I picked up a copy of the Tennessean this morning, Nashville’s daily newspaper. As I perused the news, I got to thinking (never a good thing) about what would happen if somehow a person living in 1960 got his or her hands on the December 31, 2010 edition of the paper. The front page wouldn’t be particularly informative. The headline says “Jobless claims decline sharply.” There was a recession in 1960 so the thought that 50 years later things were about the same might actually be comforting. That feeling that things are the same wouldn’t last long I’m afraid. Before he even put coal in the furnace, the reader would see an editorial entitled “Gay adoptions expand opportunities for joys of parenthood.” I think it’s highly likely the reader would interpret the word gay as merry and expect a nice Holiday related story. After reading it however, and discovering that a man named Elton John and his civil partner David Furnish just became parents to a 7 pound, 15 ounce boy, the reader would be perplexed to put it mildly.
Assuming the shock of that story didn’t cause cardiac arrest, it’s quite possible that the real estate section would do the trick. After all, the average price of a new home in 1960 was $12,675. A look at property transfers in December of this year would probably make the poor reader wonder if America was going through a period of hyper-inflation akin to Germany after World War one. In 1960 gas was $.25 a gallon, a loaf of bread $.20, a postage stamp $.04. Never mind that homes in this area cost well into the six figure range. A reader in 1960 would see the sale of an empty lot for $98,500.
No doubt the reader would turn to the sports pages for solace. Another surprise in store, I’m afraid. What happens in professional sports these days frequently offers a prime example of the loss of civility in our culture over the last 50 years. The Tennessee Titans and the Indianapolis Colts, (Didn’t they used to play in Baltimore?) are playing a game that could decide whether the Colts advance to the NFL playoffs. Titans guard, Jake Scott had this to say about the game. “…we can screw up somebody else’s dreams. It is something to look forward to, trying to wreck somebody else’s year.” We take quotes like this for granted these days in sports, politics and business. It wasn’t like that in 1960 and while many things about our world today are decidedly better than they were then, the loss of civility isn’t one of them.
A switch to the life and entertainment section might also send 1960’s reader reeling. A popular movie right now is Little Fockers. Surely the title alone would give them pause about the future. Maybe they would feel better seeing that Dear Abby was still writing her column. And, readers would be happy to know that future generations still celebrate the coming of the New Year in pretty much the same way as in 1960. Here in Nashville there are lots of choices for party goers like the Music City Ball or Roaring 2011 –A Swingin’ New Year’s Eve celebration at the 5 Spot. And, Little Jimmy Dickens is appearing at the Grand Ole Opry tonight. Most likely he appeared there on New Year’s Eve 1960 too, bless his heart.
The business section would be an eye opener too. There is a story in today’s paper reporting that 20 million cars were recalled this year in the USA. Were there even that many cars on the road in 1960? And what pray tell, is a recall the reader would ask. And thank God Google didn’t exist back then because the reader would have been furious to learn that Japan, a country that surrendered just 15 years ago, was selling us millions of cars.
I’m sure readers back then would be envious about some things. The idea of owning a car with a sun roof, air conditioning, tilt steering wheel and something called cruise control would definitely be appealing.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Going to See Santa
Most of us had the experience of going to see Santa when we were kids. It’s a long standing tradition that is as much a part of the Holiday as hanging your stocking on Christmas Eve. I was in the local mall the other night where Santa often resides these days. Standing on the mall’s second level, I had a birds eye view of the Santa Claus spectacle. There was a long line of anxious parents and small children, many of them too young to be anxious themselves, other than the fear some may have had of this big guy with a beard in a red suit. I must say this mall’s Santa Claus looked very much like the real thing, right out of a Coke ad you might say.
A little girl, perhaps three years old, dressed in a Christmassy red and green dress, was giving her mother a very hard time about sitting with Santa so she could have her picture taken. The little girl was adorable but she was definitely not in an adoring mood. She wanted no part of the guy who is supposed to come across with all the goodies on the morning of December 25th. The child’s mother was imploring her to sit with Santa. The woman seemed, well, desperate to capture the moment on film…or I suppose should say, digitally. She sat her daughter down on Santa’s lap, then next to him and finally in front of him to no avail. As soon as the mother stepped away so the picture could be taken, the child got up and ran to her.
The elves got into the act, doing their best to bribe the kid with stuffed reindeer and then candy. No dice. Then the mother decided to let her little girl watch other children make nice with Santa. Three kids did just that but the star of my little show still demurred. I have to say I was impressed with the behavior of the other parents standing patiently on line with their restless kids. No one seemed the least bit perturbed by this child’s refusal to sit with St. Nick and no one gave the mother the evil eye for her persistence. In the end, they got the photo but Mom is in the picture too. Perhaps one day it will make for a funny story the little girl can tell her fiancé. That’s if she can find the photo 25 years from now.
My take is simple. A picture with Santa is not worth the hassle I witnessed the other night. I say this because I have never been in an adult’s home that featured a picture of the resident sitting on Santa’s lap. Now I’ll bet you have several precious photos that you’ve had retouched, blown-up and framed because they have special meaning for you. I’ll also wager that you don’t have one of you with some big, fat, oddly dressed stranger in red. Think back to your own picture with Santa. Remember the look on your face? Is that fear in your tear stained eyes or was it a side effect of the million watt flash bulb that just went off in your face?
What happens to these pictures anyway? You take them home and show them to grandparents who ooh and ahh over them, secretly wondering whether you can even trust the people who play Santa anymore. You display them on a countertop or bookshelf during the Holidays and then…you put them in a box with other photos. Listen, a few nights before my sojourn to the mall, I was wading through a huge box of old photos. Guess what I found? Right, I found several pictures of my son and daughter having the all important powwow with Mr. C. I even found one of me.
Considering how busy parents with young children are during the Holidays, I can’t imagine what possesses them to stand on a long line surrounded by crying kids. Some parents do find ways to avoid it. Recently a friend told me that he and his wife decided not to tell their children stories about Santa Claus. They felt it would be lying to them and they wanted to build trust right from the beginning. If you ask me they probably just didn’t want to wait around for the photos. The funny thing is their kids, all adults now, complain that their parents robbed them of the Santa experience. Go figure. I wonder if they were in line the other night with their little ones.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
A little girl, perhaps three years old, dressed in a Christmassy red and green dress, was giving her mother a very hard time about sitting with Santa so she could have her picture taken. The little girl was adorable but she was definitely not in an adoring mood. She wanted no part of the guy who is supposed to come across with all the goodies on the morning of December 25th. The child’s mother was imploring her to sit with Santa. The woman seemed, well, desperate to capture the moment on film…or I suppose should say, digitally. She sat her daughter down on Santa’s lap, then next to him and finally in front of him to no avail. As soon as the mother stepped away so the picture could be taken, the child got up and ran to her.
The elves got into the act, doing their best to bribe the kid with stuffed reindeer and then candy. No dice. Then the mother decided to let her little girl watch other children make nice with Santa. Three kids did just that but the star of my little show still demurred. I have to say I was impressed with the behavior of the other parents standing patiently on line with their restless kids. No one seemed the least bit perturbed by this child’s refusal to sit with St. Nick and no one gave the mother the evil eye for her persistence. In the end, they got the photo but Mom is in the picture too. Perhaps one day it will make for a funny story the little girl can tell her fiancé. That’s if she can find the photo 25 years from now.
My take is simple. A picture with Santa is not worth the hassle I witnessed the other night. I say this because I have never been in an adult’s home that featured a picture of the resident sitting on Santa’s lap. Now I’ll bet you have several precious photos that you’ve had retouched, blown-up and framed because they have special meaning for you. I’ll also wager that you don’t have one of you with some big, fat, oddly dressed stranger in red. Think back to your own picture with Santa. Remember the look on your face? Is that fear in your tear stained eyes or was it a side effect of the million watt flash bulb that just went off in your face?
What happens to these pictures anyway? You take them home and show them to grandparents who ooh and ahh over them, secretly wondering whether you can even trust the people who play Santa anymore. You display them on a countertop or bookshelf during the Holidays and then…you put them in a box with other photos. Listen, a few nights before my sojourn to the mall, I was wading through a huge box of old photos. Guess what I found? Right, I found several pictures of my son and daughter having the all important powwow with Mr. C. I even found one of me.
Considering how busy parents with young children are during the Holidays, I can’t imagine what possesses them to stand on a long line surrounded by crying kids. Some parents do find ways to avoid it. Recently a friend told me that he and his wife decided not to tell their children stories about Santa Claus. They felt it would be lying to them and they wanted to build trust right from the beginning. If you ask me they probably just didn’t want to wait around for the photos. The funny thing is their kids, all adults now, complain that their parents robbed them of the Santa experience. Go figure. I wonder if they were in line the other night with their little ones.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Linkedin: Not for those that Fear Rejection
I have 182 connections on Linkedin which is a modest number when I compare it with some of my connections. Mark and Rick for example, each have more than 500 connections. On the other hand a few of my connections are linked to fewer than 5 people. I think the number of connections you have might depend on how well you handle rejection. When you join Linkedin you put yourself out there. Sure, Linkedin allows you to click on something that says “Add so and so to your network” as if it’s a foregone conclusion that your invitation will be accepted. Not so, I’m afraid. You can be left high and dry. Right now there are 14 people who haven’t accepted my invitation to connect on Linkedin. Two of them were just invited in the last 48 hours. The other 12 were invited…let’s just say a while back. I have high hopes for the two prospects I just invited to link into. Those in the “while back” category are definitely long shots.
My failure rate stands at 7.69%. If that is a typical result, Mark and Rick have at least 38 people ignoring them. Is that a lot of people? I don’t know but Major League baseball teams have just 25 players on their roster during the season.
As I review the list of people who have ignored me, I am struck by the fact that two of them will surely be reading this post. You know who you are but please don’t feel any pressure to explain yourself. Get this: I talk to one of the refusniks regularly on the phone. We exchange emails too. Why the snub?
Life was so much easier when I was a kid and the boy sitting next to me could whisper “Ya’ wanna be friends?” while the teacher wrote something on the blackboard. It was nearly impossible to refuse a face to face request. And, if by some chance the answer was no, the turndown wasn’t recorded in my permanent record the way Linkedin refusals are.
Regardless of it’s shortcomings, I like Linkedin. It boosts my ego to know that the links of my 182 connections, connect me to almost two million people. Surely if the need arises one of them will have a job for me.
One application I’m not crazy about is “Who’s viewed your profile.” At first I thought it would be fun to see who is curious about me. Mostly though, it’s the people that only hours ago agreed to be a connection. I suppose they’re just eager to see who I know. Sadly, the “Who’s viewed your profile” thing is really about the same as the most likely to succeed, prom queen, best hair, high school popularity thing. My profile has been viewed by 5 people in the last 30 days. Some things never change. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not actually in the job market right now. I mean if I was in demand, thousands of professionals would be checking me out, right? If only one-tenth of one percent of the 2 million links I have gave my profile a gander that would be 2,000 people! Five out of 2,000 is a percentage too small to mention.
Linkedin encourages members to share an article, an idea or even an insight. Here is an insight recently shared by a member: “The first 90% of project takes 90% of the time, the last 10% takes the other 90% of the time.” He’s right too. Yogi Berra couldn’t have said it better.
Although Linkedin doesn’t suggest telling fellow connections which city you’ll be visiting this week, what you’re reading or what kind of day you had, I notice a lot of members do just that. By the way, if you’re reading this post and you want to mention that fact to your connections I won’t object.
One thing I don’t fully understand is why people I’ve never met ask to connect with me. Is it possible that my network is that valuable? If that’s the case I wonder if I should charge a fee for the connection. Imagine what Mark and Rick could charge with their 500+ connections! I usually say yes when I’m invited because I don’t want to be rude and I don’t see the harm. Of course you never know what a stranger might be up to. I suppose I could go to Backgroundcheck.com to see whose invitation I’m accepting but I would feel a bit paranoid doing that. And, I’m not going to get to 500 saying no am I?
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
My failure rate stands at 7.69%. If that is a typical result, Mark and Rick have at least 38 people ignoring them. Is that a lot of people? I don’t know but Major League baseball teams have just 25 players on their roster during the season.
As I review the list of people who have ignored me, I am struck by the fact that two of them will surely be reading this post. You know who you are but please don’t feel any pressure to explain yourself. Get this: I talk to one of the refusniks regularly on the phone. We exchange emails too. Why the snub?
Life was so much easier when I was a kid and the boy sitting next to me could whisper “Ya’ wanna be friends?” while the teacher wrote something on the blackboard. It was nearly impossible to refuse a face to face request. And, if by some chance the answer was no, the turndown wasn’t recorded in my permanent record the way Linkedin refusals are.
Regardless of it’s shortcomings, I like Linkedin. It boosts my ego to know that the links of my 182 connections, connect me to almost two million people. Surely if the need arises one of them will have a job for me.
One application I’m not crazy about is “Who’s viewed your profile.” At first I thought it would be fun to see who is curious about me. Mostly though, it’s the people that only hours ago agreed to be a connection. I suppose they’re just eager to see who I know. Sadly, the “Who’s viewed your profile” thing is really about the same as the most likely to succeed, prom queen, best hair, high school popularity thing. My profile has been viewed by 5 people in the last 30 days. Some things never change. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not actually in the job market right now. I mean if I was in demand, thousands of professionals would be checking me out, right? If only one-tenth of one percent of the 2 million links I have gave my profile a gander that would be 2,000 people! Five out of 2,000 is a percentage too small to mention.
Linkedin encourages members to share an article, an idea or even an insight. Here is an insight recently shared by a member: “The first 90% of project takes 90% of the time, the last 10% takes the other 90% of the time.” He’s right too. Yogi Berra couldn’t have said it better.
Although Linkedin doesn’t suggest telling fellow connections which city you’ll be visiting this week, what you’re reading or what kind of day you had, I notice a lot of members do just that. By the way, if you’re reading this post and you want to mention that fact to your connections I won’t object.
One thing I don’t fully understand is why people I’ve never met ask to connect with me. Is it possible that my network is that valuable? If that’s the case I wonder if I should charge a fee for the connection. Imagine what Mark and Rick could charge with their 500+ connections! I usually say yes when I’m invited because I don’t want to be rude and I don’t see the harm. Of course you never know what a stranger might be up to. I suppose I could go to Backgroundcheck.com to see whose invitation I’m accepting but I would feel a bit paranoid doing that. And, I’m not going to get to 500 saying no am I?
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Business Travel Excitement...Not!
I do a lot of business travel. Last week I was in San Francisco. Two weeks ago I went to St. Louis and the week before that I was in Florida. Next week I’ll be in New Jersey. I know, travel to places like New Jersey may seem glamorous to people that don’t travel very often, but the sad truth is this: travel can be very boring. Mind numbingly so. Driving through traffic to the airport, taking your shoes off and emptying your pockets through security, and waiting for your flight to leave, eats up a lot of time. Then there’s the actual flight plus more hours spent in hotel rooms staring at the four walls.
