Once again, I find myself browsing through magazines that are almost two months old and wishing I had been able to comment on an article in a timely fashion. But then again, the closest I ever am to having my fashion be timely is when I'm wearing something so old that it has come back into style.
That said, I draw your attention to an article in Time by Barbara Kiviat (a name that is actually an anagram for "via a rabbit ark") that is part of the cover feature, "10 Ideas That are Changing the World." Barbara's contribution is Idea #2: "The End of Customer Service."
Ms Kiviat chronicles the demise of customer service (and the rise of self-service) starting with the 1916 opening of the first Piggly Wiggly store in Memphis. Until that momentous event, people "shopped" for groceries by telling the clerk what they wanted and waiting for him or her to fetch it. (Remember Mr. Olsen in Little House on the Prairie?) The idea of customers walking along aisles of foodstuffs, filling a cart or basket, and paying for it on the way out of the store was so revolutionary at the time that Clarence Saunders actually applied for a patent.
The "self-serving store" was just the beginning of an avalanche of do-it-yourself developments: Self-service gas pumps, ATMs, ringing up our own purchases at Wal-Mart, buying our own plane tickets at a kiosk or on the Internet, ad nauseum.
But none of this was what I thought the article was going to be about when I read its title. When I saw "The End of Customer Service," I thought, "You got that right, sister! Nobody knows how to serve the customer anymore. Why, Monday night I went to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and the dermatologically-challenged, zoned-out child behind the counter didn't even ask me if I wanted my popcorn floating in butter-like substance. He didn't seem to care whether I wanted to spend "just 90 cents more" to also get 30-cents' worth of shriveled grapes covered with brown wax.
And, yes, I realize that here in the pampered suburbs having the concession stand employee put the butter-like substance on your popcorn for you is a soon-to-be quaint custom of the near-past. That's why I don't go to movies at the Mall of America anymore: you dispense your own yellow oil...onto a full bag of popcorn...meaning that only the top third of the bag contents gets soaked. Barbaric!
Next question: how many of us self-diagnose our illnesses by looking things up on the Internet? Now, there's a grand idea. From the same people who bring you the true stories of $300 cookie recipes and multi-million-dollar giveaways from Nigeria...health care!
Please excuse me...I would write more on this topic, but I've got to pull a tooth that's been bothering me...and then take out this useless appendix. Now, where did I put my scalpel?
I was reading an article about actor Chris Noth in Entertainment Weekly ("The Next Big Thing" by Vanessa Juarez) and stopped cold in the penultimate paragraph. Mr. Noth was semi-whining about his loss of anonymity in New York City--seeing as how he's been in not-one-but-two versions of the TV behemoth, Law & Order, and a little HBO project on both the home and silver screens, Sex and the City:
- "I have been walking these streets and taking subways all of my adult life, and [before] I was just another face in the crowd," he says. "It's pretty annoying to be suddenly looked at as some exotic bird in the zoo." That could be why Noth and Wilson are still discussing whether to raise their newborn son, Orion, in New York City or L.A.
I probably know what you're thinking. You're probably thinking I was stopped in mid-read because I couldn't believe the guy was annoyed by becoming such a successful actor that people recognize him on the street. "Oh, poor, poor, pitiful fella! Hey, Sir Lawrence, you chose to put yourself out there, so suck it up and take the fame along with the fortune...would that I had your problem, crybaby."
You're probably wrong.
What stopped me in my tracks was the thought, "Orion?" Seriously, naming the kid Orion has made your choice of locales not only obvious but vital. You absolutely must move to Los Angeles. You put a kid named Orion on the streets of NYC and you might as well shave his head and paint a target on it. What were you thinking?
If you wanted to stay in New York, you should have named your son Vinny or Butch or even Edwardo...but Orion? Get yourself to the Left Coast where your precious little Orion can play in the sand with Bambi and Neptune and Grape-Nuts.
