of urgency in their voices. They might as well be talking about a recipe for macaroni and cheese. If they want to get our attention maybe they should begin their announcements by saying, “Thank you for flying with us today. There’s only a one in sixty million chance that you’ll die but just in case…
And honestly, does anybody really believe the seat cushion is a flotation device? If I’m taking anything with me when I jump off the plane I’ll take my chances with my laptop. It’s lighter than the seat cushion and, resting my chin on that as I float through the debris sounds a lot more appealing then putting any part of my anatomy on a well traveled seat cushion. Plus with wireless access to the Internet maybe I could get a few emails done while we wait to be rescued.
Speaking of seats, which seats are the safest? Conventional wisdom says it’s the back of the plane but government experts disagree. According to a study, done at the University of Greenwich in London, survivors move an average of 5 rows before they escape. So the best seats are within 5 rows of the nearest exit. With this kind of information available why are any of the seats more than five rows from an exit? Are the airlines too cheap to add a few exits? When they make seat assignments are they telling me the truth about which seats are available or do they have some formula based on age and looks that determines how far you sit from an exit? That might explain why my seats are always 14 rows from any door including the bathroom.
Here’s one I completely agree with. Make sure your seat belt is properly fastened: buckle your belt low and tight across your hips. If only the shuttle bus from the parking service had seat belts. Talk about a harrowing ride.
Plane crash survivors are Darwinian types. They wear lace up running shoes and they drink a caffeine drenched protein supplement moments after they board. Members of the survivor’s club are prepared to climb over seats and force their way past people frozen with fear and blocking their way out. I wonder if they use the seat cushion to help clear a path.
copyright 2009 len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Everybody doesn’t automatically die when a jetliner crashes. The survival rate is as high as 95%. Even in the most serious crashes more than 76% survive. And, your chances of dying in a plane crash are only about one in 60 million every time you fly.
In spite of such encouraging news, Ben Sherwood, The Survivors Club author still felt it was important to give his readers tips on how to make sure you are one of the survivors in the event of a crash. Here are some of his suggestions along with a bit of commentary from this observer.
Recognize that the first 3 minutes of a flight and the last 8 are the most critical. Okay, that means you’re most likely to encounter a problem during takeoff and landing. That’s when you should be at your best, ready to jump out of the plane as soon as it stops careening along the runway just short of long term parking where your car is waiting. Most flyers are so nervous about being confined to a metal cylinder traveling at 500 MPH that being alert is the exact opposite of what they want to feel. They want something to calm them down.
If most flyers had their way, the security checkpoint would offer a shot from a tranquilizer gun right after the X-ray. Isn’t that why every airport I’ve ever been in has a sports bar? No matter what time of day it is, the bar has customers. A couple of vodka martinis not only take away the jitters. By the time you step on the plane you’re convinced that should the pilot bail out, you could guide the plane to a safe landing on any runway including I-75.
The author also recommends that when the flight attendants are giving you the safety instructions you should pay strict attention. They are trying to help you save your life. Maybe so but I never detect even the slightest sense of urgency in their voices. They might as well be talking about a recipe for macaroni and cheese. If they want to get our attention maybe they should begin their announcements by saying, “Thank you for flying with us today. There’s only a one in sixty million chance that you’ll die but just in case…
And honestly, does anybody really believe the seat cushion is a flotation device? If I’m taking anything with me when I jump off the plane I’ll take my chances with my laptop. It’s lighter than the seat cushion and, resting my chin on that as I float through the debris sounds a lot more appealing then putting any part of my anatomy on a well traveled seat cushion. Plus with wireless access to the Internet maybe I could get a few emails done while we wait to be rescued.
Speaking of seats, which seats are the safest? Conventional wisdom says it’s the back of the plane but government experts disagree. According to a study, done at the University of Greenwich in London, survivors move an average of 5 rows before they escape. So the best seats are within 5 rows of the nearest exit. With this kind of information available why are any of the seats more than five rows from an exit? Are the airlines too cheap to add a few exits? When they make seat assignments are they telling me the truth about which seats are available or do they have some formula based on age and looks that determines how far you sit from an exit? That might explain why my seats are always 14 rows from any door including the bathroom.
Here’s one I completely agree with. Make sure your seat belt is properly fastened: buckle your belt low and tight across your hips. If only the shuttle bus from the parking service had seat belts. Talk about a harrowing ride.
Plane crash survivors are Darwinian types. They wear lace up running shoes and they drink a caffeine drenched protein supplement moments after they board. Members of the survivor’s club are prepared to climb over seats and force their way past people frozen with fear and blocking their way out. I wonder if they use the seat cushion to help clear a path.
copyright 2009 len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Help! My Friends Are Poking Me
When the editor of the weekly newspaper invited me to be her friend on Facebook, I couldn’t resist. I had no idea she wanted us to be friends but I was excited to receive her invitation. She is one of the movers and shakers in town and she is a very nice lady. There was only one problem: I wasn’t a Facebook member. If I wanted to be friends with my editor I had to sign up. So I did and now I have 24 friends, some of whom I am well acquainted with, some I’ve met once or twice, and a handful of relatives to round things out.
For my money, it was a lot easier to find friends in the third grade when the kid sitting next to you in class just whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Hey jerkweed, wanna be friends?” I’ll confess that I am bewildered at times by Facebook. For instance, I always thought that relatives automatically qualified as friends even if you hate them. Not that I hate any of mine. I’m just saying. And, now that I’m friends with relatives, they can follow my every move if I’m foolish enough to post them. If my kids were to see a notation like, “Went to Vegas for the day but told my wife I had business in Phoenix,” I have no doubt they would squeal on me. What can I really post that will be interesting and keep me out of hot water?
