An Unexpected Request for Help

I had not heard from Philip for several years so I was quite surprised to get his email yesterday informing me that he was stuck in Italy. It seems he was robbed at gunpoint, all of his valuables taken from him. I was shocked that in a country where there are fewer than 12 firearms owned per 100 people, that such a thing might happen. We’re not talking about the USA after all.

            But I digress. Philip’s situation was worrisome indeed. The manager of the hotel where he was staying wouldn’t let him leave until his bill was paid. He didn’t say so, but he was probably subsisting on chestnuts and imported Livingston Cellars Chianti. Philip was indeed in dire straits and he was asking for my help. I was perplexed that Philip would write to me rather than say, people he had actually been in touch with on a regular basis.

            It’s not that I didn’t want to help my somewhat distant friend. I just felt he was behaving rather presumptuously by assuming I was in a position to send him a few dollars. I mean I haven’t heard from him in years. The subject of money had never even come up with the possible exception of a brief discussion about Toastmasters club dues. And if I did lend him money, would he pay me back? Suppose it was a scam he was running on people he didn’t feel he needed anymore? I hate being played for a fool.

            I’m not heartless. I did respond to his email. I figured, since he was in Italy; why not ask him to pick up a few things that are hard to get here in Nashville? Let’s face it, Nashville is a great city but Little Italy here consists entirely of Buca di Beppo and the Macaroni Grill. So I sent him a list and promised him I would repay him if and when he arrived home safely with the goods. I did express a good deal of sympathy for the robbery thing of course. 

            When I didn’t get an immediate response to my request, I wondered if my suspicions that Philip was scamming me might be true. That’s when I decided to look up my old contact information for Philip. I would call him at his office. If he picked up, I would know my baked goods and Italian leather shoes were just a pipe dream.

            As will happen, the number I called was no longer in service. Maybe he changed jobs? Was he living in Italy now? I tried his home number. A woman answered. She sounded like Philip’s wife. Not knowing what to do, I hung up. What if Philip really was trapped in a hotel in Italy? Maybe she didn’t know. Who wants to deliver that kind of news? Or, since he found it necessary to get in touch with me, maybe she did know and had already refused to lift a finger for him.  

            I had a sleepless night wondering whether I should have wired him enough to at least cover the cost of the items I requested. Well, I’m happy to report that it was a false alarm. I finally heard from Philip this morning. It seems that his computer was hacked by hackers on foreign shores. In hindsight, I should have recognized the real scam right away.

For one thing, Philip is a very bright fellow. I probably should have questioned the misspellings in his original message and the odd sentence structure. I guess I assumed he was writing under a lot of pressure being broke and no doubt having to borrow someone’s laptop.

Live and learn. Philip apologized for the inconvenience which I certainly appreciated. But I really wanted those handmade shoes.              

Joy Redux

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

Copyright 2011 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.

Today's paper in the hands of a 1960 reader

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.

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.

Breakfast of Champions

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



Copyright 2008 Len Serafino. All rights reserved