Between you and me, the only way to get thru the drudgery of business travel is to be creative. For example, did you know there are way more good looking women in America than men? I know this because while I’m sitting at the gate waiting for my plane to arrive or sitting in my assigned seat watching other passengers board the aircraft, I rate each and every man and woman I see on a scale of one to ten. The latest scores, which I hope will be released by Popular Mechanics next month, clearly reveal the difference in looks between men and women. The average score for women of all ages is 8.9. The average score for men? Negative 6. Actually the men’s score would have been lower had I not given out a couple of 9s early one morning. When I foolishly mentioned my pastime to a couple of needy co-workers, they demanded good scores.
There are, of course other ways to beat back boredom, eating for example. Every airport has plenty of fast food restaurants and candy racks plus a store dedicated to local specialties. In Nashville, they offer Moon Pies and Goo Goo Clusters, delicious but not necessarily good for you. Apparently, not one city in America is known for its salads. Why is it we have such strict security forces in airports to protect us from terrorism in the skies but no nutrition police to protect us from too many calories in the food court? Judging by the food available in airports it’s probably better to be pulled out of line as a suspected terrorist so you can spend a few nights in jail. The food is better for you.
Sometimes when I’m really desperate, I roll the dice and engage a seatmate in conversation. Over the years I’ve calculated the odds of being held conversational hostage during a flight lasting 2 hours. Its even money you’ll be forced to pretend you’re listening to some guy named Len describing the novel he’s written in excruciating detail. And, by the way, if you happen to be seated next to a guy you rated a 2, don’t be surprised when he leans over to you after his third beer and makes a confession. “One of these days I’m gonna open the emergency exit door at 37,000 feet. Man that’d be cool” Hey, if the flight still has an hour or more to go I’d consider egging him on.
Of course if you’re a guy seated next to a woman you rated a 10 it doesn’t matter what she talks about. She says, “Oh I just love my cats! I have 74 of them. Would you like to know their names? There’s Fancy girl, Fluffy and Clytemnestra, so many! Trust me on this: A guy could be so allergic that a mere picture of a cat sends him to the emergency room, and he would say, “Wow, I love cats. Imagine 74 cats. I would love to meet them, especially Clytemnestra.”
Sadly it’s not that easy to engage people in conversation during a flight anymore. People travel today with all kinds of boredom suppression gadgets, Kindles I-pads. I love people who carry these tiny I-pods connected to Bose head sets the size of Minneapolis. Any bigger and they would have to buy two seats. In fact looking at what people bring on board these days is another way to fight tedium. The stuff people carry on board is getting really big and harder to cram into the overhead compartment. A couple of weeks a go I saw a guy try to board with his own single engine Cessna. He got turned down but only because the lady in the seat next to him brought her cats with her.
Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.
Between you and me, the only way to get thru the drudgery of business travel is to be creative. For example, did you know there are way more good looking women in America than men? I know this because while I’m sitting at the gate waiting for my plane to arrive or sitting in my assigned seat watching other passengers board the aircraft, I rate each and every man and woman I see on a scale of one to ten. The latest scores, which I hope will be released by Popular Mechanics next month, clearly reveal the difference in looks between men and women. The average score for women of all ages is 8.9. The average score for men? Negative 6. Actually the men’s score would have been lower had I not given out a couple of 9s early one morning. When I foolishly mentioned my pastime to a couple of needy co-workers, they demanded good scores.
There are, of course other ways to beat back boredom, eating for example. Every airport has plenty of fast food restaurants and candy racks plus a store dedicated to local specialties. In Nashville, they offer Moon Pies and Goo Goo Clusters, delicious but not necessarily good for you. Apparently, not one city in America is known for its salads. Why is it we have such strict security forces in airports to protect us from terrorism in the skies but no nutrition police to protect us from too many calories in the food court? Judging by the food available in airports it’s probably better to be pulled out of line as a suspected terrorist so you can spend a few nights in jail. The food is better for you.
Sometimes when I’m really desperate, I roll the dice and engage a seatmate in conversation. Over the years I’ve calculated the odds of being held conversational hostage during a flight lasting 2 hours. Its even money you’ll be forced to pretend you’re listening to some guy named Len describing the novel he’s written in excruciating detail. And, by the way, if you happen to be seated next to a guy you rated a 2, don’t be surprised when he leans over to you after his third beer and makes a confession. “One of these days I’m gonna open the emergency exit door at 37,000 feet. Man that’d be cool” Hey, if the flight still has an hour or more to go I’d consider egging him on.
Of course if you’re a guy seated next to a woman you rated a 10 it doesn’t matter what she talks about. She says, “Oh I just love my cats! I have 74 of them. Would you like to know their names? There’s Fancy girl, Fluffy and Clytemnestra, so many! Trust me on this: A guy could be so allergic that a mere picture of a cat sends him to the emergency room, and he would say, “Wow, I love cats. Imagine 74 cats. I would love to meet them, especially Clytemnestra.”
Sadly it’s not that easy to engage people in conversation during a flight anymore. People travel today with all kinds of boredom suppression gadgets, Kindles I-pads. I love people who carry these tiny I-pods connected to Bose head sets the size of Minneapolis. Any bigger and they would have to buy two seats. In fact looking at what people bring on board these days is another way to fight tedium. The stuff people carry on board is getting really big and harder to cram into the overhead compartment. A couple of weeks a go I saw a guy try to board with his own single engine Cessna. He got turned down but only because the lady in the seat next to him brought her cats with her.
Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Snopes.com is Good. Critical Thinking Helps
I’m worried about the good people of this country and our future. Here’s why: I regularly get emails with patently false information. These days it’s usually about some grave indiscretion committed by President Obama but sometimes it’s an editorial that Andy Rooney never wrote not to mention said, on 60 Minutes.
This morning I got one about the tragic shootings that happened in Fort Hood, Texas last year. Supposedly, when George and Laura Bush heard about the shootings they jumped in the car, unescorted, and drove to the Fort. When they got there, former President Bush asked for directions and was again offered an escort whereupon he told base officials to shut up and drove on to the hospital. The story went on to say that the White House asked the former President to leave. The story goes on to say that President Obama “merely held a photo session” in a gym at Fort Hood.
Okay, I understand a lot of people in this country are unhappy with the current occupant of the White House. Some may have excellent reasons to be unhappy. The election next week will probably hammer home the point. That’s not enough for some of us though. There is no shortage of people that will gladly spread misinformation about Obama and his administration. Certainly in my lifetime there is nothing new about that. Anyone who lived through Watergate understands that evil lurks in the hearts of many people. What frightens me is that there are so many people who are so unhappy with the current state of affairs that they will believe anything that supports their world view. And they are willing to blithely spread hideous stories which today are point and click easy to do. Whatever happened to critical thinking?
I am grateful for Snopes.com. It’s so easy to check stories that don’t sound right and you know what? My instincts are often right. And I am just an average guy with a tendency to be skeptical about what I read. Does anybody else think a little skepticism is healthy? Consider if you will a few points about the Ft. Hood story.
We live in an unstable world. We are forced to be very security conscious. Former Presidents have access to enormous amounts of sensitive information. What are the chances that President Bush, not once but twice, fails to take proper security measures? The reason we protect former Presidents is to ensure we don’t have an international incident that could result in the deaths of many. Think George Bush knows that? By the way, would George Bush tell a man or woman in uniform that offered to help to shut up?
In a highly politicized arena, knowing that former President Bush had been on the military base visiting wounded soldiers, is there any chance that President Obama would “merely hold a photo session?” The guy won an extremely hard fought primary and general election because he exercised formidable political skills.
The truth is that I didn’t really need to check snopes.com to see that the story being sent around was false. I firmly believe that most of us would see that. Common sense tells us that the heart of the story is fabricated. Yet, too many people won’t see that. Why do so many of us choose to major in minor things? We get lathered up over whether a mosque should be built near ground zero while we ignore the fact that educators in this country aren’t getting the job done. America’s students rank 21st in science and 25th in math compared with students around the world. Teachers need to do a better job and so do parents. The mosque issue may be important but where is the outrage over the state of education?
In the days before cyberspace, newspapers and even TV journalists behaved responsibly. They wouldn’t think of publishing something like the Bush visits FT. Hood story. Ethics, moral and business, forced them to walk the straight and narrow. Advertisers would not have stood for malicious propaganda. Readers may not have agreed with certain points of view but they could rest assured that the essential facts of any story were accurate. The Internet changed all that. Everybody can play now and it’s more or less a risk free game. Web sites, blogs and email are a demagogue’s dream. Unless otherwise bright people learn to accept the truth that just because it’s “in print” doesn’t mean it’s true, our liberty is at risk.
Copyright Len Serafino, 2010. All rights reserved.
This morning I got one about the tragic shootings that happened in Fort Hood, Texas last year. Supposedly, when George and Laura Bush heard about the shootings they jumped in the car, unescorted, and drove to the Fort. When they got there, former President Bush asked for directions and was again offered an escort whereupon he told base officials to shut up and drove on to the hospital. The story went on to say that the White House asked the former President to leave. The story goes on to say that President Obama “merely held a photo session” in a gym at Fort Hood.
Okay, I understand a lot of people in this country are unhappy with the current occupant of the White House. Some may have excellent reasons to be unhappy. The election next week will probably hammer home the point. That’s not enough for some of us though. There is no shortage of people that will gladly spread misinformation about Obama and his administration. Certainly in my lifetime there is nothing new about that. Anyone who lived through Watergate understands that evil lurks in the hearts of many people. What frightens me is that there are so many people who are so unhappy with the current state of affairs that they will believe anything that supports their world view. And they are willing to blithely spread hideous stories which today are point and click easy to do. Whatever happened to critical thinking?
I am grateful for Snopes.com. It’s so easy to check stories that don’t sound right and you know what? My instincts are often right. And I am just an average guy with a tendency to be skeptical about what I read. Does anybody else think a little skepticism is healthy? Consider if you will a few points about the Ft. Hood story.
We live in an unstable world. We are forced to be very security conscious. Former Presidents have access to enormous amounts of sensitive information. What are the chances that President Bush, not once but twice, fails to take proper security measures? The reason we protect former Presidents is to ensure we don’t have an international incident that could result in the deaths of many. Think George Bush knows that? By the way, would George Bush tell a man or woman in uniform that offered to help to shut up?
In a highly politicized arena, knowing that former President Bush had been on the military base visiting wounded soldiers, is there any chance that President Obama would “merely hold a photo session?” The guy won an extremely hard fought primary and general election because he exercised formidable political skills.
The truth is that I didn’t really need to check snopes.com to see that the story being sent around was false. I firmly believe that most of us would see that. Common sense tells us that the heart of the story is fabricated. Yet, too many people won’t see that. Why do so many of us choose to major in minor things? We get lathered up over whether a mosque should be built near ground zero while we ignore the fact that educators in this country aren’t getting the job done. America’s students rank 21st in science and 25th in math compared with students around the world. Teachers need to do a better job and so do parents. The mosque issue may be important but where is the outrage over the state of education?
In the days before cyberspace, newspapers and even TV journalists behaved responsibly. They wouldn’t think of publishing something like the Bush visits FT. Hood story. Ethics, moral and business, forced them to walk the straight and narrow. Advertisers would not have stood for malicious propaganda. Readers may not have agreed with certain points of view but they could rest assured that the essential facts of any story were accurate. The Internet changed all that. Everybody can play now and it’s more or less a risk free game. Web sites, blogs and email are a demagogue’s dream. Unless otherwise bright people learn to accept the truth that just because it’s “in print” doesn’t mean it’s true, our liberty is at risk.
Copyright Len Serafino, 2010. All rights reserved.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Multitasking: Hazardous to Your ...What was that?
I was thirsty. So I stopped at a convenience store this afternoon to get a bottle of water. I reached for my money and noticed immediately that I didn’t have as much as I thought I had. I could tell without looking there was money missing. How could that be? Only this morning I went to the bank, inserted a card, and punched a few numbers into the magic machine that dole’s out the amount I request. Happens every time.
So where was the money? I dispensed a twenty into the hands of Connie at Nucci’s Café at lunchtime. Okay, I remember doing that. Did I drop a small wad of cash, $120 to be exact in the process? Nothing to do but take a ride over to Nucci’s. I had to stop there anyway because I forgot the Italian ice I ordered for my wife. When Connie’s husband Steve saw me walk in he assumed that’s why I was there.
Of course I asked him if anyone turned in some money that might have been left lying on the floor in front of the counter where the cash register sits. He assured me that no one did. I couldn’t be sure, but the look on his face seemed to suggest that I was losing it. I mean who would turn in $120 in this economy right? Well, yes you would. I know that. But some people, the kind of people that aren’t reading this column, might be prone to keep the dough.
Flummoxed again, I went home and asked my wife if she saw my money. Perhaps it was resting comfortably on my desk or on the kitchen counter. No dice. I wondered about that to be honest. If she didn’t take it I was out of options. I am not a careless person. The money was only in my possession for a few hours. It’s not that she’s been known to rifle my wallet in search of a little mad money while I’m napping, but there is a first time for everything. I was getting desperate. $120 is nothing to sneeze at. As I weighed the merits of demanding that she take a polygraph test, something odd happened. I remembered what I did with the money.
Just before lunch I was sitting in my home office browsing thru my inbox and chatting on the phone with a colleague. The doorbell rang. It was Mark, the guy who cuts our grass. It seems that I owed him some money for services rendered over the last several weeks. So I paid him the $120 I owed him, handing him six crisp twenties fresh from the money machine at the drive thru.
Is it an age thing? I mean at 62 has it come to this? Not more than three hours after I paid Mark it seems I had no memory of the transaction. Now it’s true that I would rather forget that I’m paying someone to manicure my lawn. That was probably why I fell behind in my payments in the first place. But having no recollection of the transaction so soon after it occurred?
There may be another explanation: Multitasking. Yes according to David Meyer, a psychology professor at the University of Michigan, chronic high-stress multitasking also is linked to short-term-memory loss. And an article Sue Shellenbarger in the Wall Street journal points out that a growing body of scientific research shows that multitasking can actually make you less efficient and, as she said, “stupider.”
Now that’s just what I need at this time in my life. After all the years I spent studying, taking classes, not to mention all that reading, a simple thing like talking on the phone while I read emails, Twitter and eat a number 11 sub from Jersey Mike’s, is making me dumber. Worse, I probably won’t even remember that I was once at least a little bit brighter than I am now.
As if that’s not enough, Katy Read, writing for AARP, reports that information overload is tough on people. This is “especially so for people over 50 because normal brain changes – including small blockages to the brain’s blood supply and a drop in nerve signaling chemicals – can make it harder to tune out distractions.”
Apparently, even if I wanted to ignore the doorbell and hold on to my cash a little longer, I wasn’t capable of tuning out Mark. I had no choice but to pay him. I have only one thing to say. Would the colleague I was on the phone with call me please and identify yourself?
