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.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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.
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