An Appointment, Not Destiny

Appointments, these days, seem to be exercises in theory; like, “…if we hadn’t scheduled all of these other people at the same time we told you to come in, we could’ve honored your appointment.”

No bigger perpetrator exists than the medical professional. Doctors overbook and cross-book patience to maximize revenue, all with the arrogance of knowing that we need them; so we wait, and if we don’t like it, we can leave.

At a recent 5:00 p.m. apointment with an eye doctor, for which I showed up 10 minutes early to complete the annoying paperwork, I didn’t get called in until about 50 minutes later. Now, by medical standards, that’s not bad. But the exam literally lasted 15 minutes. A puff of air, an eye chart, and I was done. So for every minute of that short exam, I had to wait three. Something seems wrong there.

Rental car companies and hotels often commit similar abuses, only they distort the meaning of the word reservation. Haven’t you ever shown up at the airport car rental desk, only to be directed to a competitor because they didn’t have any cars left? Huh? I thought I made a reservation, as in, I reserved a car from you?

And look at what the Long Island Rail Road does to the word schedule. At my connection in Jamaica, NY, the 8:25 a.m. to Penn Station arrives like clockwork, consistently 3 minutes later than the 8:28 a.m., which has already left.

My brain hurts from trying to wrap my head around all these numbers.

I understand. Things come up, and as a member of the public that is being served, I am totally OK with this and am prepared for it. But this shouldn’t be how businesses operate.

Why are we so willing to put up with this behavior?

Lost in Transition

Remember that eye doctor appointment I mentioned in the “Appointment Not Destiny” article? It was all with the intention of replacing my existing, perfectly good pair with something more like what the hipsters are wearing: you know, those big, black, thick-framed numbers that look curiously similar to what my grandfather used to whip out in the 1970s to read the paper. Just another gross case of the Fashion Burrito del Grande repeating and eating itself, I guess. But I do digress!

Practicing efficient time management, my wife and I were able to narrow the selection down to about three frame styles, and by the time the associate came over to assist, we had basically figured out which one we wanted - a funky pair of specs under the Blue Moon label (BM1002 - couldn’t really find anything on the web about it). Thankfully, the associate agreed with our choice, and we sat down to discuss options - the first of which being that I wanted to be able to see. One of the options on the table: transition lenses.

Transitions, in case you don’t know, change from having no tint to practically a full sunglass tint in a matter of seconds when exposed to UV rays. Pretty cool, right? No need to purchase a separate pair of prescription shades, or get those tacky clip-ons. These babies are ready for action.

My only hesitation was cost, so I asked the associate to give me an estimate with and without. The price was pretty unbelievable through my health insurance, so I gave her the go-ahead. Bring it on, Sun! All in all, they’re a nifty piece of technology. In my car, I’m just some nerd with glasses; give me 30 seconds in the sun, and I am too cool for an iceberg!

There’s a problem, though. As fast as they are able to change, I find myself viewing life through a constant state of mid-transition. So, instead of either clear glass or black sunglass, I’m looking out a world that has a purple hue. Violet you’re turning violet, Violet! And, instead of Top Gun, fighter piolet rugged coolness, I kind of have this permanent raccoon look around my eyes. I look like like I just got beat up by Kimbo Slice in some backyard YouTube video.

Plus, I don’t think they’re the best for photography. They kind of give you a false sense of color and light.
But I’m sticking with my transitions. They look sharp, and will help my eyes in the long run. And, when all is said and done, life is change, isn’t it?

Pouting and Pleading for a Pouch

I want a pouch. No, I need a pouch. A personal pouch, built-in, just like kangaroos, bandicoots, wombats, banded anteaters, koalas, opossums, wallabies, and Tasmanian devils have.

Why?

When you spend 12 hours a day away from home, one-third of which is consumed by commuting, you need to carry around lots of stuff (crap). In my backpack right now, I have several notebooks for writing, an Amazon Kindle, an umbrella, bills to pay, maps of NYC, a wallet, keys, a camera, a cell phone, and well, you get the picture. Walking around, I must look like an overgrown, balding kid on his way to school, with my lunch bag also in tow.

I’m tired of lugging this junk around, but it’s pretty much all necessary. The problem is, when I go other places I need to transfer some of that same junk into different carriers. And then I have to remember to put the stuff back again. Man, life is damned hard!

Anyway, I’ve tried backpacks, knapsacks, fanny packs, waist packs, briefcases, duffle bags, shoulder bags — you name it. None of them do the trick! But look that those marsupials I mentioned earlier. They literally have their !@#$ together, don’t they? That’s what I want. So, I’m making a plea.