Some of my Facebook friends post messages describing what they are doing at this very moment, along with photos to burn the image in my mind. One friend, perhaps a bit bored with life, (or maybe he has kid problems too) wrote he was eating potato chips on his couch. I loved the picture, one hand dipped in a giant bag of salt and vinegar chips the other holding the remote. His elderly mother probably isn’t interested in social networking. She doesn’t even own a computer. Too bad because I would like nothing better than to invite her to be my friend so she could see what’s clearly visible in the picture. My friend was getting crumbs on the couch and even worse, he didn’t have a napkin nearby to wipe the grease off his fingers. If the poor woman could see this site she would be beside herself. She’s very old fashioned though so rather than email chiding words to him she would reach for the phone and call.
My friend Cindy poked me a couple of months ago. I had no idea what that meant. I still don’t. I can tell you she hasn’t poked me again but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe I was supposed to give her a poke. To be honest I haven’t been able to get a full night’s sleep since she poked me, worrying that my social networking skills might be costing me friends.
I have no doubt that my clumsy business networking activities are costing me many fine opportunities. Linkedin, a business networking site geared toward business contacts, is a case in point. Some of my Linkedin connections are also Facebook friends. There’s no place to hide. I have a whopping 32 Linkedin connections. Obviously I’m not exactly a ball of fire on this site either. My friend Don has 149 connections. Rick has more than 250.
And, I’ve already had one very unpleasant experience on this site. I was asked to connect with someone I thought I successfully disconnected years ago. I refused her invitation, an option Linkedin clearly provides. I thought that was the end of the matter but instead I got a nasty message back from my suitor which, in its own way, provided ample justification for my refusal. Still, it must be painful to be turned down. One of my connections wanted to recommend me to others. I refused that too. He said something about my track record that while accurate in every way, didn’t create the value add you expect from such things.
Social networking can be fun and it does offer a way to keep up with people that live far away. I have heard that some people actually get addicted to social networking. They become so immersed in the lives of their friends and business connections that they spend hours on these sites. I am not worried about that in the least. I lead a balanced life, filled with…hold on, It’s my cell. There’s a tweet from Twitterer…Can I get back to you in a sec?
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
For my money, it was a lot easier to find friends in the third grade when the kid sitting next to you in class just whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Hey jerkweed, wanna be friends?” I’ll confess that I am bewildered at times by Facebook. For instance, I always thought that relatives automatically qualified as friends even if you hate them. Not that I hate any of mine. I’m just saying. And, now that I’m friends with relatives, they can follow my every move if I’m foolish enough to post them. If my kids were to see a notation like, “Went to Vegas for the day but told my wife I had business in Phoenix,” I have no doubt they would squeal on me. What can I really post that will be interesting and keep me out of hot water?
Some of my Facebook friends post messages describing what they are doing at this very moment, along with photos to burn the image in my mind. One friend, perhaps a bit bored with life, (or maybe he has kid problems too) wrote he was eating potato chips on his couch. I loved the picture, one hand dipped in a giant bag of salt and vinegar chips the other holding the remote. His elderly mother probably isn’t interested in social networking. She doesn’t even own a computer. Too bad because I would like nothing better than to invite her to be my friend so she could see what’s clearly visible in the picture. My friend was getting crumbs on the couch and even worse, he didn’t have a napkin nearby to wipe the grease off his fingers. If the poor woman could see this site she would be beside herself. She’s very old fashioned though so rather than email chiding words to him she would reach for the phone and call.
My friend Cindy poked me a couple of months ago. I had no idea what that meant. I still don’t. I can tell you she hasn’t poked me again but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe I was supposed to give her a poke. To be honest I haven’t been able to get a full night’s sleep since she poked me, worrying that my social networking skills might be costing me friends.
I have no doubt that my clumsy business networking activities are costing me many fine opportunities. Linkedin, a business networking site geared toward business contacts, is a case in point. Some of my Linkedin connections are also Facebook friends. There’s no place to hide. I have a whopping 32 Linkedin connections. Obviously I’m not exactly a ball of fire on this site either. My friend Don has 149 connections. Rick has more than 250.
And, I’ve already had one very unpleasant experience on this site. I was asked to connect with someone I thought I successfully disconnected years ago. I refused her invitation, an option Linkedin clearly provides. I thought that was the end of the matter but instead I got a nasty message back from my suitor which, in its own way, provided ample justification for my refusal. Still, it must be painful to be turned down. One of my connections wanted to recommend me to others. I refused that too. He said something about my track record that while accurate in every way, didn’t create the value add you expect from such things.
Social networking can be fun and it does offer a way to keep up with people that live far away. I have heard that some people actually get addicted to social networking. They become so immersed in the lives of their friends and business connections that they spend hours on these sites. I am not worried about that in the least. I lead a balanced life, filled with…hold on, It’s my cell. There’s a tweet from Twitterer…Can I get back to you in a sec?
