Women That Are Just a Little Too Into the Karaoke

I've kept a polite silence on this for a long time, but just last week I went out for some Karaoke with friends from work and now I think I've had enough.

There was a moment, in childhood, when I was at a wedding and made a startling realization. The wedding isn't about the couple. It's not about their love, or their future. Weddings are about the bride. And I was always kind of disgusted at that. The wedding is ostensibly about two people and the connection they're forging, but the facade is thin. It's really just the bride and how beautiful she looks and how this is her big day, and well, the groom is her cute little accessory.

Karaoke is the junior varsity version of this. It's supposedly about getting drunk and having a great time and letting loose, etc. etc. But no. That's not really what it's about, is it. It's about these women (and we know who they are) fulfilling some kind of deep-seated, quasi-sexual fantasy where they're the big pop star.

Now let me be clear on one point. I'm not saying these women suck at singing. That's not it at all. I would describe them as good. Competent. Satisfactory. Perfectly adequate. A solid B+. You gotta figure all that hairdryer-as-microphone practice paid off. So no, they don't suck. But are they wildly talented, diamond-in-the-rough gifted singers? Hellllllllll no.

And that's exactly what they think they are. Every single one of these women is under the full impression that they're unparalleled and peerless. They truly believe it. There's no pretense there. They think they're God's gift.

You can see this narcissism on display all night at the karaoke bar. Women sit at tables together. They gossip together - they go to the bathroom together. But as soon as that karaoke songbook gets passed around, there's no more camaraderie. Notice how they don't share the book. They study it carefully, alone... strategizing. Planning out about 4 songs. The first one will be a tour de force ballad, stunning everyone with their full vocal range. The second one will be lighter and more fun - cause she's versatile after all. The third one will be a duet or trio so she can pull some friends onstage. After all, she's not vain - she's willing to sing with others.

This all gets planned out like Rommel moving his tanks around in Morocco. Then after she hands the list to the DJ it's back to the socializing until yes! It's showtime! Notice how the eyes glaze over and the smile plays across the face. Is it my turn? Right now? Already! Well shucks!

It's my guess - and this is just conjecture - it's my guess that the basis of their confidence in their singing talent is their ability to hit the high note. Cause all these songs they choose have the one high note toward the end. And believe me, they can hit that high note. I feel like when the music starts, every one of them is thinking "They don't think I can hit the high note. Well they're about to find out I can."

On behalf of everyone in the karaoke audience, let me say the following: We know that you can hit the high note. In fact in any one of these interchangeable slow ballads where a man done you wrong but now you're standing on two feet - you can hit the high note. We will further concede that you can sustain the high note at an impressively loud volume. Even more than that - you can hit the high note, sustain it, and then relapse it into vibrato whenever you feel the moment is right. There. We acknowledge it. Now please finish the song because your assertive, 0n-key, loud twang of a voice is fatiguing, and you're standing too close to the mike.

I just don't like involuntarily being made a part of someone's personal fantasy. Cause look at them up there. They aren't with us, they're in their own little world. They truly think they're dazzling us with their secret talent. And if you hang out with the same people enough, you'll see the same women sing karaoke a dozen times. And each time, it's the same fantasy - "They don't think I can sing. Well they're about to find out how wrong they are." Give it a rest, karaoke women. Take it down a notch.

Still haven't been paid back by that friend, by the way.

Lending Money to Friends

Let's set the record straight on this one. Lending money to friends is a no win situation. It's an arrangement that cannot possibly work out well. In the last 5 years, I've lent what I consider a serious amount of money (say, over $500) to friends on about 6 occasions. I've observed two broad results: 1) That the % of the time I get paid back promptly and at the prearranged time is exactly 0.00%, and 2) that somehow, perversely, I've gotten this reputation as some stingy tightwad who cracks the whip on his friends for every last cent.

Addressing the second point first. I stepped up. I opened my wallet and lent out hundreds, and sometimes thousands of dollars to friends in need. Where the hell were the rest of you? I have never denied anyone a personal loan, ever - except when they have a history of burning me on loans in the past. I once drained my checking account to the last $100 so that a friend could fix his car, with only the friend's word as collateral. And then, months later, when I corner the guy and insist on being paid back - now I'm a tightwad. Now I'm an asshole.

That's the strange result of my generosity. Somehow, it makes me the asshole. I've observed this a dozen times. All I want is to be paid back at the time we agreed on - and by insisting, suddenly I'm Satan himself. And the attitude I get from the lendee's. How dare I ask for my money back. Don't I know they're going through a rough time? They slink away from me. They avoid me. When I confront them they get defensive and accusatory.

A typical scenario is this one: The date of repayment has been pushed back a second time. The new repayment day is approaching. Gingerly, and with extreme sensitivity, I broach the subject with the lendee. "Hey bro. Just wanted to ask. Is everything still cool for giving me $200 on this payday?" And the reply: "Dude - how am I supposed to pay you back this week? They're going to shut off my water in two days if I don't make a payment. We need to wait two more pay periods."

So many things fly through my head when this happen. What's the point of sitting down and commiting to a repayment schedule if you can't anticipate something like "the water bill". "Oh no, the water bill! Who could have seen that coming! Damn you water company and your surprise bills out of nowhere! How can we possibly plan and budget our lives when at any time - say once a month - you hit us with a bill!" Secondly, if you're going to miss a payment, shouldn't you be volunteering that information to me? Shouldn't you find me, get me up to date on the situation, a propose a new repayment schedule out of your own initiative? Why is it up to me to hound you? And the attitude of frustration and annoyance with my gentle requests to have my money back? WTF?

I BAILED YOUR ASS OUT. The only attitude I should ever see from you is gratitude. Every conversation should start with profuse thanks. My very appearance should elicit a warm smile and a hearty hello. And if you presented me with a small gift - say a box of homemade pecan sandies in that white crinkly paper - well that would be entirely appropriate.