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
So where was the money? I dispensed a twenty into the hands of Connie at Nucci’s Café at lunchtime. Okay, I remember doing that. Did I drop a small wad of cash, $120 to be exact in the process? Nothing to do but take a ride over to Nucci’s. I had to stop there anyway because I forgot the Italian ice I ordered for my wife. When Connie’s husband Steve saw me walk in he assumed that’s why I was there.
Of course I asked him if anyone turned in some money that might have been left lying on the floor in front of the counter where the cash register sits. He assured me that no one did. I couldn’t be sure, but the look on his face seemed to suggest that I was losing it. I mean who would turn in $120 in this economy right? Well, yes you would. I know that. But some people, the kind of people that aren’t reading this column, might be prone to keep the dough.
Flummoxed again, I went home and asked my wife if she saw my money. Perhaps it was resting comfortably on my desk or on the kitchen counter. No dice. I wondered about that to be honest. If she didn’t take it I was out of options. I am not a careless person. The money was only in my possession for a few hours. It’s not that she’s been known to rifle my wallet in search of a little mad money while I’m napping, but there is a first time for everything. I was getting desperate. $120 is nothing to sneeze at. As I weighed the merits of demanding that she take a polygraph test, something odd happened. I remembered what I did with the money.
Just before lunch I was sitting in my home office browsing thru my inbox and chatting on the phone with a colleague. The doorbell rang. It was Mark, the guy who cuts our grass. It seems that I owed him some money for services rendered over the last several weeks. So I paid him the $120 I owed him, handing him six crisp twenties fresh from the money machine at the drive thru.
Is it an age thing? I mean at 62 has it come to this? Not more than three hours after I paid Mark it seems I had no memory of the transaction. Now it’s true that I would rather forget that I’m paying someone to manicure my lawn. That was probably why I fell behind in my payments in the first place. But having no recollection of the transaction so soon after it occurred?
There may be another explanation: Multitasking. Yes according to David Meyer, a psychology professor at the University of Michigan, chronic high-stress multitasking also is linked to short-term-memory loss. And an article Sue Shellenbarger in the Wall Street journal points out that a growing body of scientific research shows that multitasking can actually make you less efficient and, as she said, “stupider.”
Now that’s just what I need at this time in my life. After all the years I spent studying, taking classes, not to mention all that reading, a simple thing like talking on the phone while I read emails, Twitter and eat a number 11 sub from Jersey Mike’s, is making me dumber. Worse, I probably won’t even remember that I was once at least a little bit brighter than I am now.
As if that’s not enough, Katy Read, writing for AARP, reports that information overload is tough on people. This is “especially so for people over 50 because normal brain changes – including small blockages to the brain’s blood supply and a drop in nerve signaling chemicals – can make it harder to tune out distractions.”
Apparently, even if I wanted to ignore the doorbell and hold on to my cash a little longer, I wasn’t capable of tuning out Mark. I had no choice but to pay him. I have only one thing to say. Would the colleague I was on the phone with call me please and identify yourself?
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Dear Abby
I’ve been a Dear Abby reader for years. There’s something about other people’s problems and the usually good advice that captivates me. In Sunday’s paper though, I saw an item that really stunned me. A woman wrote to ask for advice about how she might steal her married friend of 15 years so she could have the new car, beautiful home and new truck that he and his wife enjoyed. Her exact words were, “I don’t love Bud, but I know him from way back and I want to break them up. Can you give me any advice on how to?” She signed it “Losing Out.”
Really? Are we that far gone that newspapers, desperate for paying subscribers, would print something that not that many years ago would be fit only for the National Enquirer? Is it a good idea to treat an inquiry like that as a legitimate problem? Are so many people having that same problem that Dear Abby was forced to deal with it? I can see where a lot of people might have a meddling in-law issue but I’m guessing there are zero women coveting access to me and my 2004 Yukon. Granted I’m not exactly a yardstick for such matters. Still, if such problems are worthy of newsprint, why not go all the way? Let’s give Dear Abby full rein to provide advice on every conceivable topic even if it involves illegal activities. Imagine the range of fascinating questions for our Dear, Dear Abby:
Dear Abby: I want a new car, top of the line, but I’m short of cash. Can you please tell me the easiest way to steal the car I want? What changes should I make to its appearance so I won’t be caught?
BMW Boy
Wait, here’s one I’m sure some of us have pondered. Dear Abby: My boss is making me work overtime so we can catch up on orders placed by customers. Although I agreed to work overtime when I was hired, I’m tired of working Saturdays. Can you suggest something I can put in her coffee that will put her in the hospital for the rest of the summer?
Gone Fishing
I think what really got me wasn’t even the question, as bad as that was. Listen: thousands of people write to Dear Abby every year. With the very complicated world we live in today, there can’t be a shortage of consequential inquiries can there? Why would Jeanne Phillips, who writes Dear Abby, select such a disgraceful inquiry? My first thought when I read it was that a couple of quick-witted teenagers got together and wrote the note just to see if they could slip it past Ms. Phillip’s watchful eye. Maybe that is exactly what happened but Phillips played it straight, sort of. She said, “You must not be a frequent reader of my column. In a case like this I think I’ll take a pass.”
Again, really? Did Ms. Phillips feel that she did well by taking the path of “I’m not going to dignify that question with a response?” If that’s true why did she submit it in the first place? Doesn’t an advice columnist have an obligation to offer meaningful advice to any inquiry that she chooses to submit for print? Let’s be honest here, a lot of people reading that question will not see anything wrong with it. Surely, some will consider it a valid inquiry. You might be thinking, “Anyone reading ‘Losing Out’s’ question would immediately recognize it as inane.” Quick, what did TV Guide report as the number 1 show on television? Correct, The Bachelorette, a show that Losing Out has probably applied for numerous times.
In the interest of helping Ms. Phillips, who I’ll bet is on vacation and is going to be chewing out someone when she gets back to work, here is my guest Dear Abby response:
Dear Losing Out: Since your friend appears to be the generous type why not just tell him exactly what you told Dear Abby except for the not loving him part? Maybe he’ll take pity on you, buy you dinner and a Buick Lucerne just for old time’s sake. And by the way, in case you haven’t heard, marrying for money is the hardest way to get it.
Okay, maybe I won’t quit my day job, but I would be a lot happier if Dear Abby and the newspapers that publish her column did their jobs. We deserve better.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Really? Are we that far gone that newspapers, desperate for paying subscribers, would print something that not that many years ago would be fit only for the National Enquirer? Is it a good idea to treat an inquiry like that as a legitimate problem? Are so many people having that same problem that Dear Abby was forced to deal with it? I can see where a lot of people might have a meddling in-law issue but I’m guessing there are zero women coveting access to me and my 2004 Yukon. Granted I’m not exactly a yardstick for such matters. Still, if such problems are worthy of newsprint, why not go all the way? Let’s give Dear Abby full rein to provide advice on every conceivable topic even if it involves illegal activities. Imagine the range of fascinating questions for our Dear, Dear Abby:
Dear Abby: I want a new car, top of the line, but I’m short of cash. Can you please tell me the easiest way to steal the car I want? What changes should I make to its appearance so I won’t be caught?
BMW Boy
Wait, here’s one I’m sure some of us have pondered. Dear Abby: My boss is making me work overtime so we can catch up on orders placed by customers. Although I agreed to work overtime when I was hired, I’m tired of working Saturdays. Can you suggest something I can put in her coffee that will put her in the hospital for the rest of the summer?
Gone Fishing
I think what really got me wasn’t even the question, as bad as that was. Listen: thousands of people write to Dear Abby every year. With the very complicated world we live in today, there can’t be a shortage of consequential inquiries can there? Why would Jeanne Phillips, who writes Dear Abby, select such a disgraceful inquiry? My first thought when I read it was that a couple of quick-witted teenagers got together and wrote the note just to see if they could slip it past Ms. Phillip’s watchful eye. Maybe that is exactly what happened but Phillips played it straight, sort of. She said, “You must not be a frequent reader of my column. In a case like this I think I’ll take a pass.”
Again, really? Did Ms. Phillips feel that she did well by taking the path of “I’m not going to dignify that question with a response?” If that’s true why did she submit it in the first place? Doesn’t an advice columnist have an obligation to offer meaningful advice to any inquiry that she chooses to submit for print? Let’s be honest here, a lot of people reading that question will not see anything wrong with it. Surely, some will consider it a valid inquiry. You might be thinking, “Anyone reading ‘Losing Out’s’ question would immediately recognize it as inane.” Quick, what did TV Guide report as the number 1 show on television? Correct, The Bachelorette, a show that Losing Out has probably applied for numerous times.
In the interest of helping Ms. Phillips, who I’ll bet is on vacation and is going to be chewing out someone when she gets back to work, here is my guest Dear Abby response:
Dear Losing Out: Since your friend appears to be the generous type why not just tell him exactly what you told Dear Abby except for the not loving him part? Maybe he’ll take pity on you, buy you dinner and a Buick Lucerne just for old time’s sake. And by the way, in case you haven’t heard, marrying for money is the hardest way to get it.
Okay, maybe I won’t quit my day job, but I would be a lot happier if Dear Abby and the newspapers that publish her column did their jobs. We deserve better.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Taxing the Soda We Drink
I saw an interesting statistic the other day in the current issue of Time Magazine. The average American drinks 500% more soda today than Americans consumed 60 years ago. In fact Americans drink about a gallon of soda a week. The article also points out that soda seems to have a lot to do with the obesity epidemic in this country. Really? Could it have anything to do with the fact that a large Coke Classic at McDonalds is 32 ounces, as in a half gallon of soda? Are you wondering how many calories in that half gallon? 310.
Worried about the growing obesity epidemic, (more than 34% of Americans are obese) some states are trying to tax soda in an attempt to slow down consumption. Experts believe higher prices will result in people drinking less soda. Of course the soda industry is fighting lawmakers’ efforts with a good deal of success. Not that it matters. Whether it’s an addiction to the caffeine, sweets or just plain old brand loyalty, raising the price of soda isn’t going to change behavior very quickly. The state of Washington recently put a 2 ¢ tax on 12 ounces of soda. Let’s be serious for a moment. Does anyone really believe we can cut the consumption of soda by adding 2 ¢ to the price of a can of pop?
Consider how hard the task and how long it’s taken to change smoking behavior. My friend Bob and I were talking about when a pack of cigarettes cost $.26. Today the average cost of a pack of cigarettes in this country is $5.33. In states with high local and state taxes, the price approaches $10.00 a pack. Yet, about 19% of Americans still smoke, down from about 42% in 1965. In spite of higher prices, comprehensive anti-smoking campaigns, a ban on advertising and warning labels on cigarette packages that pretty much say “smoke this and you’ll die,” it’s taken more than 50 years to get the number of smokers below 20%. Soda might make you fat if you overindulge but if smokers don’t care or don’t believe that cigarette smoking leads to the permanent dirt nap, why would people worry about extra pounds?
Regardless, taxing people to change behavior works best when everyone affected has the same risks or enjoys the same benefits. Taxing cigarettes burdens people that smoke, the vast majority of whom risk serious health problems. It’s not possible to smoke responsibly. That’s not the case when it comes to soda. If I drink bottled water nine times out of ten why do I have to pay extra taxes if I occasionally treat myself to a root beer?
It’s tempting to blame the people that drink too much soda for this problem. It would be easy I suppose to accuse them of being irresponsible. But I think lawmakers are looking through the wrong side of a two-way mirror. I can’t help wondering why makers of soda and retailers offer such large portions of food and drink when it’s clear that too many people are overweight or obese.
When I was a kid the largest bottle of soda you could buy was Royal Crown’s 16 ounce cola. For most of the 1950s Coke came in 6 oz. bottles. A typical soda from a restaurant fountain was 8 ounces. Back then you would have to order four drinks to get the equivalent of today’s large Coke. People didn’t do that sort of thing then but I don’t think it was because they had more discipline. It never would have occurred to them because the size of the item they ordered implied it was an appropriate portion. So if consumers today can buy a 32 ounce drink it must be okay right?
I realize that the availability of larger portions alone doesn’t explain why people overindulge. Obviously, many people don’t overdo it. But I think it is true that restaurants and food service manufacturers back then understood they had responsibilities beyond growing market share and making a profit. While individuals must accept responsibility for their actions, marketers who concoct these so called value meals and relentlessly sell them to the public they supposedly serve, are behaving irresponsibly. Why not tax their profits on irresponsible offerings? If they raise prices to cover those losses hit them harder. Most food and beverage merchants are paying lip service to treating obesity. Maybe it’s time to put them on the kind of diet they understand.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Worried about the growing obesity epidemic, (more than 34% of Americans are obese) some states are trying to tax soda in an attempt to slow down consumption. Experts believe higher prices will result in people drinking less soda. Of course the soda industry is fighting lawmakers’ efforts with a good deal of success. Not that it matters. Whether it’s an addiction to the caffeine, sweets or just plain old brand loyalty, raising the price of soda isn’t going to change behavior very quickly. The state of Washington recently put a 2 ¢ tax on 12 ounces of soda. Let’s be serious for a moment. Does anyone really believe we can cut the consumption of soda by adding 2 ¢ to the price of a can of pop?
Consider how hard the task and how long it’s taken to change smoking behavior. My friend Bob and I were talking about when a pack of cigarettes cost $.26. Today the average cost of a pack of cigarettes in this country is $5.33. In states with high local and state taxes, the price approaches $10.00 a pack. Yet, about 19% of Americans still smoke, down from about 42% in 1965. In spite of higher prices, comprehensive anti-smoking campaigns, a ban on advertising and warning labels on cigarette packages that pretty much say “smoke this and you’ll die,” it’s taken more than 50 years to get the number of smokers below 20%. Soda might make you fat if you overindulge but if smokers don’t care or don’t believe that cigarette smoking leads to the permanent dirt nap, why would people worry about extra pounds?
Regardless, taxing people to change behavior works best when everyone affected has the same risks or enjoys the same benefits. Taxing cigarettes burdens people that smoke, the vast majority of whom risk serious health problems. It’s not possible to smoke responsibly. That’s not the case when it comes to soda. If I drink bottled water nine times out of ten why do I have to pay extra taxes if I occasionally treat myself to a root beer?
It’s tempting to blame the people that drink too much soda for this problem. It would be easy I suppose to accuse them of being irresponsible. But I think lawmakers are looking through the wrong side of a two-way mirror. I can’t help wondering why makers of soda and retailers offer such large portions of food and drink when it’s clear that too many people are overweight or obese.
When I was a kid the largest bottle of soda you could buy was Royal Crown’s 16 ounce cola. For most of the 1950s Coke came in 6 oz. bottles. A typical soda from a restaurant fountain was 8 ounces. Back then you would have to order four drinks to get the equivalent of today’s large Coke. People didn’t do that sort of thing then but I don’t think it was because they had more discipline. It never would have occurred to them because the size of the item they ordered implied it was an appropriate portion. So if consumers today can buy a 32 ounce drink it must be okay right?