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Groovin
Peter Fonda was looking right at me behind those Easy Rider sunglasses. He was wearing the cool leather jacket. Only it wasn’t the movie. Momentarily confused, I was forced to focus on what he was saying, my finger resting uneasily on the remote. It was 2:30 a.m. and I was channel surfing. Ever have one of those nights when you wake up at two in the morning and just know you won’t be drifting off soon? I had one of those nights recently. It was either toss and turn for a couple of hours or get up and face the wee small hours of the morning. That’s how I found Mr. Fonda, who probably has his share of sleepless nights wondering about self parody.
My first thought was, “Is Peter Fonda doing a financial planning commercial? Dennis Hopper does them, why not Fonda? Could Nicholson be far behind?” I soon saw how wrong I was. This was no 30 second spot. I was watching an infomercial. He was hawking Time-Life’s Flower Power CD set, 175 hits from the late sixties and early seventies available with easy installment payments.
As I watched a succession of clips from acts that performed forty years ago I couldn’t help but smile. As infomercials go, Time Life has some of the most entertaining. For people of a certain age, looking at black and white images of the Temptations, Linda Ronstadt and The Rascals, is pure joy. Well it is if you can’t sleep. I’ll bet they sell lots of CDs that way, even if only insomniacs ever see their pitch. I got a kick out of watching baby boomers cavorting freely in a time now recalled as one long festival. The Viet Nam War and the struggle for civil rights must have separate sound tracks. Naturally, they showed us scenes from Woodstock and Haight Ashbury during the summer of love. We were young and beautiful then. And at 68, I’ll admit Peter Fonda still looks great. His female partner was a young woman who probably wasn’t even born when these songs hit the airwaves. Why didn’t Time Life pair up Fonda with Grace Slick?
Time Life also solicits endorsements from people that claim to have been there when it was a happening. Big mistake! These Boomers, now in their fifties and sixties, reminisced the way my aunts and uncles did about the 1940s. I’ll tell you it shattered my reveries. Who were these people? It’s weird to look at men and women “your age” describing how deliriously happy those songs made them. I stared at them and thought of my parents, not me. Suddenly, the infomercial seemed sad. Not for me personally of course. I still look a lot younger than I actually am. Don’t you? But what about the millions of baby boomers that look their age? Watching a bunch of AARP members talk about meeting their true love while the Turtles sing Happy Together hardly put me in the mood to reach for my credit card.
Then there was this: With Steppenwolf singing Born to Be Wild a woman in her late fifties was saying that she always felt she was born to be wild and still felt that way. Now most of us who heard that song back then probably had a secret desire to be wild, especially when the song was playing on the car radio. Most of us however, were born to be mild. Our idea of wild is spending six days instead of three at Disney World so we can hop on Space Mountain again with its top speed of 28 miles per hour. The prim dress the wild child was wearing belied the nice middle-aged woman’s claim that she is still “born to be wild.”
Once I got over mourning my lost youth, I began to pay more attention to the catalogue of songs in the 10 CD set, two of which are free. It didn’t take long for me to see the folly in paying for all those hits when I could simply download the songs I really wanted for about a buck a piece. Believe me, if I never hear Incense and Peppermints by Strawberry Alarm Clock again, not to mention In the Year 2525, I think I Will Survive.
Of course I will have to forgo the Flower Power collector’s box with the groovy VW bus and its psychedelic images. Where would I put it anyway? Wait! Maybe there’s a spot between the love beads and the strobe light.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
My first thought was, “Is Peter Fonda doing a financial planning commercial? Dennis Hopper does them, why not Fonda? Could Nicholson be far behind?” I soon saw how wrong I was. This was no 30 second spot. I was watching an infomercial. He was hawking Time-Life’s Flower Power CD set, 175 hits from the late sixties and early seventies available with easy installment payments.
As I watched a succession of clips from acts that performed forty years ago I couldn’t help but smile. As infomercials go, Time Life has some of the most entertaining. For people of a certain age, looking at black and white images of the Temptations, Linda Ronstadt and The Rascals, is pure joy. Well it is if you can’t sleep. I’ll bet they sell lots of CDs that way, even if only insomniacs ever see their pitch. I got a kick out of watching baby boomers cavorting freely in a time now recalled as one long festival. The Viet Nam War and the struggle for civil rights must have separate sound tracks. Naturally, they showed us scenes from Woodstock and Haight Ashbury during the summer of love. We were young and beautiful then. And at 68, I’ll admit Peter Fonda still looks great. His female partner was a young woman who probably wasn’t even born when these songs hit the airwaves. Why didn’t Time Life pair up Fonda with Grace Slick?
Time Life also solicits endorsements from people that claim to have been there when it was a happening. Big mistake! These Boomers, now in their fifties and sixties, reminisced the way my aunts and uncles did about the 1940s. I’ll tell you it shattered my reveries. Who were these people? It’s weird to look at men and women “your age” describing how deliriously happy those songs made them. I stared at them and thought of my parents, not me. Suddenly, the infomercial seemed sad. Not for me personally of course. I still look a lot younger than I actually am. Don’t you? But what about the millions of baby boomers that look their age? Watching a bunch of AARP members talk about meeting their true love while the Turtles sing Happy Together hardly put me in the mood to reach for my credit card.
Then there was this: With Steppenwolf singing Born to Be Wild a woman in her late fifties was saying that she always felt she was born to be wild and still felt that way. Now most of us who heard that song back then probably had a secret desire to be wild, especially when the song was playing on the car radio. Most of us however, were born to be mild. Our idea of wild is spending six days instead of three at Disney World so we can hop on Space Mountain again with its top speed of 28 miles per hour. The prim dress the wild child was wearing belied the nice middle-aged woman’s claim that she is still “born to be wild.”