My friends don't deliberately set out to burn me. None of them ever thinks "Hah, that's the last he'll see of his money. I'll never pay him back!" That's not how it works. The reason they burn me is simple: shit comes up. Shit will always come up. Shit cannot fail to come up. Any loan arrangement between friends has to be predicated on the idea of a certain amount of shit coming up, and must deliberately take that into account. What happens is that when the shit comes up (Oh no, the water bill! Damn you cruel fate!) paying back the generous friend becomes the last priority on the list. The water company can shut off your water. The repo man can come take back the car. What the fuck can I do? Basically all I can do is gingerly and gently prod you, falling over myself with politeness and sensitivity, as you swat me away like some enormous, Jewish horsefly.

So I should just stop giving anybody a loan, is what you're saying? I should stop being naive? Stop giving money to degenerates. Well, I don't know. I can't do that. It's ingrained in me to help a friend in need who sincerely and honorably asks for my help. Money in the bank is nothing but a tool to make things happen. Helping a friend in need is what money is for. I can't say no. Then at least I should have some sort of contract drawn up, right? Make them sign something? Get their signature? Well, that's smart advice. But it leads you to a dilemma a bit like asking your fiance for a pre-nup. You can't ask your fiance for a pre-nup. And similarly, it's very difficult to ask your friend for a document that will hold up in court, should you ever have to sue them.

And make no mistake. I will sue you. I will spend $2000 to get back $500. Why, you ask? It's a bit like this. You know all that worthless shit you buy all the time? Rims? Designer clothes? Down payments on cars you don't need? Huge televisions that don't even make sense given the size of the room? Why do you buy all that worthless shit? Because it makes you happy, right? Well you know what makes me happy? Spending thousands of dollars to show you what happens when you burn me on a loan. That's what makes me happy. Having your paycheck garnished for a year and a half so that every week you can be reminded what happens when you burn me. That's what makes me happy.

I make the same $12 an hour that you do. I open my wallet and give you weeks worth of pay so you can get your life back on track. I do it because you ask me, and ask for nothing but your word in return. Then you burn me. Not once or sometimes, but every single time. And when I ask for the cash, I'm an asshole.

It's a raw deal, is what I'm saying.

Overhyping Your Cafeteria Food

I work for a casino here in Las Vegas. I've worked for several casinos. And I'm a veteran of numerous academic institutions. The common thread? Mediocre cafeterias. Steam tray after steam tray of questionable foodstuffs - enchildadas that are too dry, pasta still floating in water, chili con carne masquerading as chili colorado.

But none of that's important. Cafeteria food will always be mediocre. What does piss me off is the way the food is all served with these impressive, boffo names on the steam tray placard: "Shanghai style beef tips", "panache of vegetables", "Scottish style salmon"... Cafeteria food sucks and these names just don't belong. You know why prostitutes were called tarts? Because they were a bunch of whores, and they were all tarted up. Yeah, I'm talking to you Panache of Vegetables.

So today's post is basically going to just me be venting and ranting about some of these tarted up cafeteria food names. First on the list: "Oven Roasted Tom Turkey". What you need to picture here is an aluminum tray filled with turkey slices. To be scrupulous and fair, the placard should really just say "Here is some Turkey". But no, it's oven roasted Tom Turkey. Now, I'd have to go look this up I guess, but doesn't "Tom" turkey mean that it's a male turkey? That's all it means, right? So 1) Why did I need to know that, and 2) Why was I supposed to be impressed? Frankly, it grosses me out just a bit. Chicken and cows are all female. That's what I'm used to. Why do I need to know about the gender of the animal that is now my food? The only thing "Tom Turkey" is really saying to me is "Recently, close to this food, there was a turkey penis." Thanks, placard. Good job.

In college, the soft serve machine said "Double Dutch Chocolate". Now, what makes soft serve chocolate ice cream Dutch, and how does one then double what is Dutch? Could you make triple Dutch ice cream? Or would there have to be a copy of the diary of Anne Frank hidden somewhere in the cone? I believe this is related to the broader trend of just slapping the word Dutch in front of various nouns to make them more interesting. A Dutch treat, going Dutch, Dutch doors, double Dutch, and of course the infamous Dutch oven.

Then there's the gravy. Oh my do they try to make you impressed with the gravy. I'd say probably the largest disparity between quality of food and pretense on the placard has to be in the gravy department. Picture, please, a warmed tub of your typical, industrial, processed beef gravy. You know - the musky, brown, syrupy sort. The kind that sits next to the tub of instant mashed potatos. The kind that is always congealing at the top. There you go... you got it. The sneeze shield is all fogged up. There's dried gravy caked on the ladle. Perfect.

Now why the fuck would you call that "Natural Pan Gravy"? It's not natural pan gravy. And I'll be honest, natural pan gravy isn't really so great either. It's watery, oily, and not that flavorful. The real placard, in my world, would read: "Brown Fluid - which, you'll admit - can pretty much pass for gravy." There you go. That's honest. None of this Orwell-lite trickery.

It's like they can't bring themselves to have a placard that just says "Rice". It has to be "Jasmine Rice". Tomatos have to be "Blistered Tomatos". And they must have a whole room full of potato related placards. "Idaho Russet Sweet Scalloped blah blah blah Fingerling Potatoes".

You know, I'm just going to go in there one day with some stealth placards and just replace them all when no one's looking. We'll all come in to work one day and it'll be "Rigatoni with Yesterday's Shrimp", "There's-Fish-at-the-Bottom Soup", "Fruit", and "Here are your Goddamn Potatoes".