I realize that the availability of larger portions alone doesn’t explain why people overindulge. Obviously, many people don’t overdo it. But I think it is true that restaurants and food service manufacturers back then understood they had responsibilities beyond growing market share and making a profit. While individuals must accept responsibility for their actions, marketers who concoct these so called value meals and relentlessly sell them to the public they supposedly serve, are behaving irresponsibly. Why not tax their profits on irresponsible offerings? If they raise prices to cover those losses hit them harder. Most food and beverage merchants are paying lip service to treating obesity. Maybe it’s time to put them on the kind of diet they understand.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Generic Birthday Greetings are Driving Me Crazy
On the first day of every month a very good friend of mine emails a birthday list to all of the guys from our college fraternity. This month seven brothers of Kappa Phi will celebrate their birthdays. While the Rutgers University based fraternity didn’t survive the turbulent years that followed the sixties, a lot of friendships have endured and many are very strong.
Now I think it’s nice for Mike that he sends this list around but I am not enamored by the way some of the brothers use it. Let me explain. Since our frat days, my friend Paul and I have called each other on our birthdays. While Paul stayed put, building a business in Manhattan, I moved around a bit. Still, whether I was living in tiny Palmyra, New Jersey, Webster, New York (where life is worth living according to the natives) or my current home in Franklin, Tennessee, Paul always called. Paul is one of the July birthdays so when his day comes I will no doubt give him a call. Our conversations are lively, personal, and great fun. We catch up on what is happening in our lives now and indulge ourselves by retelling a story or two from the days when we were carefree college students. (If you’re reading this Paul, I did not steal the delicious London broil sandwich your mother made.) Over the years I added to the list of people I called as did Paul. And a funny thing happened after about 25 years of calling these guys. They started remembering my birthday and calling me: More terrific conversations to enjoy. If you can’t be sipping a tall one in the same pub together, hearing a good friend’s voice is the next best thing. Reading a Times New Roman font size 12 greeting is a pale comparison.
Enter the Internet age and email. I’m afraid some people are overcome with the easiness of typing out a few words and letting it go at that. Sadly, as far as I know, Microsoft has yet to figure out how to deliver the nuance that each person’s unique pitch and voice tone can deliver. And until they do we will keep calling. I hope it never stops.
Since Mike started sending his monthly blast email birthday list, my inbox has been choked by messages from a growing number of well wishers. Some recipients of Mike’s message reply to all with alacrity. Since my birthday is in January none of these guys are wishing me anything. They are just letting me know they are wishing someone else a Happy Birthday. How nice. Couldn’t they at least send an e-card to the birthday boys?
I am at a loss to understand how a generic “Happy Birthday to all the guys that have a birthday this month” is meaningful. If it makes sense to do that, why not send birthday greetings on January1st every year? “Happy Birthday to everyone I ever met” should do the trick.
The guys I went to school with always seemed bright to me. They did go to Rutgers after all, a great school that in those days was often thought to be an Ivy League university. Admittedly it wasn’t because of the academic standards, but we did play some of the Ivy’s in football every year. People seeing me in my Rutgers sweatshirt would ask, “Rutgers! Is that an Ivy League school? My answer never varied. “Almost,” I said.
But I digress. I’m annoyed by these unwanted email intrusions. Is it possible that the guys who send these vapid greetings want credit for acknowledging birthdays? Why else would Rollo, Tony and Al, not to mention Mark, feel the need to copy me and 50 other guys? These guys have been successful in life by any measurement you can name. It can’t be that they are lazy. It might be Mike’s fault for sending out the list but I hesitate to blame him. He might delete me from the group.
Listen, I do hope that every brother in the fraternity has a very happy birthday and many more of them too. But if I feel the need to tell them that I’ll call each one personally and say so. What I want more than anything for my birthday next year is this: Stop clicking “Reply to All” and send something meaningful to each birthday brother individually on the anniversary of his actual date of birth. Better yet call them. I’m sure every brother has the roster Mike sends with changes every three or four days.
Copyright Len Serafino, 2010. All rights reserved.
Now I think it’s nice for Mike that he sends this list around but I am not enamored by the way some of the brothers use it. Let me explain. Since our frat days, my friend Paul and I have called each other on our birthdays. While Paul stayed put, building a business in Manhattan, I moved around a bit. Still, whether I was living in tiny Palmyra, New Jersey, Webster, New York (where life is worth living according to the natives) or my current home in Franklin, Tennessee, Paul always called. Paul is one of the July birthdays so when his day comes I will no doubt give him a call. Our conversations are lively, personal, and great fun. We catch up on what is happening in our lives now and indulge ourselves by retelling a story or two from the days when we were carefree college students. (If you’re reading this Paul, I did not steal the delicious London broil sandwich your mother made.) Over the years I added to the list of people I called as did Paul. And a funny thing happened after about 25 years of calling these guys. They started remembering my birthday and calling me: More terrific conversations to enjoy. If you can’t be sipping a tall one in the same pub together, hearing a good friend’s voice is the next best thing. Reading a Times New Roman font size 12 greeting is a pale comparison.
Enter the Internet age and email. I’m afraid some people are overcome with the easiness of typing out a few words and letting it go at that. Sadly, as far as I know, Microsoft has yet to figure out how to deliver the nuance that each person’s unique pitch and voice tone can deliver. And until they do we will keep calling. I hope it never stops.
Since Mike started sending his monthly blast email birthday list, my inbox has been choked by messages from a growing number of well wishers. Some recipients of Mike’s message reply to all with alacrity. Since my birthday is in January none of these guys are wishing me anything. They are just letting me know they are wishing someone else a Happy Birthday. How nice. Couldn’t they at least send an e-card to the birthday boys?
I am at a loss to understand how a generic “Happy Birthday to all the guys that have a birthday this month” is meaningful. If it makes sense to do that, why not send birthday greetings on January1st every year? “Happy Birthday to everyone I ever met” should do the trick.
The guys I went to school with always seemed bright to me. They did go to Rutgers after all, a great school that in those days was often thought to be an Ivy League university. Admittedly it wasn’t because of the academic standards, but we did play some of the Ivy’s in football every year. People seeing me in my Rutgers sweatshirt would ask, “Rutgers! Is that an Ivy League school? My answer never varied. “Almost,” I said.
But I digress. I’m annoyed by these unwanted email intrusions. Is it possible that the guys who send these vapid greetings want credit for acknowledging birthdays? Why else would Rollo, Tony and Al, not to mention Mark, feel the need to copy me and 50 other guys? These guys have been successful in life by any measurement you can name. It can’t be that they are lazy. It might be Mike’s fault for sending out the list but I hesitate to blame him. He might delete me from the group.
Listen, I do hope that every brother in the fraternity has a very happy birthday and many more of them too. But if I feel the need to tell them that I’ll call each one personally and say so. What I want more than anything for my birthday next year is this: Stop clicking “Reply to All” and send something meaningful to each birthday brother individually on the anniversary of his actual date of birth. Better yet call them. I’m sure every brother has the roster Mike sends with changes every three or four days.
Copyright Len Serafino, 2010. All rights reserved.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Hello I Love You Here’s My Tattoo
When you meet with the young girls early in the spring you court them in song and rhyme…from Sinatra’s September Song. The song was written more than 40 years ago during simpler times, long before television shows like the Bachelor and the Bachelorette made a mockery of romance. Which brings to mind the current edition of the Bachelorette: This year the bachelorette being pursued by a gaggle of guys is Ali, the young woman who last season seemed so clear eyed in choosing her job over that goofball Jake.
Most men still romance women with flowers and candy. And song and rhyme is still in vogue, as evidenced by the crooning of several of the guys hoping to win Ali’s hand. But one of the eager young men, Kasey, decided to take it up a few notches. He got a heart shaped tattoo on his wrist to prove his love to Ali, this after two so-called dates. His theory seems to be that once Ali has seen the tattoo, secured by a series of painful needles, administered by a young woman who may or may not be trying to get on the Jerry Springer show, Ali will know Kasey is her true love.
Well I think the lad is crazy. If he had any sense he would have waited until his next date with Ali. He would surprise her with a trip to the very same tattoo parlor and demanded that she get a tattoo to prove her love. Certainly Ali might be reticent to do that but if I was writing the script for The Bachelorette, that’s what I would have done. (And don’t tell me the show isn’t scripted. My son-in-law just told me that the guy with the broken leg has been seen with the cast on either leg depending on the scene.)
In my rendition of the show, Ali would indeed get a tattoo on her knee as a symbol of her budding romance with Kasey. Imagine how she could drive the other guys wild showing that thing off during the Rose Ceremony. The remaining episodes would be so much more intriguing as one suitor after another marches Ali to a tattoo parlor and insists on equal billing. Why should a potential stalker like Kasey get a leg up in the Ali sweepstakes? By the end of the show when the final rose has been proffered, with any luck Ali will look like a billboard of bad judgment and bad taste, a pluperfect advertisement for the show. Another option would be to have her issue vouchers for rose tattoos each week. The winner would be the guy with the most roses running up his right arm or maybe across his chest.
I’m certain that none of my readers actually watch The Bachelorette. You’re probably reluctant to even admit you’ve ever heard of the show. So perhaps I should explain the rose ceremony. After cavorting with the guys for days in glamorous locales, the bachelorette is handed a dish full of roses. Then, after much thought she doles them out to the guys who score lowest on the creepiness scale. Of course there are only so many roses to go around. One or two losers are always left standing there looking like the kids who didn’t get chosen for the pickup basketball game.
Losers play their assigned roles to the hilt. They express their disappointment and pretend to be shocked that some woman they have nothing in common with likes the other guys more. These guys are disappointed but it has nothing to do with losing Ali. More likely they’re unhappy because their fifteen minutes is up and worse, they won’t be jetting to Copenhagen for next week’s episode. Trust me these guys would be happy to romance a woman who actually gained weight on The Biggest Loser for a chance to travel in style.
By the way, tattoo boy got a rose this week, no doubt because he never got the chance to show Ali his artwork. Had Ali seen the tattoo and listened to Kasey’s reason for doing it, not only would he not have received a rose, Ali would have demanded a restraining order. On the other hand, Kasey’s probably not a complete fool. Assuming the tattoo is real, my guess is the fine print beneath the heart says, “I’m next season’s Bachelor.”
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Most men still romance women with flowers and candy. And song and rhyme is still in vogue, as evidenced by the crooning of several of the guys hoping to win Ali’s hand. But one of the eager young men, Kasey, decided to take it up a few notches. He got a heart shaped tattoo on his wrist to prove his love to Ali, this after two so-called dates. His theory seems to be that once Ali has seen the tattoo, secured by a series of painful needles, administered by a young woman who may or may not be trying to get on the Jerry Springer show, Ali will know Kasey is her true love.
Well I think the lad is crazy. If he had any sense he would have waited until his next date with Ali. He would surprise her with a trip to the very same tattoo parlor and demanded that she get a tattoo to prove her love. Certainly Ali might be reticent to do that but if I was writing the script for The Bachelorette, that’s what I would have done. (And don’t tell me the show isn’t scripted. My son-in-law just told me that the guy with the broken leg has been seen with the cast on either leg depending on the scene.)
In my rendition of the show, Ali would indeed get a tattoo on her knee as a symbol of her budding romance with Kasey. Imagine how she could drive the other guys wild showing that thing off during the Rose Ceremony. The remaining episodes would be so much more intriguing as one suitor after another marches Ali to a tattoo parlor and insists on equal billing. Why should a potential stalker like Kasey get a leg up in the Ali sweepstakes? By the end of the show when the final rose has been proffered, with any luck Ali will look like a billboard of bad judgment and bad taste, a pluperfect advertisement for the show. Another option would be to have her issue vouchers for rose tattoos each week. The winner would be the guy with the most roses running up his right arm or maybe across his chest.
I’m certain that none of my readers actually watch The Bachelorette. You’re probably reluctant to even admit you’ve ever heard of the show. So perhaps I should explain the rose ceremony. After cavorting with the guys for days in glamorous locales, the bachelorette is handed a dish full of roses. Then, after much thought she doles them out to the guys who score lowest on the creepiness scale. Of course there are only so many roses to go around. One or two losers are always left standing there looking like the kids who didn’t get chosen for the pickup basketball game.
Losers play their assigned roles to the hilt. They express their disappointment and pretend to be shocked that some woman they have nothing in common with likes the other guys more. These guys are disappointed but it has nothing to do with losing Ali. More likely they’re unhappy because their fifteen minutes is up and worse, they won’t be jetting to Copenhagen for next week’s episode. Trust me these guys would be happy to romance a woman who actually gained weight on The Biggest Loser for a chance to travel in style.
By the way, tattoo boy got a rose this week, no doubt because he never got the chance to show Ali his artwork. Had Ali seen the tattoo and listened to Kasey’s reason for doing it, not only would he not have received a rose, Ali would have demanded a restraining order. On the other hand, Kasey’s probably not a complete fool. Assuming the tattoo is real, my guess is the fine print beneath the heart says, “I’m next season’s Bachelor.”
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Thinking about Candles
I was in the mall at the Yankee Candle store where we are regular customers. My wife was restocking her candle supply. She bought a candle called “Vineyard” which smells like Nehi Grape Soda. “Hydrangea” is another of her favorites. That one smells like a floral scented perfume that may or may not include hydrangeas. Candles are a big business. That there is a successful chain of stores such as Yankee Candle attests to that. We may have as much artificial electric lighting as we can possibly want or need, but candles still have a nice niche.
A century ago people were still watching the O’Reilly factor by candlelight. Nowadays we just flip a switch or two and the entire house is bathed in enough light to make you feel you’re on Broadway. When Edison invented the light bulb, savvy investors of the day probably dumped their candle stocks in droves, assuming that GE Soft White 60-Watt bulbs would decimate the wax and wick crowd. But they were wrong about that weren’t they?
People are still lighting candles, mostly as a mood elevator. Lots of candles are being lit to lighten the load if not the room these days. Aroma therapy is alive and well. Candles have become decorative items too, packaged in fancy delicate glass containers. Once the candle is gone some containers could probably double as carafes to hold wine the way jelly jars became juice tumblers years ago. Candles also come in many shapes, designed to add a festive touch to just about any holiday you can think of. I still have fond memories of a Santa candle even after St. Nick’s head was melted beyond recognition when we forgot to blow out Santa’s red cap one Christmas Eve.
Before we left the Yankee Candle store the clerk dropped a catalogue in the bag holding the candles. I hate these things. Trees die in vain to feed the marketing frenzy of retailers. I mean does anybody actually read a candle catalogue? As it turns out, in spite of my disdain for them, I do. At least I read this one. Did you know Yankee Candle makes a candle called “Garden Cucumber?” I wonder how many people so love the smell of cucumbers that they want to introduce that scent into their homes on Saturday nights. If you were frying garlic in olive oil would you light a cucumber candle to arrest the odor? It seems to me that a “Mango Salsa” would go better with the garlic and oil. The question then is what wine to serve?
Yankee Candle also offers something called “Evening Air.” It costs about 25 bucks for a big jar of…well, evening air. Forgive me for asking, but does it really make sense to spend $25 to light a candle when you can just open a window and get the real thing? Unless you live downwind from a waste disposal plant, I think fresh air has a distinct advantage over the bouquet one gets from the burning chemicals coming from the jar.