Once I got over mourning my lost youth, I began to pay more attention to the catalogue of songs in the 10 CD set, two of which are free. It didn’t take long for me to see the folly in paying for all those hits when I could simply download the songs I really wanted for about a buck a piece. Believe me, if I never hear Incense and Peppermints by Strawberry Alarm Clock again, not to mention In the Year 2525, I think I Will Survive.
Of course I will have to forgo the Flower Power collector’s box with the groovy VW bus and its psychedelic images. Where would I put it anyway? Wait! Maybe there’s a spot between the love beads and the strobe light.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
A Few Choice Words
“You didn’t have to do that.” This is what people say when you give them a gift whether it’s expected or it’s a surprise. Can you imagine a situation where someone does something nice for you and you respond, without the slightest trace of sarcasm, “You had to do that?” We say many things to each other without really thinking about the words we use.
I was in a meeting a couple of weeks ago. Someone asked me a question. My answer began, “Too be honest…” The guy laughed and said, “You mean up till now you haven’t been honest?” It’s not like I didn’t know better. I have said the same thing to others when they uttered that particular verbal tic. To be honest…actually…you know…well…uhm, are all well worn kick starters. It’s as if we’re born with an internal ignition system that must be cranked before we can say something intelligible.
Americans are also great at abandoning perfectly good words for no reason whatsoever. When was the last time you heard someone say “You’re welcome?” You still say thank you but no one says you’re welcome anymore. Instead we say, “No problem.” It’s not as if “no problem” takes less time to say than you’re welcome. But there is a difference.
“Can you tell me the time please?”
“Sure it’s 2:30.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Welcome to the knowledge I have. Welcome to my momentary assistance in establishing the correct time.
No problem seems to suggest that at the moment you asked for the time, it could have caused a problem, but since it didn’t, rest assured that this time it wasn’t a problem. That’s a relief.
The word thanks has also taken a beating. Business conversations these days end with thanks regardless of what just transpired.
“Didn’t we just meet on that issue an hour ago?”
“No it was this morning. It’s 2:30 now.”
“Well, I have to get ready for the 3:00 meeting.”
“Me too.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Thanks.”
Thanks for what exactly? Sometimes “thank you” is exchanged simultaneously. It’s a meaningless departure ritual meant to convey that a conversation has ended. The thank you exchange is now official protocol between superiors and subordinates. They rarely part company without exchanging a thank you. When an employee says it the word is rich with meaning and subtexts. “I’m very happy to be here. I’m grateful that someone so intelligent thinks I’m worthy of employment here. Please don’t fire me.” When the boss says thanks it means, “Get out of my office.” Sometimes co-workers use thank you with each other but only when one of them thinks the other one might be the boss someday.
And what about the word please? When did that word come to denote sarcasm? “You’re sister really looked good at the party the other night, didn’t she?”
“Please. She looked like a half-peeled orange in that outfit.” In such a context, the word please is short for, “Please don’t patronize me,” or “Please stop treating me like I was born yesterday,” or “Please be serious for once in your life.” One thing it isn’t is a polite request.
Another work place favorite that drives me up the wall, even when I’m the one using it, is “Do me a favor.” This is what you say just before you ask an employee to do his job, you know, the thing you pay him for.
It’s not like you’re about to ask for a real favor like, “Geraldine, do me a favor and stick these scissors in Mario’s back.” That would be a favor: A big favor. But we constantly ask people to do their jobs as if the work was optional. “Do me a favor and make three copies of this report.”
“I’ve done three favors for you already today. What have you done for me Mister?”
“Sorry.”
Yes, the word sorry is another word that’s spoken so often it has all but lost its meaning. I’m walking down the supermarket aisle. I turn the corner and nearly do the bumper car thing into a lady’s shopping cart. She says, “Sorry.” Now I know she’s not really sorry for anything. Why should she be? I’m the idiot that wasn’t paying attention. It’s merely a social convention. If that same woman put a dent in my car door the size of Lake Michigan she would say the same thing, “Sorry.”
I hope that never happens but if it does I’ll probably say, “To be honest, sorry isn’t going to help. I mean, please, why don’t you do me a favor and be more careful. Thanks.”
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
I was in a meeting a couple of weeks ago. Someone asked me a question. My answer began, “Too be honest…” The guy laughed and said, “You mean up till now you haven’t been honest?” It’s not like I didn’t know better. I have said the same thing to others when they uttered that particular verbal tic. To be honest…actually…you know…well…uhm, are all well worn kick starters. It’s as if we’re born with an internal ignition system that must be cranked before we can say something intelligible.
Americans are also great at abandoning perfectly good words for no reason whatsoever. When was the last time you heard someone say “You’re welcome?” You still say thank you but no one says you’re welcome anymore. Instead we say, “No problem.” It’s not as if “no problem” takes less time to say than you’re welcome. But there is a difference.
“Can you tell me the time please?”
“Sure it’s 2:30.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Welcome to the knowledge I have. Welcome to my momentary assistance in establishing the correct time.
No problem seems to suggest that at the moment you asked for the time, it could have caused a problem, but since it didn’t, rest assured that this time it wasn’t a problem. That’s a relief.
The word thanks has also taken a beating. Business conversations these days end with thanks regardless of what just transpired.
“Didn’t we just meet on that issue an hour ago?”
“No it was this morning. It’s 2:30 now.”