Ordering a Cheeseburger for Your Death Row Last Meal

Well, obviously, you shouldn't do that. But surprisingly, cheeseburgers and fries is the #1 requested last meal on death rows nationwide. This is one of those factoids that I was always sort of aware of, but I was never sure if it wasn't some urban legend canard. Well, sadly, it's true. Condemned prisoners want cheeseburgers and fries over all other choices. Cokes and vanilla ice cream is the standard accompaniment.

To all of you death row prisoners: shame on you. I don't know, maybe pop culture is responsible, but I was somehow under the impression that your typical mass murderer was a Hannibal Lecter type with exquisite gourmet tastes. I was wrong. Most mass murderers, when given a once in a lifetime opportunity to have any meal they want, want a cheeseburger. Where's the imagination? Where's the zest for life? Where's the joie de vie? When they hatcheted that family they had some zest. Where did it go?

Here are two websites I visited for the cheeseburger confirmation by the way.
http://www.thememoryhole.org/deaths/texas-final-meals.htm
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/foodmonthly/story/0,9950,1166252,00.html

Some of the sites I visited had amusing anecdotes. One guy apparantly ate his cheeseburger, then got a stay of execution. Over the next few weeks while his case was reconsidered, he got nothing but jeers and mockery from the rest of death row for his unimaginative choice. On his new execution day, he got a new last meal and had the good sense to order a steak. Another prisoner asked for spaghetti-os but the request was misunderstood and he ended up with regular spaghetti. His last words in the death chamber? "I wanted spaghetti-os and I didn't get them."

To be fair, I'll play devil's advocate for a minute and say that it's possible that the prison kitchen may not be able to do a gourmet meal justice. It's like those times - not often - when maybe you're at some Mexican dive restaurant on the side of the highway, and the menu is the usual assortment of taco shop junk food. But then you notice in the corner of the menu that there's also Herb Crusted Salmon with Mango Salsa and Seasonal Chutney. And you think "Okay, that does sound good.... but do I trust these guys?" You know it's the standard crew of hairy, fat, tank topped Mexican short order cooks back there. There's no sous chef. They're flipping burritos, yelling at each other and listening to something way way up on the AM band.

I guess what I'm saying is, let's say you're about to be executed and you order lobster thermidor. You're dealing with the same prison kitchen that's been serving you slop for 20 years during your appeals process. Oh, sure - they'll get you a lobster. It'll be from the tank at a Chinese Buffet half an hour down the road. They'll get the cheese and the mushrooms locally. They'll get their hands on a recipe and they'll make it. But will it be a decent thermidor? Probably not.

And, another pro Cheeseburger argument might be that what you need during those final hours is comfort food. Something you know. Something you love. It may not be the time to branch out.

For the record, I think I'd like a plate of assorted standard and jumbo shrimp, on ice, with a cocktail sauce whose brand I'd have to specify (don't make me choose now). Follow it with a porterhouse, medium rare. (Horseradish and maybe bernaise on the side). Wrap it up with hot chocolate chip cookies and milk.

That's a one-two-three punch that would be tough to beat, plus it's not too demanding for the kitchen staff. It would be tough to screw that meal up.

Maybe, what these prisoners need in their last few days, in addition to the chaplain, is a kind of last-meal consultant. Someone to make sure they're fully aware of the entire range of choices. I think maybe I could be that man.

Dishonesty in Elevator Floor-Numbering

This bugs me more than you might expect. "Yeah yeah," you're saying - "So elevators skip 13. So what? Who cares?" Well dammit, I do. And you know something: if that's all it was, just the whole skipping 13 thing, I might, might let it slide. But oooooh no, elevator floor-numbering dishonesty doesn't stop there. It only begins.

The real problem is much worse. See, once it became commonplace for buildings to pretend that the 13th floor was really the 14th, all responsibility to truth telling in floor-numbering pretty much crumbled. Have you ever paid attention to the extent to which buildings will lie about what floor is what? Or to how common it is?

It's all about height. It's about pretending the building is taller than it really is. It's about inducing people to rent apartment space or office space from your highrise by tricking them into believing they're moving in to a higher floor. But they not! They isn't! They ain't!

For years, I've been sort of peripherally aware that this was going on. I'd be in an elevator in an office building, and I'd see that the floors started at 10 and went up to 50, and I'd be thinking "This building doesn't really have 50 floors, does it?" And then I'd forget about it. But things came to a head just recently here in Las Vegas. We have all these towering hotels here, and all of them are competing to be the biggest and the baddest. I was in an elevator at the Wynn not too long ago, and noticed that the floors went up to 60.

Now you have to realize - no way does the Wynn have 60 floors. 40... 45... maybe 50. That's it. So I went to the front desk and asked how many floors were in the building. "60." I was told. "But are there really 60 floors in the building?" I asked. "Or are you skipping some?" Two clerks went into a huddle, but they didn't know. Ultimately they brought in a security guy who was in the vicinity. The conversation went something like this.

Security Guy: "There are 60 guest floors."

Me: "But there aren't really 60 floors in the tower, right?"

SG: "No, there are only 50 floors in the building."

Me: "So how can there be 60 guest floors?"

SG: "Well, there's no floor 40 through 49."

Me: "Why not?"

SG: "The number 4 is very close to the Mandarin word for death. Or wait, no. It's the Cantonese word for death. It sounds the same as 'four'. Either that, or the written word is the same. I don't know. But the number 4 is very unlucky for the Asians."

Me: "Is there a 4th floor?"

SG: "Yes."

Me: "There are just no Asians on it then?"

SG: "Uh, I really don't know."

Me: "And there's no 13th floor either?"

SG: "Yes, there's no 13."

Me: "So there's actually only 49 floors then. 60 minus 40-49 minus 13."

SG: "No, there's 50 floors."

