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.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
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.
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