Another candle that caught my eye is called “Storm Watch.” By all means let me light a candle that reminds me of the terror of hiding in my closet while a category 5 tornado whistles though my neighborhood. If using an aroma to invoke senses that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up, I have a few suggestions for candle makers everywhere. How about a candle called “I Smell Smoke?” Imagine our delight when an unsuspecting house guest gets a whiff of something akin to an electrical fire. Indeed maybe the candle’s name should be “Flash Fire.” “Life Flight” also comes to mind. If the boys and girls in the candle scent lab can find a way to mingle the smells of helicopter exhaust, rubbing alcohol and gauze bandages, it could be a winner for those who prefer to live on the edge.
I suppose I’m being silly again but there is no denying that the candle industry successfully reinvented itself. They could have gone the way of the buggy whip and the typewriter. Instead they moved from a critical necessity to tiny luxury item. The industry’s problem now is coming up with new scents that give us the urge to light up. As you can see, I’m trying to help.
Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.
A century ago people were still watching the O’Reilly factor by candlelight. Nowadays we just flip a switch or two and the entire house is bathed in enough light to make you feel you’re on Broadway. When Edison invented the light bulb, savvy investors of the day probably dumped their candle stocks in droves, assuming that GE Soft White 60-Watt bulbs would decimate the wax and wick crowd. But they were wrong about that weren’t they?
People are still lighting candles, mostly as a mood elevator. Lots of candles are being lit to lighten the load if not the room these days. Aroma therapy is alive and well. Candles have become decorative items too, packaged in fancy delicate glass containers. Once the candle is gone some containers could probably double as carafes to hold wine the way jelly jars became juice tumblers years ago. Candles also come in many shapes, designed to add a festive touch to just about any holiday you can think of. I still have fond memories of a Santa candle even after St. Nick’s head was melted beyond recognition when we forgot to blow out Santa’s red cap one Christmas Eve.
Before we left the Yankee Candle store the clerk dropped a catalogue in the bag holding the candles. I hate these things. Trees die in vain to feed the marketing frenzy of retailers. I mean does anybody actually read a candle catalogue? As it turns out, in spite of my disdain for them, I do. At least I read this one. Did you know Yankee Candle makes a candle called “Garden Cucumber?” I wonder how many people so love the smell of cucumbers that they want to introduce that scent into their homes on Saturday nights. If you were frying garlic in olive oil would you light a cucumber candle to arrest the odor? It seems to me that a “Mango Salsa” would go better with the garlic and oil. The question then is what wine to serve?
Yankee Candle also offers something called “Evening Air.” It costs about 25 bucks for a big jar of…well, evening air. Forgive me for asking, but does it really make sense to spend $25 to light a candle when you can just open a window and get the real thing? Unless you live downwind from a waste disposal plant, I think fresh air has a distinct advantage over the bouquet one gets from the burning chemicals coming from the jar.
Another candle that caught my eye is called “Storm Watch.” By all means let me light a candle that reminds me of the terror of hiding in my closet while a category 5 tornado whistles though my neighborhood. If using an aroma to invoke senses that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up, I have a few suggestions for candle makers everywhere. How about a candle called “I Smell Smoke?” Imagine our delight when an unsuspecting house guest gets a whiff of something akin to an electrical fire. Indeed maybe the candle’s name should be “Flash Fire.” “Life Flight” also comes to mind. If the boys and girls in the candle scent lab can find a way to mingle the smells of helicopter exhaust, rubbing alcohol and gauze bandages, it could be a winner for those who prefer to live on the edge.
I suppose I’m being silly again but there is no denying that the candle industry successfully reinvented itself. They could have gone the way of the buggy whip and the typewriter. Instead they moved from a critical necessity to tiny luxury item. The industry’s problem now is coming up with new scents that give us the urge to light up. As you can see, I’m trying to help.
Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
We Don’t Make Cars We Make…
Joy. That’s right. A recent ad campaign by German automaker, BMW announced that very fact. At first I was shocked by the news. I always thought it might be fun to drive a Beamer. Like so many other things, it seemed that my chance to do just that was slipping away. Unbelievably, they were going to be making joy. I thought, “Doesn’t Proctor and Gamble make Joy?” But it turns out they weren’t talking about dishwashing liquid.
No, cars are still in the picture, literally. The humongous ad that appeared in USA Today was full of BMW models, one for every appetite. De rigueur photos like the middle aged white guy standing in front of a convertible, red of course, the silver car racing through a stream, little kids with big smiles, a young black woman behind the wheel, all of them experiencing what BMW’s advertising agency thinks we should think joy is.
Webster’s defines joy as the emotion evoked by well being…delight. Hard to quarrel with that one but BMW believes they can improve on that. To wit:
Joy breaks the mold
Joy is timeless
Joy is youthful
Joy can be counted (my favorite)
Joy is maternal
Joy is future proof (over the top maybe?)
The BMW ad insists, “We don’t make cars.” They claim to be the creators of emotion, the keepers of thrill and finally the guardians of one three letter word. Maybe I wouldn’t mind this so much if not for one nagging little problem: Memo to BMW…you do make cars. You make a fine automobile. As a potential buyer, I am much more concerned with your responsibility as a guardian of our safety, your interest in being creators of quality products and, keepers of as little of my money as possible.
I cannot imagine what runs through the minds of top executives when they allow an ad agency to foist such nonsense on the public. Do they really believe we're stupid? As someone who has bought cars on occasion just for something to do, I fully appreciate the anticipation one feels spending four or five hours on a Saturday afternoon at a dealership negotiating price with the car salesperson and wrangling with the finance person over interest rates. On occasion I have enjoyed the way a salesperson explains the destination charge on the dealer invoice. I have benefited greatly from the patience of the used car manager as he points out the numerous flaws in the vehicle I am trying to trade. But joy? Really?
To be fair, I have envisioned having what’s left of my hair blow in the wind as I cruise down the road, trying my best not to notice other people whose cars which are often bigger and more expensive than mine. And driving through a stream always turns out to be a water filled pothole with enough mud to make my car look less attractive than the one I saw in the ad.
I wish advertizing executives would stop trying to appeal to what the focus groups say we’re dreaming about and give us a little credit for what we know. I get it when an ad shows a car at its best. When an entire ad seems bent on misdirection it makes me leery of what I’m seeing. Edmunds.com generally gives BMW high marks for performance and styling. Why the nonsense about manufacturing joy? What logic are the admen employing? Should a coffin maker run an ad that states, “We don’t make caskets…we make peace and quiet”?
A couple of years ago I heard a media expert explain why most advertising today is so lousy. There was a time, he said, when people who ran advertizing agencies were smarter than the audience. It was his opinion that the reverse is true today. One look at that Quiznos “if you’re gonna eat $5.00” ad and you know there has to be some truth to that.
As a rule, I try to avoid prescribing behaviors to my readers. I write the story and if you get something out of it (Joy? Just kidding) that’s great. But today I want to suggest that you consciously pay attention to the ads you see and read. Are you being treated as if you have a working brain? Does the ad articulate an easy to understand and meaningful proposition? If not ask yourself why the advertiser chose to waste your time.
BMW will sell a lot of cars this year. Many buyers will enjoy owning one. Nobody will get in touch with them for the joy of it.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved
No, cars are still in the picture, literally. The humongous ad that appeared in USA Today was full of BMW models, one for every appetite. De rigueur photos like the middle aged white guy standing in front of a convertible, red of course, the silver car racing through a stream, little kids with big smiles, a young black woman behind the wheel, all of them experiencing what BMW’s advertising agency thinks we should think joy is.
Webster’s defines joy as the emotion evoked by well being…delight. Hard to quarrel with that one but BMW believes they can improve on that. To wit:
Joy breaks the mold
Joy is timeless
Joy is youthful
Joy can be counted (my favorite)
Joy is maternal
Joy is future proof (over the top maybe?)
The BMW ad insists, “We don’t make cars.” They claim to be the creators of emotion, the keepers of thrill and finally the guardians of one three letter word. Maybe I wouldn’t mind this so much if not for one nagging little problem: Memo to BMW…you do make cars. You make a fine automobile. As a potential buyer, I am much more concerned with your responsibility as a guardian of our safety, your interest in being creators of quality products and, keepers of as little of my money as possible.
I cannot imagine what runs through the minds of top executives when they allow an ad agency to foist such nonsense on the public. Do they really believe we're stupid? As someone who has bought cars on occasion just for something to do, I fully appreciate the anticipation one feels spending four or five hours on a Saturday afternoon at a dealership negotiating price with the car salesperson and wrangling with the finance person over interest rates. On occasion I have enjoyed the way a salesperson explains the destination charge on the dealer invoice. I have benefited greatly from the patience of the used car manager as he points out the numerous flaws in the vehicle I am trying to trade. But joy? Really?
To be fair, I have envisioned having what’s left of my hair blow in the wind as I cruise down the road, trying my best not to notice other people whose cars which are often bigger and more expensive than mine. And driving through a stream always turns out to be a water filled pothole with enough mud to make my car look less attractive than the one I saw in the ad.
I wish advertizing executives would stop trying to appeal to what the focus groups say we’re dreaming about and give us a little credit for what we know. I get it when an ad shows a car at its best. When an entire ad seems bent on misdirection it makes me leery of what I’m seeing. Edmunds.com generally gives BMW high marks for performance and styling. Why the nonsense about manufacturing joy? What logic are the admen employing? Should a coffin maker run an ad that states, “We don’t make caskets…we make peace and quiet”?
A couple of years ago I heard a media expert explain why most advertising today is so lousy. There was a time, he said, when people who ran advertizing agencies were smarter than the audience. It was his opinion that the reverse is true today. One look at that Quiznos “if you’re gonna eat $5.00” ad and you know there has to be some truth to that.
As a rule, I try to avoid prescribing behaviors to my readers. I write the story and if you get something out of it (Joy? Just kidding) that’s great. But today I want to suggest that you consciously pay attention to the ads you see and read. Are you being treated as if you have a working brain? Does the ad articulate an easy to understand and meaningful proposition? If not ask yourself why the advertiser chose to waste your time.
BMW will sell a lot of cars this year. Many buyers will enjoy owning one. Nobody will get in touch with them for the joy of it.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Dating Concierge
My friend Tom forwarded me an article he found on MSNBC.com. Get this: People are using a service to help them with on line dating. Some people are so busy these days that they can’t find the time to exchange emails with prospective partners they find on dating Web sites. Apparently we’re outsourcing our love lives now. Businesses have sprung up that will cull through prospective suitors based on criteria you provide to the service. They will even correspond with your prospective mate for a while to help you improve your chances of landing an actual date.
The idea seems attractive I suppose. Isn’t that what headhunters have been doing successfully for years? Good recruiters give candidates the onceover before sending them on to an interview. Call it a first date. References have been checked and job histories have been verified. Of course, former employers generally have a policy of not offering information beyond verifying that so and so worked here between January 3, 2000 and February 16, 2004. If an employee set a record for consecutive sick days or was notorious for padding expense accounts, recruiters aren’t likely to hear about that.
In the world of dating however, former girlfriends and spouses are not constrained by corporate policy. A romance researcher just might get an earful should the researcher check out the intended’s story. Even if an online dater isn’t all that busy, it’s easy to see the upside at first glance.
“Wait, you’re talking about Richard right? And he said he loved moonlight walks on the beach? The last time that louse walked on a beach was after his third DUI when the judge sentenced him to picking up trash.” Do you see the possibilities? Imagine if you will, a guy who says he’s recently relocated, loves children, ballroom dancing, romantic comedies and fine dining. Before dating concierges became available, a woman could look at his picture (taken maybe five years ago) and decide to give him a try. After all, the guy said he loves kids.
It could take months to figure out whether he’s the genuine article using the trial and error method. And if he can really dance a merengue, it could be even longer before an unsuspecting woman realizes he’s unemployed and had to move back in with his mother. Recently relocated indeed.
One woman quoted in the article wondered if the service might be extended to a first kiss as a way of determining whether the prospective mate was a good kisser. She thought it might be nice to know whether the guy dressed like a dork too. There’s no telling where this service could go. Listen: Why not have the dating concierge marry the prospect for a year or two? What better way to get a comprehensive read on the dreamboat who’s picture has you enthralled? Good cook? Red wine or white? Mother from hell? Not only loves walking on the beach, he’s so broke he lives there too?
I wonder if this service isn’t as much about people being busy as it is about people too self absorbed to go through the process of getting to know someone. Does any serious person believe it’s possible to substitute someone else’s judgment for yours when it comes to starting what could be the most important relationship in your life? Perhaps the hyper busy among us have forgotten the joy of learning something new from someone, even if that person could never be the one, the significant other so many lonely people long for. It’s the trouble we go through, the words, we hear, the gestures we observe consciously and otherwise, that tells us whether we are building a relationship or just passing through.
These experiences, painstaking and time consuming though they may be, make it possible to grasp the differences that are really important in the long run. Being with someone who’s a great kisser is useless when you’re too sick to raise your head off the pillow but he or she has chosen to run for cover. Most of us know the perfect mate doesn’t exist. No amount of survey responses or email daisy chains can substitute for looking into another’s eyes and seeing what is in their soul. You would think that finding someone special is worth your time no matter how busy you are. You can outsource your housecleaning and your laundry. Outsourcing your life isn’t an option.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
The idea seems attractive I suppose. Isn’t that what headhunters have been doing successfully for years? Good recruiters give candidates the onceover before sending them on to an interview. Call it a first date. References have been checked and job histories have been verified. Of course, former employers generally have a policy of not offering information beyond verifying that so and so worked here between January 3, 2000 and February 16, 2004. If an employee set a record for consecutive sick days or was notorious for padding expense accounts, recruiters aren’t likely to hear about that.
In the world of dating however, former girlfriends and spouses are not constrained by corporate policy. A romance researcher just might get an earful should the researcher check out the intended’s story. Even if an online dater isn’t all that busy, it’s easy to see the upside at first glance.
“Wait, you’re talking about Richard right? And he said he loved moonlight walks on the beach? The last time that louse walked on a beach was after his third DUI when the judge sentenced him to picking up trash.” Do you see the possibilities? Imagine if you will, a guy who says he’s recently relocated, loves children, ballroom dancing, romantic comedies and fine dining. Before dating concierges became available, a woman could look at his picture (taken maybe five years ago) and decide to give him a try. After all, the guy said he loves kids.
It could take months to figure out whether he’s the genuine article using the trial and error method. And if he can really dance a merengue, it could be even longer before an unsuspecting woman realizes he’s unemployed and had to move back in with his mother. Recently relocated indeed.
One woman quoted in the article wondered if the service might be extended to a first kiss as a way of determining whether the prospective mate was a good kisser. She thought it might be nice to know whether the guy dressed like a dork too. There’s no telling where this service could go. Listen: Why not have the dating concierge marry the prospect for a year or two? What better way to get a comprehensive read on the dreamboat who’s picture has you enthralled? Good cook? Red wine or white? Mother from hell? Not only loves walking on the beach, he’s so broke he lives there too?