Me: "Has there been any concern that maybe you're giving people who use the elevators the wrong impression about the height of the building?"

SG: "No, I don't think that's come up."

At this point I was starting to get looks like maybe they wanted me to transact some actual business, or be on my way. Just as a side note here, I am more and more baffled by the stock the Chinese put in their dumb superstitions. Oh no, the color brown! I mean, we have our own superstitions: the cats and the ladders and spilling salt and all that - but no one's really serious about it right? If someone actually, seriously started panicking over a knocked-over salt shaker, wouldn't that be grounds to conclude that they were massively stupid? "It's all part of their rich, ancient culture" doesn't impress me at all. Grow up, Chinese.

So that's it, really. Like a short man padding his shoes, there's just a sad whiff of desperation in a building trying to fool you into thinking it's tall. It's not a bold or inventive lie, it's just pathetic. It's like a guy on the nautilus saying "98....99...." as you approach. It's just another deception that society feels free to throw at you for the simple reason that no one's bothered to call them on it yet.

Lying elevators: J'accuse!

140 Annoyances

121. A weak dribble coming out of the water fountain.

122. The gratuitous, pointless, just-cause-we-can cussing that permeates every HBO show.

123. The Nokia Ringtone

124. Giving apples on Halloween.

125. Tee shirts boasting about superbowls from four years ago.

126. Unwanted Pavlovian responses - like when I take the occasional nighttime shower and it leaves me unable to sleep, or when I hear a song I normally listen to at the gym and it causes my heartbeat to accelerate.

127. That "Jumpin' Jive'n!" song. For the love of God, swing dance music, GET A SECOND SONG.

128. People who insist on their full first name.

129. Daylight Savings Time

130. The ability of wires and cords, all by themselves, to get tangled in knots of rubik's-cube complexity.

131. Dreams where I just can't find a bathroom.

132. The way that 9/11 is constantly cited, even years later, in corporate annual reports, in any industry, to explain virtually any financial shortcoming.

133. Dr. T and the Women

134. Lawn sprinklers in the pouring rain.

135. Airport security always "recommends" that I remove my shoes. When I choose not to, then they insist. So it wasn't really a recommendation. It was a requirement. Tell you what, let's make a deal. I'll remove my shoes, and you level with me up front and not treat me like a fucking five year old.

136. When you answer the phone and the other person says "Hi! Who is this?"

137. Menus that let me know that a certain entree "goes great with a Bud Light!"

138. How come whenever videogame playing is portayed on TV or in film, the player is always spasming violently with the controller, bashing buttons at high speeds and jerking their arms around?

139. Sucking a lemon seed up the straw and swallowing it.

140. Was it me or was Tracey Ullman never funny, ever? Not even for a second. Not once. Not for one moment over like 3 different shows, spanning deacdes? Never. Just not ever, ever funny.

Illegible Signatures

I've kept silent about this my whole life, but I think today is the day to blow the whistle on this bullshit. Why do people draw a lazy loop that vaguely resembles the first letter of their name, follow it with a wavy line, and call it their signature? That's just a load of crap.

Would I be wrong to say that the primary purpose of a signature is to be legible? So that someone else can see it and say: "Yup - that's Fred Johnson."Granted there are secondary attributes to a good signature, like being written in a distinctive hand and being asthetically pleasing - but do either of those things come before the need to be deciphered?

I make the one - ONE exception, where a person has some sort of job where they have to sign their name eighty times a day. Then okay, you can do the lazy squiggle. But even then, you'd want two signatures in your arsenal - a work signature and a formal signature.

I have this pet theory that the less legible your signature is, or the less it bears any resemblence to your actual name, the more of an asshole you probably are. Do you think Mother Teresa, when she had to sign something, just did some jerky, zig-zaggy pen motions and then whipped off a straight line like Dennis Miller at the end of a weekend update? Of course not! When St. Teresa signed off on something, I think you'd be treated to some beautiful cursive. I mean, the meaningless-loop-and-wavy-line guy clearly don't care about the person who has to look at the signature. Which is, after all, the whole purpose of writing a signature. A signature gets written for the express purpose of some other person looking at it at some point in the future. It has no other purpose.

Behold, the signatures on the declaration of independence.

http://www.angelfire.com/pro/bealeciphers/Page13.htm

Now those are some signatures! Not one asshole in the bunch. Not only are they legible, individually distinctive and nice to look at, but there's lot of little artistic flourishes. How about all those underlining designs? I never even noticed the one under John Hancock. It looks like he's bored in 4th period bio lab.

But we've sunk far since the declaration of independence. Nowadays any old squiggle, wavy line, or formless scratching is an acceptable signature. And here's the big question. If society no longer requires that your signature look anything like your name or be legible at all, why even make a halfhearted attempt at legibility? Why settle for an exaggerated loop followed by a line? Why not pull a Prince and sign something compeltely goofy as your signature? Why not just draw a penis? This could be my new signature:



At least that would be legible, distinctive, and it doesn't insult you with any lack of effort or sloppiness.

So that's really the honorable choice. Write your signatures so we can read them, or at least make a credible effort drawing some genitalia. I'd prefer the former. Look to the Declaration of Independence for guidance. This wasn't just a statement of principles and ideals, it was a guide to signing your own name and not looking the jackass. We can all learn from that.

Everything Should Be Open, All the Time

Businesses shouldn't close. Stores, banks, restaurants, supermarkets, the utility companies, government offices, the whole caboodle. Always open. Sundays? Open. 3 am? Open. Martin Luther King Day? Open.

That is the future. It's going to happen eventually - how could it not? I'm only arguing that it should happen now. I am tired of not being able to do some transaction at the bank because it's the wrong day of the week. I'm tired of not being able to get a decent meal because it's the wrong time of day. I'm tired of not being able to get customer service help over the phone because I've missed the office hours in central standard time.

