Ladies and Gentlemen, I have finally been inducted to a very elite group of people. We are 100 million strong. We are vehement and volatile, and we will win. We are football nation!
For the first time ever, I sat in the cathedral of worship and cheered my saints on as they did battle against the forces of evil (otherwise known as Brett Favre). For the first time ever, I understood what it meant to scream and be heard because after all these years the TV still doesn’t listen. I learned about the most powerful man on the field; the TV network guy with the orange gloves that tells everyone when they can and can’t play. I learned that from the 30 yard line everything looks better and make a whole helluva lot more sense than watching a very limited perspective on Fox. I learned why people throw their hearts and souls into this. But most importantly, I’ve learned that I still like the bratwursts at the Giants' stadium better.
So here is me, eating my words. Football is not as slow as it seems on TV. The hits really do seem that hard especially when you hear it from 100 feet up. Those guys work their butts off. And yes, football is fun to watch.
There is something to be said about a stadium full of people all united in a single cause: winning. Whether it be our team or theirs makes no difference. What counts it that we’re there cheering our boys on in fighting the good fight, even if that means grown men to strip down to their purple boxers to prove a point. We’re in it to win it.
At the core, football nation is fundamentally the definition of pure religion. There is absolute devotion. There are a set of beliefs and practices that are agreed upon by a number of people. And the groups of adherers practice the faith every Sat, Sun, Mon, etc. from now until early February. They never waiver and they don’t switch sides. That would be heresy. And while the sacrilege of worshipping the almighty pigskin rather than the Almighty offends most, you have to realize that football nation is probably more fervent in their prayers than the rest of us. How, you ask? Because while we only devote one day to worship and take the rest of the week off, even in the off-season they’re wishing and hoping that next year perhaps they’ll be the ones to be exalted.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Caveat Emptor: or, How There is No Such Thing as Customer Service
Three examples that there is no such thing as customer service:
1)The JetBlue employee who jettisoned all over a passenger then did the same to himself, out an Airbus 320.
2)The crazy McNugget lady who apparently has been drinking too much of the McDonald’s Kool-Aid, even for their taste.
3)The waiter at my local Mexican who threw a wrapped burrito at a customer because she dare have the audacity to come back and tell him that he got her order wrong.
Excuse me people, but what the f@#$?! Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that in each and everyone one of those cases the person providing and/or asking for the service provoked the other in a manner that they weren’t accustomed causing a chain of events that spiraled out of control. But, whatever happened to the customer is always right? Would it have killed the McDonald’s employees to see that this woman was obviously upset and told her that they would pop some “chicken” nuggets in the microwave, or deep-fryer or whatever they use to reconstitute processed meat-parts that in some countries dogs won’t even eat? They couldn’t just say to her, “Ma’am, we don’t normally serve them at this hour, but if you wait a few minutes I’ll get some from the back freezer for you.” Is it really that hard? Really? Apparently, yes.
Apparently, the people who have decided to enter the service industry don’t really understand what the word service means. To define: to be of use. Meaning, here’s how the equation works: Request + Service = Results. As far as I can tell, no one is being useful on either side of the equation. As far as I can tell, no one wants results; we all want to walk around like sycophantic fools pretending that bad attitudes and a sense of entitlement will actually get us somewhere. Get your heads out of the sand, little ostriches. Puffing up your feathers to seem bigger still gets you eaten on the savannah.
Then who’s at fault, the attitudinal employee or the self-centered douche who refuses to comply to what it means to be a good customer? And the winner is…both! So what if the over-worked waiter gets your $5.50 burrito order wrong, that doesn’t give you a right to storm back into the restaurant like Hurricane Bessie and get up in his grill. Nor does that give the waiter the right to rip the burrito out of her hands, make her another one then throw it in her face all whilst screaming at her in Spanish to (unrepeatable actions).
How about we all take a deep breath? How about we realize that in this lightening-speed, need-it-now society there are still a lot of things that take time? How about we realize that there are still a lot of things that don’t take any time at all? Like a deep breath and a smile.
1)The JetBlue employee who jettisoned all over a passenger then did the same to himself, out an Airbus 320.
2)The crazy McNugget lady who apparently has been drinking too much of the McDonald’s Kool-Aid, even for their taste.
3)The waiter at my local Mexican who threw a wrapped burrito at a customer because she dare have the audacity to come back and tell him that he got her order wrong.
Excuse me people, but what the f@#$?! Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that in each and everyone one of those cases the person providing and/or asking for the service provoked the other in a manner that they weren’t accustomed causing a chain of events that spiraled out of control. But, whatever happened to the customer is always right? Would it have killed the McDonald’s employees to see that this woman was obviously upset and told her that they would pop some “chicken” nuggets in the microwave, or deep-fryer or whatever they use to reconstitute processed meat-parts that in some countries dogs won’t even eat? They couldn’t just say to her, “Ma’am, we don’t normally serve them at this hour, but if you wait a few minutes I’ll get some from the back freezer for you.” Is it really that hard? Really? Apparently, yes.
