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.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
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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