“Well, I have to get ready for the 3:00 meeting.”
“Me too.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Thanks.”
Thanks for what exactly? Sometimes “thank you” is exchanged simultaneously. It’s a meaningless departure ritual meant to convey that a conversation has ended. The thank you exchange is now official protocol between superiors and subordinates. They rarely part company without exchanging a thank you. When an employee says it the word is rich with meaning and subtexts. “I’m very happy to be here. I’m grateful that someone so intelligent thinks I’m worthy of employment here. Please don’t fire me.” When the boss says thanks it means, “Get out of my office.” Sometimes co-workers use thank you with each other but only when one of them thinks the other one might be the boss someday.
And what about the word please? When did that word come to denote sarcasm? “You’re sister really looked good at the party the other night, didn’t she?”
“Please. She looked like a half-peeled orange in that outfit.” In such a context, the word please is short for, “Please don’t patronize me,” or “Please stop treating me like I was born yesterday,” or “Please be serious for once in your life.” One thing it isn’t is a polite request.
Another work place favorite that drives me up the wall, even when I’m the one using it, is “Do me a favor.” This is what you say just before you ask an employee to do his job, you know, the thing you pay him for.
It’s not like you’re about to ask for a real favor like, “Geraldine, do me a favor and stick these scissors in Mario’s back.” That would be a favor: A big favor. But we constantly ask people to do their jobs as if the work was optional. “Do me a favor and make three copies of this report.”
“I’ve done three favors for you already today. What have you done for me Mister?”
“Sorry.”
Yes, the word sorry is another word that’s spoken so often it has all but lost its meaning. I’m walking down the supermarket aisle. I turn the corner and nearly do the bumper car thing into a lady’s shopping cart. She says, “Sorry.” Now I know she’s not really sorry for anything. Why should she be? I’m the idiot that wasn’t paying attention. It’s merely a social convention. If that same woman put a dent in my car door the size of Lake Michigan she would say the same thing, “Sorry.”
I hope that never happens but if it does I’ll probably say, “To be honest, sorry isn’t going to help. I mean, please, why don’t you do me a favor and be more careful. Thanks.”
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Hot Stuff: Blood Pressure Parties
I was at my cousin’s home in San Clemente, California Sunday night. Whenever I’m out there on business I make it a point to see my aunt and cousins. Fellow expatriates of Newark, we don’t see each other very often. They’re full of life and they are good company. What’s more, there is always a story. The last time I saw Connie she told me her plans to sail around the world with her husband Rick and earn a few bucks in the process as a Wal-Mart greeter in every port. I think she was kidding but you never know.
Since I came all the way from Tennessee to visit them, they threw a party. My cousin is an outstanding cook. She could have made any number of Italian dishes that she knows I like. But for some reason instead of asking me what I wanted to eat she asked her sister-in-law Lida whether she wanted pizza or Chinese. When the woman said, “Chinese,” I could feel my blood pressure rising. Immediately, I started looking for my car keys. As it turned out the party wasn’t entirely for my benefit. They were also celebrating Lida’s sixtieth birthday. I figured there might be cake involved so I decided to endure the Kung Pao chicken. I’m glad I did.
For starters, there wasn’t one person in the house under the age of sixty. With the exception of my lovely aunt, we were all baby boomers. Then, neighbors arrived with their 14 year old daughter. This bright young lady was working on a school project about the impact of caffeine on blood pressure. She wanted to take the blood pressures of a few of us, give us a cup of coffee and then repeat the test 30 minutes later. Considering Lida’s inexplicable craving for Chinese food, tea might have been a better choice. Everybody wanted in. Now you might think the free coffee was the main attraction. Certainly it was the perfect antidote to the red wine we were drinking. It wasn’t the coffee though.
“Take my blood pressure!”
“No me; do mine first.”
The sex, drugs and rock and roll generation morphed into the cholesterol, blood pressure and glaucoma set before my eyes. At least drugs are still a big part of our lives even if they require a co-pay now. The readings came quickly as we rolled up our sleeves in turn and slid our arms into the magic cuff. I suddenly remembered a party years ago where somebody pulled out a deck of Tarot cards. She quickly became the center of attraction, telling our fortunes; predicting romance, big money and exotic travel. Now some thirty years later here was this kid with a blood pressure cuff capable of making better predictions than the fortune teller could hope for in her wildest dreams. Untreated high blood pressure has a tendency to cost money and make romance problematic. Frequent travel to the nearest medical center is assured.
One after another we sat on the couch and waited for the readout. No HIPAA privacy allowed in this family, everyone had to announce their results. Where once upon a time we would have been playing thumper, chugging beers to chug-a-lug chants, we now played school nurse, offering sober warnings to those with abnormal results about the need to make a doctor’s appointment. People already on blood pressure medication offered those with elevated pressure one of their own in hushed tones the way a priest offers absolution. For all the right reasons, there were no takers.
The 40 year span between twenty and sixty sounds like a lot of time until you get there. Most boomers have worked hard and certainly once we were beyond our formative years, learned to avoid high risk behavior. That’s one of the reasons we’re still here. Yet, in spite of enormous advances in science and medicine, sooner or later our gears don’t shift as smoothly as they once did.
You reach a certain age and just like that your index finger hurts for no reason. The newspaper you read every morning might as well be in Bengali because you can’t see the words. You become an expert in logistics to make sure the distance between the bathroom and your parking space at the mall is never more than a few limps away.