Why is it that the places you need most urgently to be open right now, say your doctor's office - or the water company, or customer service for your PC, or the DMV, why are they the places most likely to be closed? You want some disgusting Del Taco at any time of day, no problem. But something you might actually need urgently? Come back between 8am and 4.

8am and 4? 8am and 4???? That's messed up.

One time I had a UPS pacakge that was sitting in the UPS warehouse that I had absolutely no way of picking up. UPS's hours coincided exactly with my work hours. They opened when I went to work. They closed when I got off. They were closed on the weekends. I had no way of getting this package. I argued with them. I pleaded. I tried to arrange some kind of under-the-table pickup, offering a nice gratuity. No deal. The day before it was returned to sender I ditched work to get it. I can't tell you if UPS has changed its warehouse hours since then, seeing as how I won't give them a dime of business for the rest of my life.

Society needs to take a big step back and reconsider its priorities. Now I've lived in New York City and Las Vegas, two cities noted for having a 24 hour culture. And if you can't get what you need in Vegas during off hours, what hope is there for everyone else? We're all screwed. The system as it stands just doesn't make any sense. Let's say we have errands to do at the DMV, or the post office, or a dozen different places. What's going to be the day we have free to do these chores? Sunday, right? What's the one day these stores are going to be closed? Yep, sunday.

So let's go briefly through the ostensible reasons why things close and explain why they don't hold up.

First of all, you've got this obsolete, holy Sabbath day mentality that just doesn't belong in our society anymore. If you think Sunday is holy, that's great. Good for you. You take the day off. But everyone else should get back to work. In the casino business here, it's common to hear people say "Today is my Monday" or "Tomorrow's my friday." Now that's the way it should be.

Think of the advantages. Overcrowded schools? What if I said I could give any school 40% additional capacity without adding one extra chair? It's called Saturday and Sunday. How about double capacity? Two words: swing shift. Get those kids to school in prime time.

So much of the way American society is time-oriented is based on some obsolete system. Kids getting the summers off to work the fields. Sunday liquor laws. It's time to shake off this notion that Sunday is America's day off. Let's see, what are the other objections...

Ah yes, money. It's not feasible to keep things open all night. Well, it's all a question of scale. Go into any 24 hour business and look around. Do they have a full crew working the Carls' Jr. at 3am? Of course not. It's two, maybe three guys. You don't need your full staff. For many of these stores, the only variable costs you have to worry about when staying open all night are the hourly wage of the one clerk and the power bill. A minimum stream of after-hours business is more than enough to make it worthwhile. And what about giving your customers the peace of mind of knowing that you're there 24/7, 365 days a year? That's worth something. That gets you respect and loyalty from your customer base.

If you feel, like I do, that nothing should ever be closed, then you definitely don't want to go to Europe. I was in England a few years ago and I couldn't believe it. Does no one in England get hungry after 8 pm? Restaurants there have "seatings". You can go for lunch or dinner, but they're closed in between. WTF? And I couldn't believe the sheer number of holidays over there. Every fifth day is a bank holiday or St. Ignacious day or something, and then everything closes. No wonder their economy is in the toilet.

Look, in the world of the future, everything's always open. How many movies have you seen about the future where the protagonist goes somewhere on urgent business, and his destination is closed? None! Nothing is closed in the future! That's what so great about it! We should just get started and do it now! I want to be able to turn to my grandkids and say "You know, when I was a boy, that place used to be closed." And they'll have no idea what I'm talking about. Anyone with me?

Black Licorice

Hoo boy, black licorice sucks. It's not just kinda-bad, it's not just mildly bad. It actually has a hostile taste. It's a flavor that has you groping for an emergency beverage. It's foul.

Now if I licked a car tire, that would be foul too. But here's the difference. The car tire isn't in the candy aisle. There are things that taste worse than black licorice I grant you, but there's nothing that exceeds black licorice in the disparity between promised taste and actual taste. Nobody thinks a handful of mouse droppings is going to taste any good. But if we bagged them and put them next to the Snickers and called them Mouseychews then I think you'd be setting unrealistic expectations.

See, that's how I feel every day when I'm in a store and see something like "Good n' Plenty" on the shelf. I want to shake somebody by the shoulders and say "They're selling mouse droppings as candy!" See, the marketers of licorice are brazen. They could try to call it health food or new age food if they wanted - that stuff is expected to suck. But they call it candy. Candy!

Maybe that label dates back to the age when there just wasn't a lot of candy. Was there candy in pilgrim era America? What did they have? Taffy? Sugar cubes? I'm guessing it was back in the colonial era, or the frontier era, or the robber baron era (I don’t know, I get my eras confused) when someone took a long swig of licorice-flavored, hallucinogenic absinthe and said: “You know, maybe it’s just the wormwood talking – but I think this would make a great candy!” And then he fell over and died. And so licorice was born.

Well, okay, that’s not true. I just looked up the history of licorice and it comes from the boiled roots of the licorice plant. For hundreds of years many cultures have used it medicinally. Whoop-dee doo.

To those of you who have given licorice as a gift, or offer it to guests, or give it to children on Halloween: how dare you. What the hell is wrong with you. Even if you've somehow managed to acquire the taste for yourself, what possibly makes you think it's okay to offer it to others? Are you trying to ruin a child's Halloween? To see licorice in the candy aisle is insult enough. To actually expect someone to eat it on your whim is disgusting. You should be forced to drink glasses of Clamato until you swear to keep your licorice to yourself.

P.S. Not a big fan of the carob chocolate either.