Speaking of earworms -- and we were, as of the latest post: "I got the music in me" of 5/12/08 -- this morning was the second day in a row I woke up with Harry Nilsson's "Driving Along" driving through my brain.
I suppose that's not such a noteworthy event -- other than whining about the sheer monotony of it all -- except that this morning's excursion into mental diversion quickly became a two-song medley of "Driving Along" and a song by the Lost Dogs, "Up in the Morning."
I suppose that's not such a noteworthy event -- the two songs share a similar musical feel and even some lyrical content -- except that it got me to wondering: Is there anyone else on Planet Earth who could even be susceptible to this particular pairing pounding persistently in his or her head? Is there anyone other than Yours Truly who is even aware of the existence of two non-radio tunes from Nilsson Schmilsson and The Green Room Serenade, Part One? Does anyone else have my background in 70's pop and 90's contemporary Christian? Do I share musical tastes and influences with any other individual in the Known Universe?
Am I totally unique? Of course, some would put it pessimistically: Am I absolutely weird?
All of a sudden, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
Do you ever wake up in the morning with a song running through your brain? I mean really running...wearing commando boots and lifting its knees high. And it continues running all through your morning routine. It's called an earworm, and the only practical way to get it to stop running...or at least slow down to a comfortable walk...is to replace it with something else.
And the
something else must be non-musical in nature. I've tried to replace my morning earworm with a different song, but I always end up going back to the original tune.
For instance, last Thursday I woke up with the theme to the cartoon Spider-man TV show from the---what...late 60's
/early 70's?--continuously cycling through my head: "Spider-man, Spider-man, does whatever a spider can; spins a web any size; catches thieves just like flies. Look out! Here comes the Spider-man."
So, in an effort to switch stations, I started singing a different song to myself: "Well the south side of Chicago is the baddest part of town, and if you go down there you better just beware of a man named Leroy Brown. Is he strong? Listen bud, he's got radioactive blood. Can he swing from a web? Take a look---AUGH!"
Having been a disc jockey for a few years, and having grown up glued to a television, and having a lifetime of church singing under my belt, I've got an almost limitless supply of possible earworms filed away in my data banks. And let me tell you, Mr. Maestro Man, it is definitely random access memory. Why in the name of all that is right and good did I wake up this morning humming "rock the boat; don't rock the boat baby; rock the boat; don't tip the boat over"?
Blast! Now I'm also going to go to sleep singing the nasty thing to myself!
Beloved has been in Indiana doing a few concerts. I flew out to join her on Thursday and learned some things along the way:
- The x-ray machines that you pass your carry-on stuph through in order to be given the privilege of nestling in the armpit of an imperfect stranger have a Selective Transport feature. (As in "Mr. Spock, meet me in the transporter room," and "Ready to beam to the surface.") My stuph entered one end of the machine with a ziplock bag of anti-perspirant gel and aftershave and exited the other end without said ziplock bag. [Please note: the anti-perspirant gel and aftershave were two separate items, though there might be a market for such a multitasking substance. Just in case, I have already copyrighted the term Dry-N-Smelly for Face-N-Pits.]
- Young men who live in Chicago but work in Minneapolis get very talkative and jittery when the flight is a half-hour late and they've got a date with a potential mate who looks great but probably won't wait to eat the food on her plate.
- According to the chili's too establishment in the O'Hare airport, chipotle -- in the context of Chipotle Bleau Cheese Bacon Burger -- is a Spanish word that means "will cauterize your soft palate and leave your lips tender and puffy." (Who needs collagen?)
- No matter how slick you feel calling on your cell phone from Chicago to renew your library book in Minnesota, the feeling drains away when the robo-voice tells you it can't renew your book because someone else wants it.
- Being five minutes late for a flight is the same as being five hours late for a flight, except when you're five hours late, you don't have to wait as long for the next availability.