Apparently, the people who have decided to enter the service industry don’t really understand what the word service means. To define: to be of use. Meaning, here’s how the equation works: Request + Service = Results. As far as I can tell, no one is being useful on either side of the equation. As far as I can tell, no one wants results; we all want to walk around like sycophantic fools pretending that bad attitudes and a sense of entitlement will actually get us somewhere. Get your heads out of the sand, little ostriches. Puffing up your feathers to seem bigger still gets you eaten on the savannah.
Then who’s at fault, the attitudinal employee or the self-centered douche who refuses to comply to what it means to be a good customer? And the winner is…both! So what if the over-worked waiter gets your $5.50 burrito order wrong, that doesn’t give you a right to storm back into the restaurant like Hurricane Bessie and get up in his grill. Nor does that give the waiter the right to rip the burrito out of her hands, make her another one then throw it in her face all whilst screaming at her in Spanish to (unrepeatable actions).
How about we all take a deep breath? How about we realize that in this lightening-speed, need-it-now society there are still a lot of things that take time? How about we realize that there are still a lot of things that don’t take any time at all? Like a deep breath and a smile.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Monday's Musings
Dad always said that, “I am what I am”; ok so that was originally Popeye, but both of them apparently got it right. In an article published today, a study states that our personalities are pretty much set by the time we enter first grade or around the age of seven. Seven? Really? Do you know what I was doing at the age of seven? Picking my nose, telling fart jokes, and stuffing my eighteen month old sister into leftover Christmas boxes. So they’re saying I haven’t changed much in the following decades? Truthfully, probably not and I’d surmise a guess that no one else has either.
On the flipside, do you know what I was when I was seven? I was a voracious reader, an avid talker, a lover of sophistication, a budding musician, a stubborn child, a horse aficionado, a shoe whore, a runner, a dreamer, a listener, a lover of all people and things (except my mother’s zucchini boats which hasn’t exactly changed), a strong-willed, self-determined fighter for the injustices of this world especially if I thought my brother was receiving preferential treatment, but above all I was a writer. A writer, you say. Yes, a writer. And let’s be honest, how many other seven year olds do you know that keep a journal pretty religiously for the next twenty-some-odd years? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Here’s the deal. We are what we are and I’ve always been one to observe nature, be it my own or others, and put pen to paper to take note. I’ve always been one who made books out of cardboard, construction paper and big fat pencils. I still do; I’m just upgrading to pixels powered by lithium batteries. And, in an effort to stretch my skills just a little bit further and do my best to change my personality against all odds I’m instituting Monday’s Musings: a conglomeration of the week’s weirdness, my own and everyone else’s around me. While the inaugural posting is lame by even an old mare’s standards, I promise you they will get better. So check back every Monday (or perhaps Tuesday morning if you’re like my parents and don’t stay up late) to be shocked, awed, amazed or bored.
Until next week, I leave you with my favorite childhood riddle as told to me by dear old Dad. (Nathan and Boydo are not allowed to answer.) First one to answer correctly gets a shout out next week.
~ev
Riddle: You die after which to come upon two doors, one which leads to eternal salvation and the other which leads to eternal damnation. In front of each door you have an angel, one which always tells the truth and one which always lies. You may ask one question to one angel so that you get to that sweet, sweet land of eternal pina coladas and warm-ocean breezes. What is the question that you ask and then which door do you pick?
On the flipside, do you know what I was when I was seven? I was a voracious reader, an avid talker, a lover of sophistication, a budding musician, a stubborn child, a horse aficionado, a shoe whore, a runner, a dreamer, a listener, a lover of all people and things (except my mother’s zucchini boats which hasn’t exactly changed), a strong-willed, self-determined fighter for the injustices of this world especially if I thought my brother was receiving preferential treatment, but above all I was a writer. A writer, you say. Yes, a writer. And let’s be honest, how many other seven year olds do you know that keep a journal pretty religiously for the next twenty-some-odd years? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Here’s the deal. We are what we are and I’ve always been one to observe nature, be it my own or others, and put pen to paper to take note. I’ve always been one who made books out of cardboard, construction paper and big fat pencils. I still do; I’m just upgrading to pixels powered by lithium batteries. And, in an effort to stretch my skills just a little bit further and do my best to change my personality against all odds I’m instituting Monday’s Musings: a conglomeration of the week’s weirdness, my own and everyone else’s around me. While the inaugural posting is lame by even an old mare’s standards, I promise you they will get better. So check back every Monday (or perhaps Tuesday morning if you’re like my parents and don’t stay up late) to be shocked, awed, amazed or bored.