And you know, since this isn't a long entry, let me throw in my two cents about those milk mustache ads. (now in what, their fifteenth year?) Do they realize that the mustaches in these ads are grotesque and obscene and bear no resemblence at all to a genuine milk mustache? Do they not know that milk mustaches are unflattering and borderline repulsive to have to look at, particularly when the ad makes it appear you've been drinking heavy cream out of a bucket? Would you make a Hersheys ad showing a smiling person with chocolate smeared around the sides of their mouth? No, that would be disgusting. So why does milk get a free pass?

The Default Burger

I think I'm going to do a trilogy of posts about food. Outdoor dining is one big problem, but another one is burgers. How do you serve one? Do you just throw on ketchup? How bout mustard? Pickles, lettuce, tomato? Mayo? Special sauce, relish, onions? Barbeque? Guac? And we're not even talking about the bacon and the cheese, or some of the more exotic stuff like hot sauce and egg.

Everyone likes their burger a little different. How many permutations of these toppings are there? Millions? Me, I like a cheesburger with ketchup and raw onions. Occasionally bacon - the flavor can be a little too dominant. And here's the real catch. I don't like pickles, but I also don't like no pickles. I like the faint, lingering residue of pickle that comes from finding pickles in your burger and removing them.

And I have several dealbreaker toppings. Mustard and mayo are two. They can be kinda scraped off, but they can't be truly eliminated. That burger is ruined. Same with Russian, or any unwelcome sauce.

And that's just me. One person in the whole burger consumption universe. Unless you serve me a burger with the cheese, the ketchup, the raw onion, and the freshly evicted pickle slice, you've left me unsatisfied. How can you serve a burger that will make everyone happy? You can't. It's not possible. Which leads me to this weeks' constructive suggestion for society. What I propose is a kind of hamburger bill of rights. We should enshrine these principles into law.

1) No condiment or topping should be served on a burger without the explicit permission of the burger consuming party.

2) One should never assume that they can act as a burger topping selection proxy for someone else.

3) When condiment preference is in any doubt, serve plain.

4) Serving the burger open faced, with toppings placed invitingly on either the heel or crown is not an acceptable compromise.

5) "Cheese" means cheddar or American. It doesn't mean jack, provelone, muenster or swiss.

6) "Onions" require clarification. They can be raw or grilled. If you intend to serve them carmelized, or a non-burger variety like Bermuda, this requires special consent. If you intend to serve an onion-ring on the burger, you are an idiot.

7) Saying that a burger contains 100% real Angus beef has never, once, impressed anyone.

A few burger establishments should be congratulated for being ahead of the curve on this. Burger King burgers, despite being bad overall, have always been open to full customization. Every other chain has since adopted the "Have it Your Way" philosphy. Fatburger, for instance, has signs at the register reminding you to identify your topping preferences. That's thoughtful.

What's less encouraging is the way a default burger is prepared, absent of an expressed preference, at many of these places. McDonalds will put mustard on the burger. Now this is just totally nuts. Very few people want mustard on a cheeseburger. Why is this automatic? Then there's Wendys. Unless you specifically countermand it, your Wendys burger will have lettuce, tomato, pickle and mayo. Mayo, for Gods sakes.

When someone orders "pizza", does the restaurant feel at liberty to add whatever toppings they want? No. Does someone order "salad" and let the chef decide what kind? No. But apparantly we have all agreed to to just say "burger" and let the establishment slather it with mustard or mayo or whatever else they want. The default burger should be plain, and any additions must be solicited.

Outdoor Restaurant Seating

Sitting outdoors at a restaurant sucks. There are worse things, I grant you. It's not the gulag. But the indoor seating is just indisputably better. Don't argue with me. It's true.

I can see if there's a) no wind, b) no glare from the sun, c) no frequent passing car exhaust fumes, d) a high-70s temperature, e) no insects, f) seating that's comparably comfortable to the indoor seating (i.e. not just metal chairs), and g) no annoying ambient noise, then yes, okay - you have a case for eating outside. But, in the 99% of the time when these ideal conditions won't exist, don't give me the "It's suuuuuuch a beaaaaauuutiful day.... Wouldn't you rather be outdoors?" No. No I wouldn't rather be outdoors. Is there something wrong with that?

See, that's the thing about these people who always want the outdoor table. I'm not allowed to have an indoor-preference. There's this presumption with them that they are in sole possession of the one acceptable preference: eating outside - and anyone who disagrees with them is seriously wrong in the head, and/or is maliciously out to spoil their good time.

I don't get it. It's just not the case that outdoors is always better. "Oh Harold, it's such a beautiful day - let's take a shit outside!" There's this mindset that, I don't know, all indoor activities and indoor living is some kind of tragic compromise, that outdoors is man's natural state. That any experience or task or activity is nicer if it can be done outside. In my opinion it's just the opposite. I think the entire history of human civilization and human endeavor has been one long quest to get indoors. Not to discover truth and God and purpose, but to be able to say "Screw this shit, I'm going inside."

Eating in particular is something that's especially well suited for the indoors. There's just too much little stuff that can get on your nerves at an outdoor table. That glare. Man, the glare. Notice how the person who proposes the outdoor seating always chooses the seat facing away from the glare. They should be obligated to sit into the glare. That should be the price. I mean there's just this unspoken covenant that you can't talk about the glare. That you should just suck it up and be a man. Have you ever tried to eat a plate of pasta when the sun is low in the afternoon sky, square with your shoulders, aimed directly at your face? Do it right now. Go outside and stare at the sun and try to get hungry. It just doesn't work.

And the wind. Ever had to use the condiments or the sugar-pack bowl to weigh something down so it wouldn't blow away? Why am I doing that? Was it worth it to sit out here?