I wonder if this service isn’t as much about people being busy as it is about people too self absorbed to go through the process of getting to know someone. Does any serious person believe it’s possible to substitute someone else’s judgment for yours when it comes to starting what could be the most important relationship in your life? Perhaps the hyper busy among us have forgotten the joy of learning something new from someone, even if that person could never be the one, the significant other so many lonely people long for. It’s the trouble we go through, the words, we hear, the gestures we observe consciously and otherwise, that tells us whether we are building a relationship or just passing through.
These experiences, painstaking and time consuming though they may be, make it possible to grasp the differences that are really important in the long run. Being with someone who’s a great kisser is useless when you’re too sick to raise your head off the pillow but he or she has chosen to run for cover. Most of us know the perfect mate doesn’t exist. No amount of survey responses or email daisy chains can substitute for looking into another’s eyes and seeing what is in their soul. You would think that finding someone special is worth your time no matter how busy you are. You can outsource your housecleaning and your laundry. Outsourcing your life isn’t an option.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Telling Stories at 35,000 Feet
It’s Monday morning and I’m sitting on an airplane again, headed to Ft. Myers. It’s a clear day and it’s a smooth flight. The other people on the plane are mostly reading or sleeping, that is except for the two guys behind me who seem to have bonded instantly the way people trapped in a hostage situation probably do.
I’ve had many conversations like the one I’m overhearing in bits and pieces as I write this. The thing about these in-flight conversations is I’m hard pressed to remember most of them. I do remember a 20 year old woman with tattoos all over her body but maybe that’s because she gave me some great material for a column I wrote about tattoos.
Most plane ride conversations aren’t memorable because they are merely a way to pass the time. Time constraints preclude deep philosophical exchanges. I know I’ve passed on precious little wisdom while droning on like the engines of a Boeing 737. No doubt I have received a lot more than I have given. For one thing I’m a natural interviewer. I ask lots of questions and I’ve learned that people trapped in a speeding cylinder at 35,000 feet, will often answer them. Not long ago a woman confided her doubts about a man she had recently started dating. It seemed that when they were socializing with friends, the socializing was more fun for him than the actual date with her. I have to say this time I offered sage advice. “Trust your instincts,” I said. I know. Really good stuff but don’t write it down. It was just airplane wisdom.
This morning it occurs to me that I probably could make these conversations more interesting for me and memorable for my seatmates if I create a fictional version of my life, regaling the person sitting next to me with my imaginary exploits. Why not? Most of the true stories we tell about ourselves lack drama. We often leave out the things that might expose faults or weaknesses. And it’s not like I’m ever going to see these people again. I’ll bet letting my imagination run wild would cure my not so imaginary boredom. It’s worth a try.
“Yep, I’m flying home to Ft. Myers. It’s been 30 years, four months and 13 days since I was home.”
“Really?” My seat mate is already intrigued. “Why so long?”
“Prison: Please don’t be alarmed. I did my time and I am fully rehabilitated.”
“I see. May I ask why you were in prison?”
“Well it wasn’t a white collar crime.”
“Umm, okay…so is there anybody you’re really looking forward to seeing when you get home?”
“Yeah, I’ll be paying a few people a visit,” I say with a scowl.
Maybe too wild? I have this vision of my companion trying to distract me while he reaches for the flight attendant call button. Not exactly what I had in mind. Perhaps I should dial it back a bit until I get the hang of the tall tale.
“I see you’re reading the Wall Street Journal. I can’t help feeling a bit of nostalgia just looking at that headline.”
“Which one?”
“The one about Kellogg’s posting smaller profits than expected. When I ran that company we were very successful. Believe it or not, you’re sitting next to the guy who came up with Cocoa Puffs. Yes, I was sitting on a flight just like this one, doodling on a cocktail napkin, when the idea to add cocoa to Kix cereal occurred to me.”
“Excuse me, but I’m sure I ate Cocoa Puffs when I was a kid and I’m even older than you are. And isn’t Cocoa Puffs a General Mills cereal?”
Wow, this fake life story stuff is harder than I thought. Perhaps a little homework is in order. After all, I have a responsibility to my fellow travelers. There’s nothing worse than having to sit next to someone on a long flight after you’ve exposed him as a charlatan. Especially if he could just as easily be a guy that pretended to be a dangerous criminal on his last flight.
I wonder if anybody has ever told me a fabricated life story between Newark and Nashville? And would I be offended if I knew it? I doubt it. Truth is rarely a necessary ingredient of a good story. If it was, cable news ratings would be underwater. Listen: I’m flying again next week. If you’re on my flight, lay one on me. I’ll try to come up with better lies for you, honest.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
I’ve had many conversations like the one I’m overhearing in bits and pieces as I write this. The thing about these in-flight conversations is I’m hard pressed to remember most of them. I do remember a 20 year old woman with tattoos all over her body but maybe that’s because she gave me some great material for a column I wrote about tattoos.
Most plane ride conversations aren’t memorable because they are merely a way to pass the time. Time constraints preclude deep philosophical exchanges. I know I’ve passed on precious little wisdom while droning on like the engines of a Boeing 737. No doubt I have received a lot more than I have given. For one thing I’m a natural interviewer. I ask lots of questions and I’ve learned that people trapped in a speeding cylinder at 35,000 feet, will often answer them. Not long ago a woman confided her doubts about a man she had recently started dating. It seemed that when they were socializing with friends, the socializing was more fun for him than the actual date with her. I have to say this time I offered sage advice. “Trust your instincts,” I said. I know. Really good stuff but don’t write it down. It was just airplane wisdom.
This morning it occurs to me that I probably could make these conversations more interesting for me and memorable for my seatmates if I create a fictional version of my life, regaling the person sitting next to me with my imaginary exploits. Why not? Most of the true stories we tell about ourselves lack drama. We often leave out the things that might expose faults or weaknesses. And it’s not like I’m ever going to see these people again. I’ll bet letting my imagination run wild would cure my not so imaginary boredom. It’s worth a try.
“Yep, I’m flying home to Ft. Myers. It’s been 30 years, four months and 13 days since I was home.”
“Really?” My seat mate is already intrigued. “Why so long?”
“Prison: Please don’t be alarmed. I did my time and I am fully rehabilitated.”
“I see. May I ask why you were in prison?”
“Well it wasn’t a white collar crime.”
“Umm, okay…so is there anybody you’re really looking forward to seeing when you get home?”
“Yeah, I’ll be paying a few people a visit,” I say with a scowl.
Maybe too wild? I have this vision of my companion trying to distract me while he reaches for the flight attendant call button. Not exactly what I had in mind. Perhaps I should dial it back a bit until I get the hang of the tall tale.
“I see you’re reading the Wall Street Journal. I can’t help feeling a bit of nostalgia just looking at that headline.”
“Which one?”
“The one about Kellogg’s posting smaller profits than expected. When I ran that company we were very successful. Believe it or not, you’re sitting next to the guy who came up with Cocoa Puffs. Yes, I was sitting on a flight just like this one, doodling on a cocktail napkin, when the idea to add cocoa to Kix cereal occurred to me.”
“Excuse me, but I’m sure I ate Cocoa Puffs when I was a kid and I’m even older than you are. And isn’t Cocoa Puffs a General Mills cereal?”
Wow, this fake life story stuff is harder than I thought. Perhaps a little homework is in order. After all, I have a responsibility to my fellow travelers. There’s nothing worse than having to sit next to someone on a long flight after you’ve exposed him as a charlatan. Especially if he could just as easily be a guy that pretended to be a dangerous criminal on his last flight.
I wonder if anybody has ever told me a fabricated life story between Newark and Nashville? And would I be offended if I knew it? I doubt it. Truth is rarely a necessary ingredient of a good story. If it was, cable news ratings would be underwater. Listen: I’m flying again next week. If you’re on my flight, lay one on me. I’ll try to come up with better lies for you, honest.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Housework? Hold the Manhattans
So my wife had surgery on her right foot a few weeks ago. She’s beginning to get around again and I am more than grateful for that. For the last several weeks I have had to take on the household chores. Trust me; this is not as easy as it sounds. In addition to working all day long, I had to cook, wash dishes, do laundry, make the bed, do the grocery shopping and iron clothing for both of us! Yes, and on top of that I had to handle my usual household responsibility, taking the garbage out to the curb on Thursday morning.
Of course one or two women, perhaps cynical types, will say, “Welcome to the real world Len. Imagine doing all that and handling 98% of child care responsibilities without any hope of a day off…ever.”
Thanks ladies, but I would prefer not to imagine that scenario. Still, I have learned a few things that I want to pass on to any husband who finds himself in a similar situation. First, hire a housekeeper. Even if you have to get a home equity loan or sell your boat to pay for it, by all means do it. That way, you’ll never have to actually know what women go through. You can live happily believing that they like doing this stuff the way you like smoking a cigar during a poker game.
On the other hand, if you do hire a maid, there is an excellent chance that once your bride recovers, you will be hard pressed to explain why such services are no longer necessary. Here’s a better idea. Do all of the tasks at hand but don’t make the mistake of getting better at these jobs. Hitting golf balls at the driving range may have lowered your handicap but this is not the time to take pride in your work. Therefore, in the process of ironing the wrinkles out of her favorite blouse, at the very least scorch one of the sleeves, both if you can. When doing the wash, buy several new bright red shirts and mix the colored clothes with the whites, one red shirt at a time. I know: This will cost you serious money when you have to replace all the underwear a few times. But it’s a bargain. Remember this. Stupidity, even if it’s mostly feigned, eliminates the likelihood that any of these jobs will be permanently reassigned to you.
It’s best to be as clumsy as possible. Once you break one of her treasured Lenox serving platters, she’ll fear for her household’s well being. That way she won’t milk her recovery time. I hate to say this, but I suspect my wife could have been up and around sooner than she actually was. I probably made an error in judgment when I fixed beef bourguignon for dinner and cherries jubilee for dessert. That was after scouring the bathroom, mopping the floors and dusting the blinds. Maybe I was showing off a little. A few days later I had to go out of town overnight, leaving her to fend for herself. Believe me I was worried about how she would manage without me. As it turned out, I surprised her and got home a bit earlier than expected the following afternoon. I am almost certain that I caught her practicing an old cheerleader move from high school, albeit she was only kicking with one leg.
One other suggestion guys: No matter how tired you are don’t even think of mentioning it. Don’t yawn and don’t grumble. And believe me; you will be exhausted by the end of the day. I don’t know what’s worse, trying to fold clothes after you’ve had a few Manhattans or realizing that the dog you’re walking isn’t even yours. Regardless, if you let on that all this work is anything but a breeze you’ll be asking for trouble. By the way, don’t offer her any helpful time management tips either. Sadly, I made that mistake. My wife outsmarted me as usual. She gazed lovingly into my eyes and said, “Wow, I could never learn to run the dishwasher and wipe down the kitchen counters at the same time like you do. Reluctantly, I must bow to your supreme wisdom. The job’s yours permanently buddy.”
Men, this is a delicate situation. You must master the art of being helpful and helpless at the same time. Above all, be honest about one thing. You couldn’t survive without her.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Of course one or two women, perhaps cynical types, will say, “Welcome to the real world Len. Imagine doing all that and handling 98% of child care responsibilities without any hope of a day off…ever.”
Thanks ladies, but I would prefer not to imagine that scenario. Still, I have learned a few things that I want to pass on to any husband who finds himself in a similar situation. First, hire a housekeeper. Even if you have to get a home equity loan or sell your boat to pay for it, by all means do it. That way, you’ll never have to actually know what women go through. You can live happily believing that they like doing this stuff the way you like smoking a cigar during a poker game.
On the other hand, if you do hire a maid, there is an excellent chance that once your bride recovers, you will be hard pressed to explain why such services are no longer necessary. Here’s a better idea. Do all of the tasks at hand but don’t make the mistake of getting better at these jobs. Hitting golf balls at the driving range may have lowered your handicap but this is not the time to take pride in your work. Therefore, in the process of ironing the wrinkles out of her favorite blouse, at the very least scorch one of the sleeves, both if you can. When doing the wash, buy several new bright red shirts and mix the colored clothes with the whites, one red shirt at a time. I know: This will cost you serious money when you have to replace all the underwear a few times. But it’s a bargain. Remember this. Stupidity, even if it’s mostly feigned, eliminates the likelihood that any of these jobs will be permanently reassigned to you.
It’s best to be as clumsy as possible. Once you break one of her treasured Lenox serving platters, she’ll fear for her household’s well being. That way she won’t milk her recovery time. I hate to say this, but I suspect my wife could have been up and around sooner than she actually was. I probably made an error in judgment when I fixed beef bourguignon for dinner and cherries jubilee for dessert. That was after scouring the bathroom, mopping the floors and dusting the blinds. Maybe I was showing off a little. A few days later I had to go out of town overnight, leaving her to fend for herself. Believe me I was worried about how she would manage without me. As it turned out, I surprised her and got home a bit earlier than expected the following afternoon. I am almost certain that I caught her practicing an old cheerleader move from high school, albeit she was only kicking with one leg.
One other suggestion guys: No matter how tired you are don’t even think of mentioning it. Don’t yawn and don’t grumble. And believe me; you will be exhausted by the end of the day. I don’t know what’s worse, trying to fold clothes after you’ve had a few Manhattans or realizing that the dog you’re walking isn’t even yours. Regardless, if you let on that all this work is anything but a breeze you’ll be asking for trouble. By the way, don’t offer her any helpful time management tips either. Sadly, I made that mistake. My wife outsmarted me as usual. She gazed lovingly into my eyes and said, “Wow, I could never learn to run the dishwasher and wipe down the kitchen counters at the same time like you do. Reluctantly, I must bow to your supreme wisdom. The job’s yours permanently buddy.”
Men, this is a delicate situation. You must master the art of being helpful and helpless at the same time. Above all, be honest about one thing. You couldn’t survive without her.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Spare the Rod Please
A school district in central Texas has decided to reintroduce paddling in its schools. Apparently they believe corporeal punishment is necessary to manage student behavior. As it turns out 20 states still permit paddling in school but there is a movement to implement a Federal ban on the practice. No doubt, members of Congress, running for re-election will no doubt see which way the wind is blowing and bloviate accordingly.
When I was a public school kid in the 1950s, teachers hit kids on a daily basis. I have a startlingly fresh memory of Mrs. Leto whacking Calvin Fillipone across his back repeatedly with a ruler for misbehaving. In those days parents stood still for that sort of thing. Any child brought up in that era knew better than to run home and tell his mother he got hit by the teacher. Chances were excellent that another spanking was in the offing because our parents assumed that if we got spanked the teacher must have had a good reason for it.
I can also remember being smacked by a nun in Catechism class, and gently paddled by a neighbor. One of my uncles whacked my rear end once because I wouldn’t sit down in his moving Mercury. (Yeah, I know this was before seat belts.) Foolishly, I told on him when we got home. That was a worse mistake than telling on the teacher. Not only had I behaved badly but I attempted to embarrass my uncle. I can’t say for sure but it is certainly likely that my mother used the dreaded wooden spoon on me that day.