- Taking off from Chicago at night can be visually impressive, but landing in Fort Wayne is more emotionally satisfying.
I had a Fairly Decent Time this weekend. (Not that anyone asked, but I feel it's my duty to make some kind of post here.) I drove to Decorah, Iowa, Friday afternoon in order to attend a concert by the two freshmen choirs of Luther College. The youngest fruit of my loins, KayJay, is in the 50% of said choirs composed of those of the female persuasion.
Right away, I suppose I'm in trouble with the college's Protectors Of Omnipresent Political-Correctness (POOP-C) for calling them freshmen choirs. I'm sure they would prefer freshpersons choirs, but even POOP-C recognizes that as the awkward mangling of English that it is. I'm thinking they're actually called first-years instead of freshmen. I'm also thinking I may have to urlp.
When last I mentioned a trek to the Home of the Norse (in the now-dormant MySpace version of Almost the Truth) I was grousing about how POOP-C had done major reconstructive surgery on some of the Christmas hymns that the audience was asked to sing: they changed any lyrics alluding to masculinity (you know, those evil words like mankind) into non-gendered weasel words. ("Pleased as man with us to dwell; Jesus, our Emmanuel.") This time around, all was fine...except for this one song KayJay's choir sang, "The Womanly Song of God." Owing to the fact that 87% of the so-called lyric consisted of doot-doo-dee-doot-dah, I was having a hard time understanding 1) what was so womanly about this song, other than the fact that young women were singing it; and 2) what was so godly about it?
And then the whole Billy Jean King vibe broke loose and the choir sang the line "I am the God of a thousand names. Why can't one of them be Women Singing?"
Well, right off the top of my head, I'd answer by saying, "Maybe because Women Singing isn't a name at all, unless you belong to that North American tribe that gives people nicknames like Dances With Wolves and Scarfaced Booger-Eater."
But seriously, it was a wonderful concert and I practically burst with excitement when the director announced that the women's choir was changing its name from Pike Kor to Aurora.
HA! Just kidding!
No...they really are changing their name...I was kidding about being excited about it.
During my years as a youth pastor/minister/slave, I had my share of triumphs: Plenty of moments when everything fell into place in a way that only God could have orchestrated. But then there were times when my mouth had a mind of its own...and didn't use it.
The incident I'm thinking of today, and winner of my personal Most Embarrassing Moment in Ministry Award, took place at a church camp in Southern Indiana in the latter part of the previous century. The senior high youth group to which I was youth pastor/minister/slave had spent all weekend at the camp...had it all to ourselves...having a great time growing in our relationships with each other and with God.
It was early Sunday afternoon. We'd had a great lunch and were ready to pack up and go home, but first we gathered in a large room for a closing prayer circle. Normal procedure for prayer circles is to stand in a---um---circle, holding hands. One person starts by saying a short prayer, gently squeezing the hand of the person next in the circle when done. There is also the option of not praying and just squeezing the next hand to let that person know it's his/her turn. This non-praying option usually results in a wave of hand-squeezing quickly passing around the circle until it gets back to the adult-type person designated to be the final pray-er.
This time was different, though. Almost every one of the students had at least a sentence or two of thanks or praise or supplication, and the emotional level of the room kept increasing as we prayed our way around the circle.
It finally came around to me, the beloved leader of the pack, to offer the final prayer of our weekend of spiritual retreat and rejuvenation. I was wanting to thank God that we had a faith that was worth passing on to others...but what actually came out of my mouth was, "Thank you that we have a faith worth pissing on--"
I stopped cold, thinking, "Um...that didn't sound right." All was quiet until one student to my left made that half-gagging nose-noise of trying to stifle a laugh. That's all it took for the whole room to start rolling on the floor. I tried to spit out some lame concluding sentence to my prayer, said amen, and promptly gasped for air between guffaws.
No matter what kind of Scriptural insights were discovered and shared that weekend, guess what the kids went home and told their parents?