Very occasionally, the outdoor seating is nice. You're on a Caribbean island. It's sunset, there's a terrace overlooking the ocean. The air is fragrant and warm and you can hear the surf. Bring on the sirloin and the twice baked potato. But street level dining at a downtown Chilis? Ever listen up close to a braking bus as it approaches the red light? The ear-splitting whine followed by the high-decibel chugging of the idling carriage? There's a nice sequence of sounds and smells. Oh but I forgot - it's suuuuch a beeauuutiful day.

Letting Children Win

I say it's time for this to stop.

The argument is simple. In real life, you lose. When a kid plays with his peers, he will lose. The sports team he roots for will lose. He will play video games and lose. Even when he's doing nothing more than drinking a coke he will play the look-under-the-cap game and lose.

Since the kid is going to have to deal with losing anyway, wouldn't it be a good idea to teach him early on how to cope with it? Learning grace, manners, sportsmanship - learning to be proud of your effort despite losing, all of this should be a priority.

I have a few childhood memories about this stuff. My first memory of losing was when I saw a new box of cheerios in the kitchen. There was some fabulous prize to be won if the card inside the box had the magic number printed on it. I tore open the box and found the card. The numbers were different. I lost. I remember not comprehending it. I didn't think that I was supposed to lose anything. I wondered if my mom had bought the non-winning box by accident.

I also remember a family wiffleball game in the park when I was about 9. My team was far out in front. In fact, we needed just one more out to seal up the win. There were two men on, but my seven-year-old-girl cousin was coming to bat. A ha! The easiest out on their whole bench! She predictably hit a weak dribbler to the mound, and I knew it was all over. I waited on first for the throw. But then my uncle, aunt and parents went into this 3 stooges routine where they deliberately fumbled, bobbled and tripped over each other, failing to collect the ball or pass it to anyone, and meanwhile my cousin was circling the bases. I screamed in agony and shock. Somewhere during this game-winning, in the park wiffleball homerun it dawned on me that my teammates were throwing the game. This merely doubled my incoherent rage. "You're letting her win! You're letting her win!" My cousin and her little friends were jumping for joy and I was on the ground, apoplectic.

This was probably where my opposition to letting kids win got started. In addition to making sure that kids learn how to lose with class, there are other good reasons to bring on your A-game when taking on junior. 1) How is the kid supposed to get better? As a poker player, I can tell you with certainty that one of the best ways to learn is to have your ass handed to you by a table full of superior players. That's what toughens you. Now if you're trying to teach a kid tennis, or chess, or something like that - how's he going to develop his ability if you keep handing him the confidence-building wins?. What about strengthening his intelligence? His tactics and strategy? The only way you can do that is by challenging him.

2) Is there nothing more insufferable than a kid who has never been permitted to lose? Do you really want to be around this whiny load? God forbid something ever goes wrong in his world - out come the waterworks and the tantrum.

In my opinion, the personification of the impulse to let kids win is the Sesame Street character Guy Smiley.



Guy was the game show host muppet. He'd have games like "Name That Shape!" (Yes! A decahedron!) and no matter what happened over the course of the game show, the ending would always be the same. He'd say something like "Well, the judges have totalled the scores... and... YOU ALL WIN!" And at home, at age 6, I'd be sooooo frustrated. "NOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!" Because I wanted, just once, to see a muppet contestant lose on the Guy Smiley show. I was so eager to bask in the schadenfreude of a distraught, crying muppet.

Well, yes, Mr. Hooper died and there were plenty of distraught muppets then. But that was sad. I wanted to relish in the misery of a muppet game show loser. Never happened.

Now you don't want to totally thrash the kid at the game or the sport. You don't have to go overboard. But you don't just give him the win either. If you want him to log in a few wins once in a while to build his confidence, try a game that's mostly luck. Like Yahtzee. The kid will win his fair share of those. (unless he's really a moron)

The "No Bullshit" Line

I have a class this semester on "Service Management", which is maybe one or two evolutionary steps higher than the kind of pablum BS that we had to learn in Management Theory. (Management Theory was the class where we learned how to... talk to people.) There are at least some marginally useful concepts in this class, like how to make lines move quicker.

Now that would be useful to society, wouldn't it? Making lines move quicker. I'm fully on board with that goal. The class is all about automating tasks, upgrading software, taking care of customer's needs at home via computer so that they don't even have to come into the bank, etc.

That's all well and good, but it doesn't get at the root of the real problem that keeps most lines long and glacially paced. It's the idiots, the bewildered and confused, the assholes, the non-English speaking people and their stuttering nephew interpreters, and the conversation-starved elderly. That's the problem.

You're at the post office. You're there to do one of a few quick tasks. Maybe buy a roll of stamps. Maybe have a package weighed and posted. Maybe you got a slip in the mail and you're there to pick up your parcel. Quick and painless. Nothing big. You're maybe fifth in line. But why is it that the line isn't moving? Why has that one woman been at the window since you came in, ten minutes ago? What postal transaction could possibly be taking so long?

Or maybe you're snaking your way through a long airport check-in line. And you just happen to notice that one of the 3 available check-in desks has had the same family standing there talking with the agent the WHOLE time you've been on the line. The whole time. What, like 20 minutes? Why? Isn't the idea that you just step up, present your e-ticket, confirm your flight, check your bag, and take your boarding pass? It's a 2 minute procedure. What else is there?

One more. You live in Las Vegas. You have a $25 casino chip that you want to cash out. You go to the cage. There's a line. The man currently being helped seems to have ID Cards, documents in triplicate, a passport, a credit history, and a paystub out and he's involved in some fiendishly complex negotiation with the cashier. What the fuck is going on?

Ladies and gentlemen, I present my solution: The NO BULLSHIT Line. This would be a dedicated separate line, with an assigned staffperson, reserved for the exclusive use of people who have a bullshit-free transaction. Oooh oooh, and even if you had a bullshit-dense transaction and the NO BULLSHIT line was free, you still couldn't use it.