Yet, boomers still have fun. We still throw parties. The strobe lights are long gone but that’s okay. The next time I visit my cousin I’ll bring an eye chart.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Since I came all the way from Tennessee to visit them, they threw a party. My cousin is an outstanding cook. She could have made any number of Italian dishes that she knows I like. But for some reason instead of asking me what I wanted to eat she asked her sister-in-law Lida whether she wanted pizza or Chinese. When the woman said, “Chinese,” I could feel my blood pressure rising. Immediately, I started looking for my car keys. As it turned out the party wasn’t entirely for my benefit. They were also celebrating Lida’s sixtieth birthday. I figured there might be cake involved so I decided to endure the Kung Pao chicken. I’m glad I did.
For starters, there wasn’t one person in the house under the age of sixty. With the exception of my lovely aunt, we were all baby boomers. Then, neighbors arrived with their 14 year old daughter. This bright young lady was working on a school project about the impact of caffeine on blood pressure. She wanted to take the blood pressures of a few of us, give us a cup of coffee and then repeat the test 30 minutes later. Considering Lida’s inexplicable craving for Chinese food, tea might have been a better choice. Everybody wanted in. Now you might think the free coffee was the main attraction. Certainly it was the perfect antidote to the red wine we were drinking. It wasn’t the coffee though.
“Take my blood pressure!”
“No me; do mine first.”
The sex, drugs and rock and roll generation morphed into the cholesterol, blood pressure and glaucoma set before my eyes. At least drugs are still a big part of our lives even if they require a co-pay now. The readings came quickly as we rolled up our sleeves in turn and slid our arms into the magic cuff. I suddenly remembered a party years ago where somebody pulled out a deck of Tarot cards. She quickly became the center of attraction, telling our fortunes; predicting romance, big money and exotic travel. Now some thirty years later here was this kid with a blood pressure cuff capable of making better predictions than the fortune teller could hope for in her wildest dreams. Untreated high blood pressure has a tendency to cost money and make romance problematic. Frequent travel to the nearest medical center is assured.
One after another we sat on the couch and waited for the readout. No HIPAA privacy allowed in this family, everyone had to announce their results. Where once upon a time we would have been playing thumper, chugging beers to chug-a-lug chants, we now played school nurse, offering sober warnings to those with abnormal results about the need to make a doctor’s appointment. People already on blood pressure medication offered those with elevated pressure one of their own in hushed tones the way a priest offers absolution. For all the right reasons, there were no takers.
The 40 year span between twenty and sixty sounds like a lot of time until you get there. Most boomers have worked hard and certainly once we were beyond our formative years, learned to avoid high risk behavior. That’s one of the reasons we’re still here. Yet, in spite of enormous advances in science and medicine, sooner or later our gears don’t shift as smoothly as they once did.
You reach a certain age and just like that your index finger hurts for no reason. The newspaper you read every morning might as well be in Bengali because you can’t see the words. You become an expert in logistics to make sure the distance between the bathroom and your parking space at the mall is never more than a few limps away.
Yet, boomers still have fun. We still throw parties. The strobe lights are long gone but that’s okay. The next time I visit my cousin I’ll bring an eye chart.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Junk Mail
I work from home. Like a dog with an attitude, one of the things I look forward to is seeing the mail carrier fill my mailbox. As soon as the carrier leaves, I head outside to get my mail. It’s a silly habit really. For one thing, hardly any of the mail I get is valuable. By valuable I mean something that provides me with a form of leisure or education, like a magazine subscription. I want packages I ordered. Even bills are okay if they’re for something I’ve already used like electricity. Bills for things like lawn fertilizer, which I can’t even see let alone use, get under my skin but it is mail, and at least they’re a valuable reminder that I can throw money away with the best of them.
The majority of my mail though, is junk mail. According to the non profit organization, ForestEthics, every year American households receive a total of 104.7 billion pieces of junk mail. That’s 848 pieces of junk mail per household, which requires 6.5 million tons of paper.
What exactly is junk mail? Anything in the form of catalogues, circulars, sales announcements and requests for charitable contributions from butterfly adoption clubs are junk mail to me. Service offers, like heating, plumbing, landscaping and roofing, qualify as junk mail too. In short, junk mail is mail I didn’t ask for. Had I been asked, I would have politely declined. Do you really want your local department store to notify you whenever they’re about to run a moonlight madness sale? I’ll bet they never called you to ask for your permission did they? It’s not like the blowout bargain extravaganza is a rare event. They run one every week.
And, I’ll bet you didn’t look through the phone book for real estate agents so you could call and ask them to remind you of their existence twice a week. Have you ever wondered how realtor marketing campaigns came about? They all do pretty much the same thing.
I have a sneaking suspicion that one day a diabolic so-and-so, bored out of his mind, contacted every real estate agent in his community. The conversation must have gone something like this:
“Thank you for taking my call. Are you a realtor?
“Why yes, I am.”
“Oh good! Some day, I have no idea when, I may decide to sell my home. Would you mind sending me a weekly reminder that you’re available to list it for me?”
“Well, sure we can do that.”
“Great! Another thing, I really want to know what you look like. So please send me a glossy photo.”
“Glad to do it. Say, would you like a cheap little calendar too?”
That one guy’s mischief probably explains why every homeowner in the USA receives correspondence from at least nine realtors a day. Maybe if we all wrote a letter back every week it might persuade them to rethink their never ending and mostly fruitless branding campaign.