Now you might think I am about to suggest that schools should be permitted to paddle kids, that I agree with the school district. But I don’t. Here’s why. Times were different then. Mrs. Leto had been in the neighborhood, teaching at my school a long time; long enough to have taught my father. Nuns really cared about us. Even as kids we knew that. Our neighbors were well known to my parents. Most of them knew each other since childhood. My uncle was someone we saw every week. Our families were close. The point is that we weren’t living among strangers with unknown backgrounds. In the world we live in today it’s too risky to assume that every teacher and administrator is completely qualified to mete out punishment. People today live very different lives than our parents and grandparents. Stability and predictability have been replaced by mobility and uncertainty. Consensus about right and wrong, once common from community to community is no longer easy to come by. We have rogue teachers and rogue preachers, neighbors who are strangers and relatives in blood only these days.
Children should not be spanked or touched unnecessarily by teachers. Many parents agree. When asked her opinion about the new rule one of the parents in Texas put it succinctly. She said, “If my child needs discipline tell me about it and I’ll do the paddling.” I laughed when I read that because it reminded me of a story my father told me.
When he was a boy his teacher paddled him and then demanded that my grandfather come to the school to discuss his son’s behavior. Informed that my father had been spanked my grandfather sternly told the teacher in broken but clearly understandable English, “If my son misbehaves you don’t hit him. You tell me and I’ll do the hitting.” My father enjoyed teacher’s pet status the rest of the year. On the other hand, he had no doubt that his father would indeed redden his rear end if he misbehaved again.
Therein, lies the generational difference. Observing today’s parents try to manage their children is not for the faint hearted. Too many parents today seem to negotiate with their kids, trying to strike bargains when firm rules are called for. Kids need to know there are rules and consequences when they break them. Many years ago teachers played the in loco parentis role to the hilt. Sadly, the state of our society demands that limits be placed on the teacher’s role, which limits a teacher’s options. That means parents must behave like parents; that is they must take charge. Kids need to know that mom and dad make the rules. It stands to reason that a child’s behavior in school, and his expectations about what reaction, if any, he will get, probably mirrors his behavior at home.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
When I was a public school kid in the 1950s, teachers hit kids on a daily basis. I have a startlingly fresh memory of Mrs. Leto whacking Calvin Fillipone across his back repeatedly with a ruler for misbehaving. In those days parents stood still for that sort of thing. Any child brought up in that era knew better than to run home and tell his mother he got hit by the teacher. Chances were excellent that another spanking was in the offing because our parents assumed that if we got spanked the teacher must have had a good reason for it.
I can also remember being smacked by a nun in Catechism class, and gently paddled by a neighbor. One of my uncles whacked my rear end once because I wouldn’t sit down in his moving Mercury. (Yeah, I know this was before seat belts.) Foolishly, I told on him when we got home. That was a worse mistake than telling on the teacher. Not only had I behaved badly but I attempted to embarrass my uncle. I can’t say for sure but it is certainly likely that my mother used the dreaded wooden spoon on me that day.
Now you might think I am about to suggest that schools should be permitted to paddle kids, that I agree with the school district. But I don’t. Here’s why. Times were different then. Mrs. Leto had been in the neighborhood, teaching at my school a long time; long enough to have taught my father. Nuns really cared about us. Even as kids we knew that. Our neighbors were well known to my parents. Most of them knew each other since childhood. My uncle was someone we saw every week. Our families were close. The point is that we weren’t living among strangers with unknown backgrounds. In the world we live in today it’s too risky to assume that every teacher and administrator is completely qualified to mete out punishment. People today live very different lives than our parents and grandparents. Stability and predictability have been replaced by mobility and uncertainty. Consensus about right and wrong, once common from community to community is no longer easy to come by. We have rogue teachers and rogue preachers, neighbors who are strangers and relatives in blood only these days.
Children should not be spanked or touched unnecessarily by teachers. Many parents agree. When asked her opinion about the new rule one of the parents in Texas put it succinctly. She said, “If my child needs discipline tell me about it and I’ll do the paddling.” I laughed when I read that because it reminded me of a story my father told me.
When he was a boy his teacher paddled him and then demanded that my grandfather come to the school to discuss his son’s behavior. Informed that my father had been spanked my grandfather sternly told the teacher in broken but clearly understandable English, “If my son misbehaves you don’t hit him. You tell me and I’ll do the hitting.” My father enjoyed teacher’s pet status the rest of the year. On the other hand, he had no doubt that his father would indeed redden his rear end if he misbehaved again.
Therein, lies the generational difference. Observing today’s parents try to manage their children is not for the faint hearted. Too many parents today seem to negotiate with their kids, trying to strike bargains when firm rules are called for. Kids need to know there are rules and consequences when they break them. Many years ago teachers played the in loco parentis role to the hilt. Sadly, the state of our society demands that limits be placed on the teacher’s role, which limits a teacher’s options. That means parents must behave like parents; that is they must take charge. Kids need to know that mom and dad make the rules. It stands to reason that a child’s behavior in school, and his expectations about what reaction, if any, he will get, probably mirrors his behavior at home.
Copyright 2010, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Seafood Expert
My wife and I had just sat down to lunch at a well known seafood restaurant. It was lobster fest season again. I always get sucked in by the commercials showing steaming platters of succulent lobsters with drawn butter. From one lobster fest season to the next, I conveniently forget that the lobster in the commercials bears no resemblance to the lobster on my plate. I have no idea where the seafood chain in question finds the lobsters that agree to appear in these commercials, but I am certain that none of them are ready to do an encore in Franklin, Tennessee.
Regardless, before I even had a moment to peruse the menu, I spotted something that captivated my attention much more than the shrimp, crab legs and lobster combo. It was Debbie the server’s name tag. It had her name of course but just below her name I saw the words “Seafood Expert.” People who know me well can attest to the fact that I can be a stickler for words. I’m no William Safire but I do pay attention to the way people say things and the words they choose. When I saw “Seafood Expert,” presumably a title bestowed upon Debbie with good reason, I was more than a little bit intrigued.
Naturally, I asked her what it meant to be a seafood expert. Was she a marine biologist making a few extra bucks serving shrimp scampi? Had she recently joined the restaurant staff after twenty years with Fulton’s Fish Market? Maybe she just graduated from a culinary arts college that specialized in seafood.
None of the above as it turned out. She said the restaurant held meetings every two or three months to discuss different fish. And there were handouts that could be studied after the meeting. I’m not sure that level of exposure to fish qualifies one for expert status. Synonyms for expert include professional, specialist and authority to name a few. Apparently the marketing team at this seafood restaurant chain is working on the assumption that diners, upon seeing that their server has a name tag with the words seafood expert emblazoned on them, will readily put their palates in the hands of the server. After all, how many customers are going to ask how the server achieved such lofty status? Would they be more or less likely to consider the server’s recommendations if they knew that expert status had been conveyed based on occasional meetings that may or may not include glamour shots of certain fish?
Our server said she’s been working at the seafood restaurant for five years. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was required to work there for a couple of years before seafood expert was added to her name tag. Let’s see, that would amount to maybe ten meetings and presumably, ten different types of seafood. There are 48 different species of lobster alone and there must be at least ten species of trout to consider. More meetings might be a good idea.
In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell estimated that expertise in anything requires about 10,000 hours of study and practice. If that’s true, I suspect the restaurant might be intentionally misusing the word expert in a misguided attempt to improve customers’ overall dining experience.
While most people probably wouldn’t question the validity of the claim, at least not consciously, on some level they are almost certainly aware of its insincerity. And no matter what business you’re in that is a problem. How fresh is the fish being served that day? Is the martini really made with Bombay Sapphire or is it a generic substitute? The word expert shouldn’t be treated like a marketing buzz word. Marketers should stick with new and improved.
The restaurant chain isn’t the only culprit by the way. When I Googled the words “seafood experts” I found a company that distributes seafood nationwide. They listed experts in specific categories like shrimp, lobster and grouper. The shrimp expert is a trained accountant who worked in mortgage banking as well. According to her bio, having worked in purchasing and sales for the seafood distributor, she got “a complete seafood education.” No doubt this includes the shrimp.
As usual, I’m probably just not seeing the upside to playing games with words. Until now that is. It may be late in the game for me, but having worked in both sales and purchasing for a healthcare company, I’ve already updated my resume. My qualifications now include “medical expert.” I’m having my new name tag made this afternoon.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Regardless, before I even had a moment to peruse the menu, I spotted something that captivated my attention much more than the shrimp, crab legs and lobster combo. It was Debbie the server’s name tag. It had her name of course but just below her name I saw the words “Seafood Expert.” People who know me well can attest to the fact that I can be a stickler for words. I’m no William Safire but I do pay attention to the way people say things and the words they choose. When I saw “Seafood Expert,” presumably a title bestowed upon Debbie with good reason, I was more than a little bit intrigued.
Naturally, I asked her what it meant to be a seafood expert. Was she a marine biologist making a few extra bucks serving shrimp scampi? Had she recently joined the restaurant staff after twenty years with Fulton’s Fish Market? Maybe she just graduated from a culinary arts college that specialized in seafood.
None of the above as it turned out. She said the restaurant held meetings every two or three months to discuss different fish. And there were handouts that could be studied after the meeting. I’m not sure that level of exposure to fish qualifies one for expert status. Synonyms for expert include professional, specialist and authority to name a few. Apparently the marketing team at this seafood restaurant chain is working on the assumption that diners, upon seeing that their server has a name tag with the words seafood expert emblazoned on them, will readily put their palates in the hands of the server. After all, how many customers are going to ask how the server achieved such lofty status? Would they be more or less likely to consider the server’s recommendations if they knew that expert status had been conveyed based on occasional meetings that may or may not include glamour shots of certain fish?
Our server said she’s been working at the seafood restaurant for five years. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was required to work there for a couple of years before seafood expert was added to her name tag. Let’s see, that would amount to maybe ten meetings and presumably, ten different types of seafood. There are 48 different species of lobster alone and there must be at least ten species of trout to consider. More meetings might be a good idea.
In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell estimated that expertise in anything requires about 10,000 hours of study and practice. If that’s true, I suspect the restaurant might be intentionally misusing the word expert in a misguided attempt to improve customers’ overall dining experience.
While most people probably wouldn’t question the validity of the claim, at least not consciously, on some level they are almost certainly aware of its insincerity. And no matter what business you’re in that is a problem. How fresh is the fish being served that day? Is the martini really made with Bombay Sapphire or is it a generic substitute? The word expert shouldn’t be treated like a marketing buzz word. Marketers should stick with new and improved.
The restaurant chain isn’t the only culprit by the way. When I Googled the words “seafood experts” I found a company that distributes seafood nationwide. They listed experts in specific categories like shrimp, lobster and grouper. The shrimp expert is a trained accountant who worked in mortgage banking as well. According to her bio, having worked in purchasing and sales for the seafood distributor, she got “a complete seafood education.” No doubt this includes the shrimp.
As usual, I’m probably just not seeing the upside to playing games with words. Until now that is. It may be late in the game for me, but having worked in both sales and purchasing for a healthcare company, I’ve already updated my resume. My qualifications now include “medical expert.” I’m having my new name tag made this afternoon.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Bachelor: An Alien's View
So Jake the bachelor asked Vienna the vixen to marry him. I’ve been watching The Bachelor on and off this season. While Jake seems to have some doubts about who he is and what he wants, Ali (the next Bachelorette) had enough sense to choose her job over Jake which might have been the only lucid decision anybody made on the show.
As I watched I found myself wondering what a visitor from another planet might make of all this. Much to my surprise I got an email this very morning that was obviously not intended for me. A creature by the name of Merlin Xenzac from the planet Zepheron was filing a report back to his headquarters and the ethereal wires must have gotten crossed. Here is Merlin’s unedited transcript.
To Your Highest Excellency:
I have just spent the last eight weeks in a tiny motel room watching American television exactly as you instructed. I have noted a very curious courting custom that escaped our notice on my previous mission in earth year 1984. Here are my pithy observations:
1. In spite of decades of progress toward equal rights, earth women are desperate to find a husband. They will enter into a no holds barred competition if necessary, to meet and marry the man of their dreams.
2. Women will put up with and do almost anything if you promise them a chance to get a red rose. Unlike planet Zepheron, bachelors are permitted to date as many as 25 women and not only tell these girls about each other but bring them together in harmony.
3. These men can be caught on camera(!) kissing, hugging and all but fondling each woman and not have to worry about being called a cad, or a womanizer. In fact each girl will put on her finest and hope against hope that the bachelor will want her more than the others. (Oh to be young, single and an earthling.)
4. Apparently, earth has eliminated all maladies that can be transmitted via bodily fluids.
5. When a bachelor dumps a woman (or several of them) he can do this without fear that they will cry, carry on or beg him to reconsider. The bachelor has no reason to fear reprisals such as a beating from the girl’s brother or a year or two of being stalked. Instead, women will hug the man in question and wish him the best life has to offer with a smile and perhaps a few brave, but silent tears. I can’t say for sure, but I think this might have something to do with the fact that all dating now takes place in fabulous vacation destination points. A bachelor doesn’t take a girl to a moldy smelling movie theatre followed by a greasy hamburger and fries at the local diner anymore. Dates are now conducted in places like New York, San Francisco and St. Lucia.
6. Women who are dumped will tell anyone who will listen that the bachelor in question just made a huge mistake that he will regret for the rest of his life. They do not perceive any misjudgments on their part for entering the contest.
7. Bachelors are expected to fall deeply in love with several women at the same time. Earthlings have advanced so far that they can develop deep feelings for one another without the benefit of months of getting to know one another exclusively. Lifelong commitments can now be made without knowing whether a woman squeezes the toothpaste from the tube incorrectly or whether the man has any idea of where the garbage can is.
8. However, it appears to be a rule that the bachelor express grave concern over his quandary. He will express the strongest feelings imaginable to several women in words and actions, leading them to believe that each one of them is likely to get not just a rose, but an engagement ring. However, he must express sadness over having to give up all but one lady. As a side note I must report that the one-and-only rule does not apply to a certain professional golfer.
9. I have also learned that families will permit a bachelor that may be taking their princess for a ride destined to end in agony, into their homes and treat him as an honored guest.
10. Finally, it isn’t clear yet what affect this custom has on young earthlings who just got here in the last 15 years or so. However buying stock in companies that sell roses might be a good bet.
Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.
As I watched I found myself wondering what a visitor from another planet might make of all this. Much to my surprise I got an email this very morning that was obviously not intended for me. A creature by the name of Merlin Xenzac from the planet Zepheron was filing a report back to his headquarters and the ethereal wires must have gotten crossed. Here is Merlin’s unedited transcript.
