Tonight, while I was helping prepare our once-a-month family dinner, my nephew, Jesse, came in to tell me about some news stories he's heard about at school. Immediately, I braced myself.
"Dude, you know what this tastes like?"
Jesse is 15 or 16. I remember very well what most young people that age consider to be newsworthy. At that age, I was interested in the Soviet Union, Ronald Reagan, and Michael Jackson. (Back then, Jacko was in the papers nearly every week.) The other kids that went to school with me, their idea of news was along the lines of "Did you hear about that tramp, Tracy? She was caught with some peanut butter and, like, gag me with a spoon!" You get the idea.
Apparently, a woman went to the grocery store and accepted a yogurt sample from an employee. After tasting it, she complains to the management that it tastes like semen. "Whoa," I said. "Already there is so much that is wrong with that story I can't begin to tell you." Jesse continues, telling me that she complained to the management about the taste of semen in the yogurt. They told her that it was Greek and that people like it that way.
"Actually, that would be French."
At that point, I turned and said as an aside to my brother, "Actually, that would be French."
Click on the link to go to the MSNBC story, which isn't nearly as entertaining as the comments that followed it.
"I was called by the hotel next door, warning me about these people. They are violent and abusive, among other things, and we don't want people like that for guests. So, could you please ..." and I made shooing gestures towards the people.
Don't you love coming in on the action?
Looky what I found!
As some of you know, I'm the night manager at an economy (NOT budget) hotel in Coeur d'Alene, ID. My primary responsibility is the safety and security of the hotel during the graveyard shift. I do it every evening; I don't get any nights off. Last night, around midnight, my front door buzzer starts blowing up. I quickly throw on my shorts and t-shirt and run upstairs, thinking that there is a potential guest at the door. It wasn't. It was a policeman. Oh, and five other police cars. I'm thinking "Oh, great. What NOW???" because I've had to call the cops two or three times over the last two months.
Having the boys in blue at your front door with their lights all ablaze is not great advertising for any hotel. Especially at this frequency. And SIX cars? Holy crap!
I open the door and he starts, literally, pushing past me to get into the lobby. I stand in front of him, slightly indignant. He may be a police officer, but he owes me an explanation why he's at my door.
"Excuse me, officer. Is there something I can help you with?"
He looks at me, slightly confused, and says that I called for police support. (Um, I can vouch that this poor fellow isn't really the brightest bulb in the lamp.You know the type - as soon as they open their mouths, their level of intelligence is so glaringly low that Hollywood couldn't have hidden it with computerized special effects.)
"No. I'm the night manager and I didn't call anybody. Did one of my guests call you?"
One of the other cops yells something in the parking lot and he turns around to look. He abruptly walks off to get in his car. "Sorry to bother you," he shouts as he gets into his car. All of them speed off. Well, thank goodness it had nothing to do with my property.
Yet.
About a half hour later, my front door buzzer is blowing up AGAIN. I'm like, WTF is it with people tonight?
This time, it's a young black kid. I open the door and can tell he's a little agitated.
"Do you need a room for the evening?"
"Yes. Do you have doubles?" he asks. He is standing ramrod straight, fidgets, and won't look me in the eye.
This is where I need to learn to trust my gut response, especially after working in the prison system in Texas. A person becomes highly sensitized to odd behavior in that kind of environment. But we are taught in this country that we shouldn't make snap decisions about people, which I agree with. However, we are not taught how to make a distinction between a snap decision and recognizing danger signals.
I told him yes, we did have rooms like that available. He tells me he'll need two rooms and he's going to get the rest of his party. He leaves and I wait in the lobby for about ten minutes for him to return. I almost gave up on him coming back when I get a phone call from the hotel next door to me.
"Have you had a group of black people show up to rent any rooms?"
I look out the window. "They just drove up."
The desk clerk on the other end says "Don't rent any rooms to them. They are violent and are very high on drugs. We just had the police come and evict them. We saw them driving in your direction and wanted to give you a heads up. But don't tell them that we called you because we don't want them coming back and causing more trouble."
Oh great. And now the kid is knocking on the front door, wanting in and a van full of his posse (I counted at least seven people) is parked in our portico.
"No problem. I'll tell them I got a call from the police warning me about them."
I hang up the phone and go to answer the door. Now there is a policeman standing behind the kid.
I open the door and the kid starts frantically yelling at me. I look at the officer and ask if I can speak to him privately for a minute. He comes in and this is what I tell him:
"I was called by the hotel next door, warning me about these people. They are violent and abusive, among other things, and we don't want people like that for guests. So, could you please ..." and I made shooing gestures towards the people.
He actually grinned at me. "Hey, no problem," and walks out the door. I scuttled my fat ass back behind the counter - in case shots got fired. It got loud and abrasive outside for a few minutes but quieted down. I saw the van drive off. I took a deep breath and thanked my lucky stars. Disaster averted.
I couldn't sleep all night, worried that they might come back and break windows, smash guests cars, or who knows what. Thankfully they didn't so, now, at 8am, I might be able to get a couple hours of sleep.