It’s not just realtors. My insurance agent likes to keep in touch once or twice a week too. You would think he would want to cut down on expenses. Just last week I got my car insurance bills. Since we have two cars we received two bills in separate envelopes, of course. Along with the bills were two identical policy endorsements that said, “Please keep this endorsement with your policy.” If I actually did that every time they sent a new endorsement, I would have to rent space from a storage facility. Not that finding a storage facility would be a problem. Just yesterday I received attractive offers from six of them.
The phone company does the same thing. I have separate phone and fax lines. Naturally I get separate bills. I also get the same sales pitch in each envelope. Even mail I need is stuffed with tons of junk mail. There is no respite to be had. Get this: The back of the phone company’s envelope had an advertisement.
Junk mail exists because it works. It’s an effective sales tool. Response rates vary from two to three percent depending on the boredom and gullibility of the recipients. Since I qualify on both counts, I do what I can to keep it coming in spite of my growing irritation. Environmental groups would like to put a stop to junk mail. Fat chance: But this year I’m going green. I’m using my junk mail to insulate my attic. ForestEthics will be proud.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
The majority of my mail though, is junk mail. According to the non profit organization, ForestEthics, every year American households receive a total of 104.7 billion pieces of junk mail. That’s 848 pieces of junk mail per household, which requires 6.5 million tons of paper.
What exactly is junk mail? Anything in the form of catalogues, circulars, sales announcements and requests for charitable contributions from butterfly adoption clubs are junk mail to me. Service offers, like heating, plumbing, landscaping and roofing, qualify as junk mail too. In short, junk mail is mail I didn’t ask for. Had I been asked, I would have politely declined. Do you really want your local department store to notify you whenever they’re about to run a moonlight madness sale? I’ll bet they never called you to ask for your permission did they? It’s not like the blowout bargain extravaganza is a rare event. They run one every week.
And, I’ll bet you didn’t look through the phone book for real estate agents so you could call and ask them to remind you of their existence twice a week. Have you ever wondered how realtor marketing campaigns came about? They all do pretty much the same thing.
I have a sneaking suspicion that one day a diabolic so-and-so, bored out of his mind, contacted every real estate agent in his community. The conversation must have gone something like this:
“Thank you for taking my call. Are you a realtor?
“Why yes, I am.”
“Oh good! Some day, I have no idea when, I may decide to sell my home. Would you mind sending me a weekly reminder that you’re available to list it for me?”
“Well, sure we can do that.”
“Great! Another thing, I really want to know what you look like. So please send me a glossy photo.”
“Glad to do it. Say, would you like a cheap little calendar too?”
That one guy’s mischief probably explains why every homeowner in the USA receives correspondence from at least nine realtors a day. Maybe if we all wrote a letter back every week it might persuade them to rethink their never ending and mostly fruitless branding campaign.
It’s not just realtors. My insurance agent likes to keep in touch once or twice a week too. You would think he would want to cut down on expenses. Just last week I got my car insurance bills. Since we have two cars we received two bills in separate envelopes, of course. Along with the bills were two identical policy endorsements that said, “Please keep this endorsement with your policy.” If I actually did that every time they sent a new endorsement, I would have to rent space from a storage facility. Not that finding a storage facility would be a problem. Just yesterday I received attractive offers from six of them.
The phone company does the same thing. I have separate phone and fax lines. Naturally I get separate bills. I also get the same sales pitch in each envelope. Even mail I need is stuffed with tons of junk mail. There is no respite to be had. Get this: The back of the phone company’s envelope had an advertisement.
Junk mail exists because it works. It’s an effective sales tool. Response rates vary from two to three percent depending on the boredom and gullibility of the recipients. Since I qualify on both counts, I do what I can to keep it coming in spite of my growing irritation. Environmental groups would like to put a stop to junk mail. Fat chance: But this year I’m going green. I’m using my junk mail to insulate my attic. ForestEthics will be proud.
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Southern Way
The Southern Way has many facets; southern hospitality, unique cuisine and impeccable manners quickly come to mind. It’s easy to be charmed by southerners. Sincere warmth is their specialty.
As a Yankee with 15 years of southern living under my belt, I’ve learned to appreciate some of the subtleties of the culture. I wish I could say I’ve adopted all of them, but that would be a stretch. My friends who are Dixie natives seem to accept me as I am. They realize that I can’t really help being direct to a fault but forgive me, perhaps because sometimes my antics make them smile. They assume my heart’s in the right place and those that know me really well can vouch for my sincere love of grits.
Most intriguing about the Southern Way is the southerner’s ability to be polite under even trying circumstances. I shall never forget my first exposure to the gentle courtesies so routinely displayed in the south. It happened in my own home during a home owner’s association meeting about a year after my wife and I moved to Tennessee. We had a guest speaker. Bless his heart, the man droned on. An endless stream of words, he was a prototype for Ambien. I tried my best to be attentive. But my eyes, with a glaze worthy of a country ham, betrayed me. An hour later the guy was still talking.
It was getting late and most of us had to go to work the next morning. The association president got up and walked into my kitchen. Seizing the opportunity, I followed him. While he poured a cup of coffee, I asked him, “Steve, are we done with this guy?” He nodded. “I think so.”
“Then why don’t we kick him out of here?”
Steve smiled. “It’s your house Len.” When the meeting finally ended I asked my fellow board members if they felt that our visitor had wasted our time. They agreed.