If there are any doctors out there, plastic surgeons or gastric specialists, I want to know what we can do here. Can we convert my stomach into a pouch? There’s plenty of extra, I’m sure of it. Can I enjoy the feeling of knowing that I didn’t leave my wallet home, or that I didn’t lose my keys? And still have room for my camera?

Is there any doctor out there with such vision, and with the skills and confidence to pull this off?

Better yet, how about you genetics experts. Maybe some of you are already working on isolating the marsupial gene that creates pouches, or modifying our own genes to present this wonderful natural accessory? Imagine not having to leave this up to surgery, but if it we could one day select it for our children, just like we select walnuts and hot fudge for a sundae!

All I know is, I want a pouch and I want it now!

Feel free to submit conceptual images of what the human personal pouch might look like.

Can you help?

Beware the MumbleHiss!

Commuting on the Long Island Rail Road is one, giant ball of annoying. Late trains, smelly trains, crowded trains, fares that pay no observance to the laws of gravity…but perhaps there is no single greater annoyance than the MumbleHiss.

Oh, you’ve never heard of this creature? Consider yourself lucky. It is surely like none I’ve ever heard before.

Don’t get me wrong; the MumbleHiss, like Frankenstein’s monster, is well intended. But it is grating to every sense and common sense, nonetheless. It typically sits next to, across from, or behind me with its best friend — which could be another person or a smartphone. It talks in tones loud enough to be heard, but low enough so that only “Mumble, mumble, mumble, hiss, hiss,” becomes discernible. The mantra is hypnotic, and I find myself transcendentally transported to some suburban soccer field as I desperately start to to care about  what is being discussed.

“Mumble, mumble, hiss, hiss.”

Unfortunately, this creature is protected by a bunch of crazy liberal laws devised hundreds of years by some socialists. Until we can get these laws changed, or eradicated completely, we must learn to coexist with the MumbleHiss.

So, when you prepare for your morning commute, make sure you pack a pair of earphones, lest you become the MumbleHiss’s next victim. Of course, don’t turn your MP3 player too high, or you may turn into a BoomBoomChit. You know what that is, don’t you?

Rock Out With Your Socks Out (or, Is This a Shoes-Optional Car?)

C’mon, dude! I didn’t need to see your tube-socked feet this morning propped up on the train seat, like you were waiting for a pedicure or foot massage.

I don’t know where you or those feet have been, and I’m not really interested in finding out. Where were you raised, at Thom McCann? Do you drop shoe and assume this position of comfort wherever you go?

Give us all a break; put those feet back inside your nasty New Balance sneakers, where they belong.

OK, I must admit, I’m a bit jealous. I’d love to have my size 12s unfettered from their leather prison. But something deep inside of me, not sure whether it’s a nature thing or a nurture thing, tells me I just shouldn’t do it. Cause, there are, like, other people around, dude!

Maybe you’re some out-of-touch, spoiled socialite on his way back from a party in the Hamptons. OK. I get it. If that’s the case, why not go the whole way? Take off the tubes, too, and let the all the salt, fat, and alcohol you ingested last night escape all over that seat.

Now, where’s the conductor? He makes 50 announcements a day urging us to kindly not put our feet on the seat, and then does nothing when he encounters the violator. Coward!

What’s the punishment for such a crime? A stern look, maybe? A little slap on this little piggy or that little piggy? What should be done is to dip your feet in honey, and then into a swarming horde of red ants. Beats scalding butter, though.

Well, thanks for grossing me out this morning, Mr. Tube Sock Guy.

Where's Your Continental Pride, Damn It!

Isn’t anyone proud of their continent anymore?

When the hell did that become “passe?” Excuse me, but I’d much rather introduce myself as North American, than just plain, old American Pie.

Nothing against the U.S. of A. In fact, it makes perfect sense. I mean, the whole world knows that America is the greatest country, right? So, doesn’t that mean we have the greatest continent, too? By default…I’m just pointing out the obvious - don’t shoot the messenger!

That’s before you throw in other powerhouse countries, like Mexico, Canada, Haiti, Honduras, Trinidad…and Tobago. Both of ‘em. Think about that dude. North America rocks! It kicks ass!! I’m so psyched!

Name another continent: Africa? Australia? Aren’t those really just countries, anyway? Let’s stop the charade.

Europeans can’t stand each other, man, and look at what’s going on with the Euro “Union.” And Asia? I wouldn’t go there, right now. Would you?