Until next week, I leave you with my favorite childhood riddle as told to me by dear old Dad. (Nathan and Boydo are not allowed to answer.) First one to answer correctly gets a shout out next week.
~ev
Riddle: You die after which to come upon two doors, one which leads to eternal salvation and the other which leads to eternal damnation. In front of each door you have an angel, one which always tells the truth and one which always lies. You may ask one question to one angel so that you get to that sweet, sweet land of eternal pina coladas and warm-ocean breezes. What is the question that you ask and then which door do you pick?
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Decisions
It rained today. I stood on the beach in my trench coat and green wellies watching the waves crash against the shore then watching the raindrops make impressions on the sand in their wake. It had been so long since it had rained and I wanted to be out in it. I tried to remember when that was. A year ago in the same coat, but on a street corner with a man I had just barely met. It wasn't supposed to rain, and we were caught unaware by it. I think it annoyed him. All I could think of was Singin' in the Rain after Gene Kelley left whats-her-name on the doorstep. I hadn't taken myself for a romantic. I suppose we can still surprise ourselves sometimes. We were trying to find a place to eat that was still open which we eventually did. It was the first of many very good meals shared though the only one I remember sharing through precipitation. Perhaps I'm wrong. I'm wrong about a lot of things these days.
It stopped raining today. I walked home from work as the sun set against lingering storm clouds casting against them the most vivid red hue I've seen. I tried to remember if I've ever seen a color like that before. Once, on the way to dinner months later with the same man.
As I walked home today the sun set, the rain washed all the city smells from the street and I thought about time and change and how there are no what-ifs in nature they're only ares.
There are decisions that we make, decisions that alter the course of our lives that were made in moments of haste, anger, fear, frustration, but most often as a method of self-preservation. We human beings are so fragile, so inept, so proud. We think we know what's best for us, what's going to make us happy, what's going to keep us safe. We don't. If we did we would keep our mouths shut; we would be more patient, more loving, more kind. But we don't. So we say things we don't mean, do things we wish we hadn't in the name of our pride, our lack of understanding.
Then comes living with the decision. Believe me, I can do it. I'm strong enough and certainly stubborn enough to plow through my own mess. I don't necessarily want to. The truth of the matter is looking back on it, even if it appears as no time at all has passed, I can see clearly that I made decisions that I didn't really want to make. Decisions that feed into my own fears, my own what-ifs. But if I'd been patient, and had I been kind. But, if, had...
It may be true that there are only ares, there is also was; and was was good. So while the streets may be cleaned and the shore cleared of receding footprints, there was a dinner, there was a sunset, there was a shooting star, and there was a warm October night. It rained today and I remembered was. I will not forget.
It stopped raining today. I walked home from work as the sun set against lingering storm clouds casting against them the most vivid red hue I've seen. I tried to remember if I've ever seen a color like that before. Once, on the way to dinner months later with the same man.
As I walked home today the sun set, the rain washed all the city smells from the street and I thought about time and change and how there are no what-ifs in nature they're only ares.
There are decisions that we make, decisions that alter the course of our lives that were made in moments of haste, anger, fear, frustration, but most often as a method of self-preservation. We human beings are so fragile, so inept, so proud. We think we know what's best for us, what's going to make us happy, what's going to keep us safe. We don't. If we did we would keep our mouths shut; we would be more patient, more loving, more kind. But we don't. So we say things we don't mean, do things we wish we hadn't in the name of our pride, our lack of understanding.
Then comes living with the decision. Believe me, I can do it. I'm strong enough and certainly stubborn enough to plow through my own mess. I don't necessarily want to. The truth of the matter is looking back on it, even if it appears as no time at all has passed, I can see clearly that I made decisions that I didn't really want to make. Decisions that feed into my own fears, my own what-ifs. But if I'd been patient, and had I been kind. But, if, had...
It may be true that there are only ares, there is also was; and was was good. So while the streets may be cleaned and the shore cleared of receding footprints, there was a dinner, there was a sunset, there was a shooting star, and there was a warm October night. It rained today and I remembered was. I will not forget.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
Old Writings from a New Girl
I was digging through some of my old playwriting materials, and I found this stream-of-conscience assignment that I had to do for a class. It is always interesting to look back on our old selves to see how far we've come or haven't. Either way I got a kick out of how intense, for lack of a better word, it was. That aspect of me certainly hasn't changed. Anyway, enjoy...or worry.