“Why didn’t we cut him off then?” I demanded. Glances were exchanged. Finally someone spoke up. “It’s not the Southern Way, Len.” Lesson learned.
Well, maybe not completely learned. Five years later I was working for an Internet startup. I interviewed a prospect for an executive sales position. I thought he was a promising candidate so I sent him to my boss, the company’s CEO. He liked him enough to send him on to the chairman of our board. The next day I asked my boss what the chairman thought of our candidate. He said, “Well, he was neutral, about him.”
“Does that mean its okay to hire him?” I asked. The CEO gave me a funny look. If you saw that look watching a TV movie, you would easily recognize it as an event foreshadowing my imminent departure for the unemployment line. How was I supposed to know that neutral translated into “Northernese” would sound something like, “Are you out of your mind? Your candidate is completely unsuitable for the job. What were you thinking?” Bless my heart.
Even after all these years my translation skills are less than reliable. It may not be hopeless for me though. My editor Nancy was also born and raised in the north. She was a grown-up when she moved here but she thoroughly adapted to the Southern Way. As a sensitive writer (is there any other kind?) I appreciate her gentle approach to editing.
Nancy reads a draft of everything I write. When she offers praise with a sparkle in her eyes, I know it’s suitable for publication. If on the other hand, she says something like, “It’s not bad,” but busies herself with other things as she speaks, then I know I have two options. I can do a substantial re-write or delete the document and hope for a better idea. A kindred spirit to the southland, she takes the time to choose her words carefully. You might think she was born in Chelsea, Alabama rather than Chelsea, Massachusetts.
What accounts for the universal elegance of people in the in the south? I emailed my good friend Brenda, a native of a small town in east Tennessee, to ask her if she could explain the unfailing politeness of southerners. Her response was almost northern. She said, “Its genes and grits.” That gave me hope, momentarily. I’m half-way there after all. But then she added, “However, eating a lot of grits is not enough – sorry! That word sorry -which it never would have occurred to me to add- saved her reputation as a bona fide southern belle.
I wrote her a thank you note in longhand. Am I a work making progress?
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
As a Yankee with 15 years of southern living under my belt, I’ve learned to appreciate some of the subtleties of the culture. I wish I could say I’ve adopted all of them, but that would be a stretch. My friends who are Dixie natives seem to accept me as I am. They realize that I can’t really help being direct to a fault but forgive me, perhaps because sometimes my antics make them smile. They assume my heart’s in the right place and those that know me really well can vouch for my sincere love of grits.
Most intriguing about the Southern Way is the southerner’s ability to be polite under even trying circumstances. I shall never forget my first exposure to the gentle courtesies so routinely displayed in the south. It happened in my own home during a home owner’s association meeting about a year after my wife and I moved to Tennessee. We had a guest speaker. Bless his heart, the man droned on. An endless stream of words, he was a prototype for Ambien. I tried my best to be attentive. But my eyes, with a glaze worthy of a country ham, betrayed me. An hour later the guy was still talking.
It was getting late and most of us had to go to work the next morning. The association president got up and walked into my kitchen. Seizing the opportunity, I followed him. While he poured a cup of coffee, I asked him, “Steve, are we done with this guy?” He nodded. “I think so.”
“Then why don’t we kick him out of here?”
Steve smiled. “It’s your house Len.” When the meeting finally ended I asked my fellow board members if they felt that our visitor had wasted our time. They agreed.
“Why didn’t we cut him off then?” I demanded. Glances were exchanged. Finally someone spoke up. “It’s not the Southern Way, Len.” Lesson learned.
Well, maybe not completely learned. Five years later I was working for an Internet startup. I interviewed a prospect for an executive sales position. I thought he was a promising candidate so I sent him to my boss, the company’s CEO. He liked him enough to send him on to the chairman of our board. The next day I asked my boss what the chairman thought of our candidate. He said, “Well, he was neutral, about him.”
“Does that mean its okay to hire him?” I asked. The CEO gave me a funny look. If you saw that look watching a TV movie, you would easily recognize it as an event foreshadowing my imminent departure for the unemployment line. How was I supposed to know that neutral translated into “Northernese” would sound something like, “Are you out of your mind? Your candidate is completely unsuitable for the job. What were you thinking?” Bless my heart.
Even after all these years my translation skills are less than reliable. It may not be hopeless for me though. My editor Nancy was also born and raised in the north. She was a grown-up when she moved here but she thoroughly adapted to the Southern Way. As a sensitive writer (is there any other kind?) I appreciate her gentle approach to editing.
Nancy reads a draft of everything I write. When she offers praise with a sparkle in her eyes, I know it’s suitable for publication. If on the other hand, she says something like, “It’s not bad,” but busies herself with other things as she speaks, then I know I have two options. I can do a substantial re-write or delete the document and hope for a better idea. A kindred spirit to the southland, she takes the time to choose her words carefully. You might think she was born in Chelsea, Alabama rather than Chelsea, Massachusetts.
What accounts for the universal elegance of people in the in the south? I emailed my good friend Brenda, a native of a small town in east Tennessee, to ask her if she could explain the unfailing politeness of southerners. Her response was almost northern. She said, “Its genes and grits.” That gave me hope, momentarily. I’m half-way there after all. But then she added, “However, eating a lot of grits is not enough – sorry! That word sorry -which it never would have occurred to me to add- saved her reputation as a bona fide southern belle.
I wrote her a thank you note in longhand. Am I a work making progress?
Copyright 2009 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
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