So, have I made the case yet? You don’t seem convinced. Well, don’t love North America, then you can leave North America. Sorry to be like that; you’re my fellow continental, but it’s gotta be that way.

If you leave, just remember: you can never live in St. Kitts and Nevis, or Panama, Jamaica, or even Grenada. I know how you feel about Grenada, dude.

Looks like you have some choices to make, mah brotha!

Hey, hope you make the right one. You can always go to South America, or Antarctica.

It’s on you. Let me know. Cool!

What's the Problem? No Problem.

There exists a blight upon the English lexicon, which, if left unchecked threatens to undermine the face of casual relationships across the world.

Holding all this power, is the fist of a two-word, nine-letter phrase we all hear and use every day.

No Problem.

It seems to have become the response of choice to the venerable “Thank you,” supplanting  even the stalwart “You’re Welcome,” for which I advocated the eradication of in another post.

The phrase has become the darling of service providers and colleagues alike across the nation, and maybe even the world. The British “no worries” presents a similar danger.

You know the deal. You place your order, the server brings the food to you, you present them with a very sincere, “Thank You,” and they reply, often in the key of monotone, with: “No Problem.”

I know it’s no problem, you lazy carcass. It’s your job. Plus, all you did was walk three feet over to the French fry machine to shovel a bunch of greasy, salted potato sticks into a cardboard holder. How could that have been a problem? If there had been problems, then maybe you really have problems.

Maybe what you’re really trying to tell me is that, if it had been a problem, it’s possible that you wouldn’t have completed the task? Or, maybe you would’ve let me know how much of a problem it really was. Frankly, if it was a problem, I really don’t care. Keep me out of that part.

Again, I really don’t think any response is necessary here. I ordered, you helped me, you gave me my food, I paid you, and we’re even.

But if you really must say something, give me a good old, “My Pleasure.”

You're (Not) Welcome

OK. Here it is. Let’s just get rid of the response, “You’re welcome.” No preface, no profound exposition. It’s just that simple.

Why? Think about it. 

I hold the door open for some woman. It’s pouring rain and freezing cold, but I wait, go out of my way to perform this chivalrous deed. Genuinely appreciative, she tosses me a warm, hearty smile and a vociferous, “Thank you so much!”

That’s all that is necessary. I performed a deed, and you re-payed it in the best way you could given time and situational constraints. I don’t need to then pay you back for that repay.

I mean, if I go buy a pair of new shoes, I give the cashier money of some form, he gives me the shoes, and the transaction is done. I am not obligated to give the store or that cashier anything in return for that service, except maybe a Thank You.

Same concept here folks. Plus, You’re Welcome has the potential to get us all caught in some nasty feedback loop of giggling niceties. See this short play:

Party 1 has performed a good deed for Party 2.
Party 2: Thank You
Party 1: You’re Welcome
Party 2: (thinking, what should I say now) Um, thank you, uh, for saying you’re welcome (a nervous giggle occurs)
Party 1: Oh, you’re very welcome (tee hee hee, another giggle, just not as nervous)
Party 2: Thank you (hahahaaha)

Stop it! See what I mean?

Now, I’m not advocating eradicating the phrase completely from our lexicon. It’s still viable when you want to offer something to someone:

Party 1: Hey man, can I borrow this can of shaving cream?
Party 2: You’re welcome to it, bro!

Do a quick web search regarding etymology, and it becomes quite clear that no one really knows how You’re Welcome was chosen as a response the powerful Thank You.

So, let’s do ourselves a favor and stop the madness!
Are you with me? Thank you.

You’re welcome…to reply!

Freedom Protects Even Really Bad Songs

By now, I’m sure many of you heard about Greta Hawkins, a principal at PS90 in Brooklyn, NY who banned students from singing Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” during a kindergarten graduation ceremony.

When I first read about this, my initial reaction was shock, with just a pinch of anger. The official line from school officials is that the lyrics are “too grown-up” for these youngsters. Unofficially, the report states, Hawkins was afraid that the song might offend people from other cultures.