To Your Highest Excellency:
I have just spent the last eight weeks in a tiny motel room watching American television exactly as you instructed. I have noted a very curious courting custom that escaped our notice on my previous mission in earth year 1984. Here are my pithy observations:
1. In spite of decades of progress toward equal rights, earth women are desperate to find a husband. They will enter into a no holds barred competition if necessary, to meet and marry the man of their dreams.
2. Women will put up with and do almost anything if you promise them a chance to get a red rose. Unlike planet Zepheron, bachelors are permitted to date as many as 25 women and not only tell these girls about each other but bring them together in harmony.
3. These men can be caught on camera(!) kissing, hugging and all but fondling each woman and not have to worry about being called a cad, or a womanizer. In fact each girl will put on her finest and hope against hope that the bachelor will want her more than the others. (Oh to be young, single and an earthling.)
4. Apparently, earth has eliminated all maladies that can be transmitted via bodily fluids.
5. When a bachelor dumps a woman (or several of them) he can do this without fear that they will cry, carry on or beg him to reconsider. The bachelor has no reason to fear reprisals such as a beating from the girl’s brother or a year or two of being stalked. Instead, women will hug the man in question and wish him the best life has to offer with a smile and perhaps a few brave, but silent tears. I can’t say for sure, but I think this might have something to do with the fact that all dating now takes place in fabulous vacation destination points. A bachelor doesn’t take a girl to a moldy smelling movie theatre followed by a greasy hamburger and fries at the local diner anymore. Dates are now conducted in places like New York, San Francisco and St. Lucia.
6. Women who are dumped will tell anyone who will listen that the bachelor in question just made a huge mistake that he will regret for the rest of his life. They do not perceive any misjudgments on their part for entering the contest.
7. Bachelors are expected to fall deeply in love with several women at the same time. Earthlings have advanced so far that they can develop deep feelings for one another without the benefit of months of getting to know one another exclusively. Lifelong commitments can now be made without knowing whether a woman squeezes the toothpaste from the tube incorrectly or whether the man has any idea of where the garbage can is.
8. However, it appears to be a rule that the bachelor express grave concern over his quandary. He will express the strongest feelings imaginable to several women in words and actions, leading them to believe that each one of them is likely to get not just a rose, but an engagement ring. However, he must express sadness over having to give up all but one lady. As a side note I must report that the one-and-only rule does not apply to a certain professional golfer.
9. I have also learned that families will permit a bachelor that may be taking their princess for a ride destined to end in agony, into their homes and treat him as an honored guest.
10. Finally, it isn’t clear yet what affect this custom has on young earthlings who just got here in the last 15 years or so. However buying stock in companies that sell roses might be a good bet.
Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Motel Life: Pumping Iron While You Iron
I’ve been traveling again. This week I was in Naples, Florida. Yes, it beats a stick in the eye and then some, but it was strictly a business trip and I wasn’t ensconced at the Ritz Carlton on the Gulf of Mexico. My accommodations were relatively modest; okay they were light years from plush carpets and thick bathrobes with hotel logos on them. I was holed up at the Best Western, a stone’s throw from the interstate where the towels are as thin as my hair and every blanket has a cigarette burn. Now Naples is, if nothing else, a wealthy retirement community. But the folks at Best Western, perhaps because of it’s proximity to the highway, don’t assume that its patrons are routinely listed on the annual Forbes 400 or, for that matter, are strictly on the up-and-up.
When I unpacked my suitcase and hung my suits and shirts I saw that I would need to do a little ironing. I slid open the mirrored closet door, which was partially jammed with what I took to be the remnant of a Snicker’s bar, and searched for the iron and ironing board. It turned out to be a set. The iron was tethered to the board with a plastic wrapped metal coil. My first reaction was embarrassment. Let me explain. Earlier in the evening I had picked up three gentlemen from Australia. Nigel was from New Zealand to be exact. In the short time I spent with him, I’m quite certain he would insist on the distinction. Looking at my iron/ironing board contraption, I could not help wondering whether our prospective business partners, all of whom turned out to be very bright and witty, would think that America must be a nation of thieves. Why else would the hotel chain find it necessary to secure their irons?
Then I had another thought that bothered me even more. I wondered if the men from down under might be thinking we are also stupid thieving Americans in the bargain. Neither the TV nor the microwave was tethered. I know because my curiosity got the better of me. I checked. Perhaps you’re thinking: “Seriously Len, how could a hotel guest carry such large objects through the lobby unnoticed? Irons can be hidden in suitcases after all.” All I can say is, if you don’t believe it would be easy to distract a motel desk clerk long enough to empty your room and the so-called lobby furniture too, you probably don't stay in motels very often.
When I went to actually use the iron I realized I might have overlooked an entirely different explanation for the tightly wrapped coil connection. I soon discovered while ironing my shirts and pants that moving the iron back and forth required a good deal more effort to stretch the coiled wire than one might expect. I not only got the wrinkles out of my clothing, I got a biceps and pecs workout that rivaled an hour at Gold’s Gym. That was all well and good but I never slept a wink after that, worrying that the motel might charge extra for using its workout equipment.
Another curious thing about staying in today’s version of the roadside inn is the breakfasts they serve. Most of these places offer breakfast for free. The breakfast area is always busy. Yet, no one ever checks for a room key to be sure the diners are paying guests. I suppose the possibility that thieving Americans might pilfer Cheerios and a banana hasn’t occurred to the motel security staff yet. Invariably breakfast includes coffee and juice, what appears to be day old bread for toast, cereal and the most hideous looking Danish I have ever seen.
Some motels throw in hot items as well. They have do-it-yourself waffles, scrambled eggs the shape and color of a half-moon and frisbee like sausage patties. Since new management joined our company, I’ve stayed at several Best Westerns. I’ve noticed that in addition to the items already mentioned, their specialty seems to be hard boiled eggs. Trust me: a protein rich hard boiled egg and a cup of coffee after pumping the iron is almost appetizing. If only they served beer for breakfast too.
Coyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
When I unpacked my suitcase and hung my suits and shirts I saw that I would need to do a little ironing. I slid open the mirrored closet door, which was partially jammed with what I took to be the remnant of a Snicker’s bar, and searched for the iron and ironing board. It turned out to be a set. The iron was tethered to the board with a plastic wrapped metal coil. My first reaction was embarrassment. Let me explain. Earlier in the evening I had picked up three gentlemen from Australia. Nigel was from New Zealand to be exact. In the short time I spent with him, I’m quite certain he would insist on the distinction. Looking at my iron/ironing board contraption, I could not help wondering whether our prospective business partners, all of whom turned out to be very bright and witty, would think that America must be a nation of thieves. Why else would the hotel chain find it necessary to secure their irons?
Then I had another thought that bothered me even more. I wondered if the men from down under might be thinking we are also stupid thieving Americans in the bargain. Neither the TV nor the microwave was tethered. I know because my curiosity got the better of me. I checked. Perhaps you’re thinking: “Seriously Len, how could a hotel guest carry such large objects through the lobby unnoticed? Irons can be hidden in suitcases after all.” All I can say is, if you don’t believe it would be easy to distract a motel desk clerk long enough to empty your room and the so-called lobby furniture too, you probably don't stay in motels very often.
When I went to actually use the iron I realized I might have overlooked an entirely different explanation for the tightly wrapped coil connection. I soon discovered while ironing my shirts and pants that moving the iron back and forth required a good deal more effort to stretch the coiled wire than one might expect. I not only got the wrinkles out of my clothing, I got a biceps and pecs workout that rivaled an hour at Gold’s Gym. That was all well and good but I never slept a wink after that, worrying that the motel might charge extra for using its workout equipment.
Another curious thing about staying in today’s version of the roadside inn is the breakfasts they serve. Most of these places offer breakfast for free. The breakfast area is always busy. Yet, no one ever checks for a room key to be sure the diners are paying guests. I suppose the possibility that thieving Americans might pilfer Cheerios and a banana hasn’t occurred to the motel security staff yet. Invariably breakfast includes coffee and juice, what appears to be day old bread for toast, cereal and the most hideous looking Danish I have ever seen.
Some motels throw in hot items as well. They have do-it-yourself waffles, scrambled eggs the shape and color of a half-moon and frisbee like sausage patties. Since new management joined our company, I’ve stayed at several Best Westerns. I’ve noticed that in addition to the items already mentioned, their specialty seems to be hard boiled eggs. Trust me: a protein rich hard boiled egg and a cup of coffee after pumping the iron is almost appetizing. If only they served beer for breakfast too.
Coyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Sinatra Does American Idol
What if Frank Sinatra came back and tried out for American Idol? After all, Frank was the original American Idol back in the forties. His career ran for more than 50 years and his music is sill heard around the world today, some 12 years after his death.
What would it be like for The Chairman of the Board to sing in front of Kara, Randy and Simon? Try to imagine the scene. It’s New York City. You can see Hoboken from the studio’s windows overlooking the Hudson.
Simon asks, “Who do we have here?”
“I’m Frank Sinatra and I’m your next American Idol.”
“Well, we’ll see Frank. Before you tell us what you plan to sing, who are these gentlemen in the dark suits with you?”
“That’s Vinny and Alonzo,” Frank says with significance. “They’re part of my family.”
“Well that’s highly unusual Frank. We don’t usually allow that sort of thing.”
“Make an exception.”
Wanting to keep things moving, Randy pipes up. “What are you going to sing for us Frank?”
“I’m going to sing a Cole Porter tune, I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
Kara: “Do you mean the Four Seasons version Frank?”
“Kara you really ring my bell doll, but please, I just ate lunch. This is an arrangement done especially for me by swingin’ Nelson Riddle.”
“Who may I ask is Nelson Riddle? Simon asks.
Frank smiles but his eyes are icy blue. He glances at Alonzo who takes a step forward. Simon averts his eyes and mumbles, “Can we just get on with it?”
♫ “I’ve got you under my skin, I’ve got you deep in the heart of me…”♫
“Thanks Frank, very interesting but you know Dawg, it was a little pitchy.”
“Oh, I loved it,” Kara gushes, “His voice has a quality that is hard to define. I felt like he was singing just to me.”
“I was singing to you Kara -with the long and melodious Italian last name. I’ll be thinking about you until the wee small hours of the morning learnin’ the blues tonight. You could fly me to the moon, doll.”
“Alright Frank. Your voice does have an interesting quality but I think you need lots of practice. I simply don’t see you as the next American Idol. A saloon singer perhaps,” It was Simon, suddenly remembering that the show had its own security staff.
“I am a saloon singer Simon and a good one. I’m the best there is. Listen to this:
♫ It’s a quarter to three, there’s no one in the place but you and me so set-em up Joe…” ♫
“Hey I liked that one Dawg,” Randy jumps in. “Let’s hear something a little more current Frank.”
“Sure I can do that. This one’s called New York New York.”
“Hold on a minute Frank. You were just beginning to change my mind a little about letting you move forward, but no one has ever been able to sing that song but that guy who sings it after every New York Yankee baseball game. Karaoke bars have removed that song from their play list because too many drunks shattered the eardrums of onlookers trying to sing it. It can’t be done Frank. Don’t you have something else?”
“Simon baby I can sing New York, New York and knock your black socks off, but I’ll save it for when I get to the finals in a few months.”
Simon and Randy look at each other. Kara is putting more makeup on. “What’s it going to be then Frank?” Simon asks.
“I’m going to do a Rolling Stones number, Sympathy for the Devil…Just kidding guys and dolls, here’s one you’ll like…”
♫ “Strangers in the night exchanging glances, wondering in the night what were the chances we’d be sharing love…♫
“Let’s vote!” Kara screams.
Randy smiles. “You got something man. Still a little pitchy but I think you should go to Hollywood. Simon?”
“What can I say?” Simon answers, casting a wary eye on Vinny and Alonzo. “You’ll never make it in this business with that voice Frank. You’re not really a singer but Kara is already bewitched bothered and bewildered so it’s a yes.”
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
What would it be like for The Chairman of the Board to sing in front of Kara, Randy and Simon? Try to imagine the scene. It’s New York City. You can see Hoboken from the studio’s windows overlooking the Hudson.
Simon asks, “Who do we have here?”
“I’m Frank Sinatra and I’m your next American Idol.”
“Well, we’ll see Frank. Before you tell us what you plan to sing, who are these gentlemen in the dark suits with you?”
“That’s Vinny and Alonzo,” Frank says with significance. “They’re part of my family.”
“Well that’s highly unusual Frank. We don’t usually allow that sort of thing.”
“Make an exception.”
Wanting to keep things moving, Randy pipes up. “What are you going to sing for us Frank?”
“I’m going to sing a Cole Porter tune, I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
Kara: “Do you mean the Four Seasons version Frank?”
“Kara you really ring my bell doll, but please, I just ate lunch. This is an arrangement done especially for me by swingin’ Nelson Riddle.”
“Who may I ask is Nelson Riddle? Simon asks.
Frank smiles but his eyes are icy blue. He glances at Alonzo who takes a step forward. Simon averts his eyes and mumbles, “Can we just get on with it?”
♫ “I’ve got you under my skin, I’ve got you deep in the heart of me…”♫
“Thanks Frank, very interesting but you know Dawg, it was a little pitchy.”
“Oh, I loved it,” Kara gushes, “His voice has a quality that is hard to define. I felt like he was singing just to me.”
“I was singing to you Kara -with the long and melodious Italian last name. I’ll be thinking about you until the wee small hours of the morning learnin’ the blues tonight. You could fly me to the moon, doll.”
“Alright Frank. Your voice does have an interesting quality but I think you need lots of practice. I simply don’t see you as the next American Idol. A saloon singer perhaps,” It was Simon, suddenly remembering that the show had its own security staff.
“I am a saloon singer Simon and a good one. I’m the best there is. Listen to this:
♫ It’s a quarter to three, there’s no one in the place but you and me so set-em up Joe…” ♫
“Hey I liked that one Dawg,” Randy jumps in. “Let’s hear something a little more current Frank.”
“Sure I can do that. This one’s called New York New York.”
“Hold on a minute Frank. You were just beginning to change my mind a little about letting you move forward, but no one has ever been able to sing that song but that guy who sings it after every New York Yankee baseball game. Karaoke bars have removed that song from their play list because too many drunks shattered the eardrums of onlookers trying to sing it. It can’t be done Frank. Don’t you have something else?”
“Simon baby I can sing New York, New York and knock your black socks off, but I’ll save it for when I get to the finals in a few months.”
Simon and Randy look at each other. Kara is putting more makeup on. “What’s it going to be then Frank?” Simon asks.
“I’m going to do a Rolling Stones number, Sympathy for the Devil…Just kidding guys and dolls, here’s one you’ll like…”
♫ “Strangers in the night exchanging glances, wondering in the night what were the chances we’d be sharing love…♫
“Let’s vote!” Kara screams.
Randy smiles. “You got something man. Still a little pitchy but I think you should go to Hollywood. Simon?”
“What can I say?” Simon answers, casting a wary eye on Vinny and Alonzo. “You’ll never make it in this business with that voice Frank. You’re not really a singer but Kara is already bewitched bothered and bewildered so it’s a yes.”
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
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