This is sort of a spiritual successor to the "10 items or less" line, or the "cash only" line, only it's applicable to virtually any business environment. Imagine the scene. You enter the airport. The check-in line is enormous, and what... only 3 desks open? You'll be there forever. But wait, there's virtually nobody waiting at the No Bullshit Line. You approach it. In front of you on the No Bullshit Line is a man, his fat wife and their three, fidgeting children. The family steps up to the counter, and my, do they have a long list of problems. Can they get a seat change on the flight? Do they have enough VISA miles to get an upgrade on the return leg? Speaking of which, we need to change that return day to Sunday. Is there a fee for that? Oh, and little Timmy will be taking a connecting flight by himself next week. Can someone meet him and help him get on the plane?

The agent listens patiently, and finally cuts in. "I'm sorry sir, this line is for No Bullshit transactions only. But don't worry, they'll be able to help you at the regular check in desk."

"But we're already here!"

"I'm so sorry for the inconvenience. May I help the next passenger with a bullshit-free transaction?"

Oh, the satisfaction. The joy. The justice. The look on dad's face as he turns around and contemplates the full line. The departing of what remains of his sprit. His acceptance of the suffering ahead of him. While I step up and conduct my business in exactly one minute - thirty, dad and family trudge off to the main line and get in place behind the man with the caged dog, and the old woman whose head never stops quivering in a circular motion.

And the guy at the casino cage with a limited command of english trying to exchange pesos for dollars. And the woman at the post office who doesn't understand when the clerk says that her box needs to be secured with more tape. And the dude at the ATM who seems to be milking every last drop of functionality out of the ATM's three choices. And the old man at the bank who never likes to get down to business until he's had a 5 minute conversation with the teller. And all the other millions of permutations of people who require special treatment and special attention, they can all step aside, and wait patiently for their turn to occupy someone's time with their bullshit.

The soup nazi had it right. Give me a line where something quick and simple can just get done. Give me a fast, convenient experience - one commensurate with the simplicity of my errand. Put me and those like me on a separate track.

P.S. We could at least start by enforcing the rules we already have. How often do you see a checkout person at the supermarket actually enforce the 10-items-or-less rule? Never. Wouldn't it be nice to actually see an offender kicked out into the normal line?

Bulletin

Saw my first Christmas commercial last night, October 11th. This may be a new record. It was for Carnival Cruises. Let's all do a good deed now and never take a Carnival Cruise.

Potpourri 4

Requesting an End to the Conversation
Here's a longstanding pet peeve I have. It's when you tell the person on the other end of the phone that you have to go because something is unexpectedly demanding your immediate attention, and the other person just doesn't get it and keeps the conversation going. Examples:

1. You: "Oh, hey - pizza guy's here. I gotta go."
Other person: "Oh yeah? Pizza? That sounds good! What kinda pizza?"

2. You: "Oh, okay - gotta hang up - the movie's starting."
Other person: "All right. But hey, before you go, what are we doing on Friday?"

3. You: "Oh, hey - that's my dad on the other line - I gotta go."
Other person: "Yeah? Hey how is your dad by the way?"

This really pisses me off. This is a simple cue to get off the phone. Obvious, perfectly commonplace, perfectly understandable. And your friend ignores it. More than once I've been tempted to just stop everything, ignore whatever it is that's pulling me off the phone, and just give my complete attention to the caller, confronting him squarely about his failure to let me off the phone, engaging him in lengthy conversation about it, refusing to change the subject, until I've reduced him to whimpering and tears.

There is only one response to "X just happened, I have to go." and it's "Oh! Okay! Talk to you later." That's it. You either say that sentence, or you are an ass. Maybe there'd be an exception if your caller could somehow trump your emergency with something even more important, but that would be rare.

Orange Juice Commercials Posing as Public Service Announcements
We're all familiar with ads from the Beef Board or the American Dairy Council, where they promote, uh, beef. And dairy. It's all good. I like a nonspecific commercial for "beef". "Beef, it's what's for dinner." That's nice. All commercials should be like that. "Slippers. Warm, comfortable - go out and get a pair." ... "Paper. You know you need more." etc.

But the orange juice people have gone too far. The one thing you're not supposed to do with these ads is get brand specific. What the juice people do is make it look like it's some kind of health department public service announcement. They have a smooth voiced announcer telling you about rising cholesterol and the risks of an unhealthy diet and lack of exercise. In the background are jogging people and heartbeat-monitor graphics and lab coat types holding test tubes, and it looks very official. And then they get to the point. "Studies have shown that drinking a glass of Minute Maid orange juice every day lowers cholesterol, blood pressure, and the risk of heart disease."

Hold the phone. Who gives a damn what brand of orange juice it is? Were the "studies" brand specific? Did the studies show that if you drank Tropicana orange juice instead then you were "Screwed, man. Screwed."

Now if it was an explicit Minute Maid juice ad then I wouldn't care. But this thing is masquarading as some kind of objective health announcement. The first 15 seconds of this ad had me convinced that this doctor really cared about me and my cholesterol. I was ready to take his advice. But no doctor telling you to drink orange juice would mention a brand preference. He's giving the game away. He's not a doctor, he's a Minute Maid house monkey.

The Minute Maid ad is fairly new. For years it was "Pure Florida Orange Juice", leaving me wondering why it was so important that the oranges come from Florida. Trying to make it sound like there was no health benefit unless it was a Florida orange. Bah!

What the Hell is This Thing?



I mean, I've seen this object dozens of times in commercials my whole life. Apparantly its purpose is to gently apply small dollops of honey to things. Has this thing ever been spotted in real life? Does a person buy one of these when he's not satisfied with just spooning honey into his oatmeal - he feels the need to turn it into a slow, fetish-like ritual? I think we need Martha Stewart to settle this one.