I’ve hated this song for a long time. Written in 1984, it gets recycled every time there’s some event or incident for which the country needs to band together, like the Gulf War or the events of 9/11. And it certainly has that redneckish, “love it or leave it” vibe. But I never really listened to the words, so I decided to actually check out the lyrics:

God Bless The USA

by Lee Greenwood
If tomorrow all the things were gone,
I’d worked for all my life.
And I had to start again,
with just my children and my wife.
I’d thank my lucky stars, to be livin here today.
‘Cause the flag still stands for freedom,
and they can’t take that away.
And I’m proud to be an American,
where at least I know I’m free.
And I wont forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.
And I gladly stand up,
next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,
God bless the USA.
From the lakes of Minnesota, to the hills of Tennessee.
Across the plains of Texas, From sea to shining sea.
From Detroit down to Houston, and New York to L.A.
Well there’s pride in every American heart,
and its time we stand and say.
That I’m proud to be an American,
where at least I know I’m free.
And I wont forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.
And I gladly stand up,
next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,
God bless the USA.
And I’m proud to be and American,
where at least I know I’m free.
And I wont forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.
And I gladly stand up,
next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,
God bless the USA.

After reading it, I agree with Hawkins; it is offensive. But not because of its overt national pride, or some covert, hidden message promoting the “We’re No. 1” sentiment that was prevalent at the time. Think Rocky IV or the 1980 Olympic Hockey Team.

It’s just a really bad song, isn’t it? Trite, familiar lyrics that you could swear you heard somewhere else.  “Sea to shining sea” ring a bell? The calling out of cities is very Guthrie, except it’s not.

I know what you’re saying. Write a better song, you big dope! My answer is, I don’t have to. There are songs that are perfectly better, more patriotic, and more indicative of this nation’s ideals, like the “Star-Spangled Banner,” “This Land Is Your Land,” “America the Beautiful,” or “God Bless America.” Heck, I’d even take “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

But don’t invent a hypersensitivity that really may not exist. Frankly, there’s nothing wrong with a song that says God Bless the USA, as long as there’s no harmful subtext there. And if there if is, I can’t find it.

If we’re going to ban little kids from singing this song, let’s ban it for the right reason: it just stinks. Are you with me?

Don’t Be That Dude: Ogling Girls

Hey man. C’mon over here. I just want to have a little chat with you.

Huh?

Nothing bad, just a bit of friendly advice.

Yeah, don’t be that dude.

Whaddya mean, what do I mean?

OK. That girl over there, she can’t be more than 24, she’s barely out of college. You turned 52 last week, remember? We went out drinking and had a blast, and you were crying to me about how much you love your wife, and two daughters? Your daughters. One of them will be going to college next year, right?

But you’ve been staring at that girl the whole train ride. Now everyone on the train is creeped out by you. Even me, and I’m your bud.

Listen, I’m realistic. I’m not telling you not to look. I know how futile that would be. But when you start drooling on your iPad, it’s time close your mouth, blink your eyes, and snap your brain back into the world of reality. I mean, do you think that girl would go for you? And, let’s say that the remote, .000001 percent chance comes true, you have the guts to do anything?

What I’m trying to say is, remember when we were her age, how we used to go to the bar, and see dudes like that all over. Remember how much we used to laugh at that dude? Well, now there’s other dudes laughing at you, dude!

You’re becoming that dude.

Dude, don’t be that dude. OK?

Living in An LOL-Hole

The whole world is crazy, giddy I dare say, with LOL. We love that acronym, and when you think about it, it’s really great. But we need to take back the meaning, Laughing Out Loud. Better yet, we need to restore meaning to this most venerable three-letter guffaw by stopping its abuse.

I know what you’re saying; “Abuse? I don’t abuse it.” Yes you do. We’re all guilty.

Think about it. How many times a day, during work or something, do you find yourself chatting on Facebook, or IMing someone about current events? You slide a pretty decent joke, or some witty commentary into the exchange, and all you get back is, “LOL.”

That wouldn’t be so bad, but the other person is sitting right across from you, and they clearly are not “LOL-ing.”

I don’t know about you, but most of the times when I use LOL, I’m not even smiling, let alone laughing out loud. And if I’m genuinely laughing, I’m probably not thinking about writing anything. Let me enjoy my laugh.

Still don’t believe me? OK, wise guy. How many times have you written, “I’m actually laughing out loud over here,” when someone rips off a good one during an IM session? Thought so! What do you think that means? It’s an acknowledgement of how diluted, and in many cases false, LOL has become.

LOL has really come to mean, “I know that was a joke, it was mildly funny, now leave me alone.”

It’s a shame, really. It’s this dance we dance with our fancy acronyms. ROFL, LMAO, and the grand ROFLMAO fall under the same sad abuse.

But all is not lost. We can take them back. Let’s drag these acronyms, and ourselves, out of this LOL Hellhole, by only using LOL when we’re actually Laughing Out Loud. Oh, and please stop saying LOL in casual conversation. It’s unnecessary. We must know when to separate computer speak from actual conversation. Is everyone with me?