Well, what do you think? Here I am all dolled up and nowhere to go. The story of my life. Well mirror, when are you going to talk back? Stupid piece of glass. That Queen got her's to work, didn't she? Or was it that she was schizophrenic and heard herself talking to herself? I think that may be your problem. Are you talking to me? Wait a minute. Ha! Ha! Just kidding. All I'm doing is looking in the mirror, and all I see is Munch, de Kooning, Pollack, Dali, Margritte, Bosch. Hawthorne is distrubing too, but I only see a little of him. I have dreams; ones that haunt. Every night the same dream; the same dream as the old man. I travel; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride. I search, but there is no treasure. The guard tells me to search in my own house under my stove. I do. There is still nothing there. Then the fog rolls in, a bellow drones across the sea, and I see Max riding in his ship. I'm never sure if he is going or coming; if he has played with the Wild Things or is just about to face his fears. I never know. All I see is him sitting on the sea being rocked by that fog that is all-consuming. I cry for Max and the old man sometimes. Mirror, I wake and my pillow is damp with salt. Sometimes, I'll lick my cheek and taste the bitterness of the last night. Why is it that I don't have happy dreams? Why is it mirror, that when I look into you, stare into those eyes that stare back, I drown? The movie set swims and I fall into an abyss that ends up being the eternity of space. I blink; the set focuses and mascara is running down my face. Mirror, what do you think? Do I look okay?
Well, what do you think? Here I am all dolled up and nowhere to go. The story of my life. Well mirror, when are you going to talk back? Stupid piece of glass. That Queen got her's to work, didn't she? Or was it that she was schizophrenic and heard herself talking to herself? I think that may be your problem. Are you talking to me? Wait a minute. Ha! Ha! Just kidding. All I'm doing is looking in the mirror, and all I see is Munch, de Kooning, Pollack, Dali, Margritte, Bosch. Hawthorne is distrubing too, but I only see a little of him. I have dreams; ones that haunt. Every night the same dream; the same dream as the old man. I travel; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride. I search, but there is no treasure. The guard tells me to search in my own house under my stove. I do. There is still nothing there. Then the fog rolls in, a bellow drones across the sea, and I see Max riding in his ship. I'm never sure if he is going or coming; if he has played with the Wild Things or is just about to face his fears. I never know. All I see is him sitting on the sea being rocked by that fog that is all-consuming. I cry for Max and the old man sometimes. Mirror, I wake and my pillow is damp with salt. Sometimes, I'll lick my cheek and taste the bitterness of the last night. Why is it that I don't have happy dreams? Why is it mirror, that when I look into you, stare into those eyes that stare back, I drown? The movie set swims and I fall into an abyss that ends up being the eternity of space. I blink; the set focuses and mascara is running down my face. Mirror, what do you think? Do I look okay?
Monday, June 29, 2009
A Perfect Day
What constitutes a perfect day?
It's different depending on your mood, your circumstance, your location. A perfect day could be watching cartoons in your pajamas all day, or a perfect ice cream cone when it's hot outside. "A" is misleading, as if you can't have more then one; or they all have to live up to the last perfect day that you had. Not true. In order to have a perfect day all you have to do is to be in the moment, ready for whatever adventures may or may not come your way.
Yesterday was a perfect day.
Meeting new friends while listening to French-Afro Funk (is that even a genre?) at Stern Grove, which I didn't even know existed in the City. A little music oasis in an otherwise bustling metropolis.
Relaxing on Ocean Beach with one of the most fabulous people ever while enjoying probably the only day warm enough that I've experienced to be on the beach without a full-on down parka.
Then dinner watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean.
Not too bad way to spend twenty-four hours. In fact, I'll use it as a reminder in the future that no matter how hard things get, no matter how bleak I feel the outlook, there are perfect days waiting to be had; perfect days that are an extraordinary blessing to remind us that we are loved, we are cherished and we are not forgotten.
Too all of you....go out and have a perfect day!!
As an aside...a huge credit to all those who took these pictures because I certainly didn't.
It's different depending on your mood, your circumstance, your location. A perfect day could be watching cartoons in your pajamas all day, or a perfect ice cream cone when it's hot outside. "A" is misleading, as if you can't have more then one; or they all have to live up to the last perfect day that you had. Not true. In order to have a perfect day all you have to do is to be in the moment, ready for whatever adventures may or may not come your way.
Yesterday was a perfect day.
Meeting new friends while listening to French-Afro Funk (is that even a genre?) at Stern Grove, which I didn't even know existed in the City. A little music oasis in an otherwise bustling metropolis.
Relaxing on Ocean Beach with one of the most fabulous people ever while enjoying probably the only day warm enough that I've experienced to be on the beach without a full-on down parka.
Then dinner watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean.Not too bad way to spend twenty-four hours. In fact, I'll use it as a reminder in the future that no matter how hard things get, no matter how bleak I feel the outlook, there are perfect days waiting to be had; perfect days that are an extraordinary blessing to remind us that we are loved, we are cherished and we are not forgotten.Too all of you....go out and have a perfect day!!
As an aside...a huge credit to all those who took these pictures because I certainly didn't.
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