A few weeks back, I posted a conversation that I had with a guest at my hotel who I referred to as "Left For Dead" (LFD), because they had been beaten to the point of being unrecognizable and left to die on the side of the road. LFD has been a regular guest since my tenure here as the night manager but had been absent for the last several weeks. I've been curious about their situation.
I found out that LFD stayed with us last night. I was just coming on-shift and we crossed paths. LFD is doing well, I'm happy to say, and preparing for trial against their attackers.
In our conversation, I happened to mention that I was feeling a little homesick for Seattle. LFD said "Just remember what you told me," and proceeded to instruct me in the same method of stress relief I had coached them on many weeks ago. To say the least, I was flabbergasted.
"You remembered all that?" I asked.
"Oh, absolutely," said LFD. "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be able to sleep most nights."
I don't know about you, but it's not very often I get feedback from people telling me how much I've helped them. It was touching to know that I had helped LFD in a meaningful fashion. I almost started crying.
LFD says "I would hug you, but I know you are a manager and that wouldn't be appropriate."
"A hug? You've done better than give me a hug. You've given me a sense of worth when I needed it most."
About fifteen minutes ago, a drunk came through the lobby of my hotel, wanting a room. It started out as a regular check-in until I misspoke. I asked him a second time why he was going to be staying with us.
Yes, he told me right up as he was coming through the front door that his alternator was out on his car. But when you are in this kind of service business, sometimes things become automatic. So, when I got to the part of his check-in where we normally ask why they are staying with us, of course I asked. Immediately, I realized I made a mistake and was about to joke about it, like I normally do. But he flew off the handle, yelling at me.
"Shit! You don't listen worth a damn, do you?!? Did you go to college?"
"No, I didn't," I said.
"Yeah, well it shows."
What I'm thinking is that I've done pretty damn well for myself, having not gone to college, you redneck- drunken- fucking-jerk-spazoid-inbred-mongrel.
Then, I had to ask him what state his license plates were registered. He starts waving his driver's license in my face, quite belligerently, shouting "Can't you see? Can't you see? You really are an idiot, aren't you?" Fact of the matter is that I see lots of Idaho licenses from people that have plates from Montana, Washington State, even Oregon.
At this point in time, I'm ready to kick him out. I'm not paid to be abused, belittled, and insulted. There is a point where my ability to endure someone else's shortcomings collides with my sense of self-esteem. Oh, I know that my bosses would say that it's just part of the job and that I need to be nice to the guest, but the guest just crossed a line with me. When I was a bartender, I've 86'd people for this kind of behavior. Fuck the guest.
A couple of nights ago, we had something called a "110% Meeting" at work. The idea is that giving 100% is just doing our jobs. But, of course, that's not enough. We are supposed to go above and beyond (even though we don't have any true incentive to do so). Basically, like many service jobs out there, we are supposed to allow the guests to run us around and walk all over us, oh, and if need be, go lay down on the traintracks because they come so far before our own interests. Can I hear a big "SCREW THAT"? This guy is a prime example of why I think customer service is so fucked up in the US.
I have a friend who has been checking groceries at a major supermarket for many, many, years. Admittedly, his stories are much more sordid, nauseating, and unbelievable than what happened to me tonight. When I hear him talking about his own experiences, all it does is cement in my mind how I feel about customers/guests/clients. They aren't always right and it's wrong to allow them to behave badly towards the service agents that are trying to assist them. Service agents should never put up with it. I say call them out on their bad behavior. If they want to act like 4-year olds having a tantrum, I say show them the corner and send them to time out. If that doesn't work, show them the door.
I told you. I'm pissed.
Be nice to your desk clerks, waiters, taxi drivers, etc. Most of us really are trying to do a good job for you.
I guess this wasn't really a conversation as much as it was just a short exchange. Even so, it's generated a lot of thoughts on my part.
I was standing in the meat section of Albertson's today when I saw some beef marrow bones, which have always intrigued me. There was a meat cutter a few feet away, putting new product on the shelves. I said, "Hi, I see you have marrow for sale. Have you ever had roast marrow before?"
He says, "Oh, those are just to give to dogs. That's all they're for." He didn't even look at me while he was saying it. I bit my tongue, literally, and went to shop for other items.
And here is where I start to have my meltdown. If you don't know what I'm asking, just say so. I highly respect this phrase: "I don't know." It's efficient. It's accurate. And most of all, it's honest. Yeah, big fan.
Myself, if someone asks me a question and I don't know the answer, I start asking questions. I might not know the answer, but I might know someone that does. Or, even better - for me - I might learn something.
We are living in exciting culinary times in the United States. Many of us that are cooks and foodies are rediscovering dishes that used to be considered delicacies and somehow fell out of favor to the point of extinction, like eating bone marrow. Marrow bones are roasted in the oven till browned and then sprinkled with coarse salt. In older days it was served with toast. You used your marrow fork (yes, there were even special forks for eating marrow), insert it into the bone, twist, and pull out the softened, gelatinous marrow and spread it like jelly on the toast points.
BTW, they are also called "soup bones". Guess why?
All I wanted to know was if this meatman had ever had marrow and did he enjoy it.
Do I expect too much from people? You might be saying, "Well, he's only a meat cutter. Why should he know anything about marrow?" Because he's expected to know the product he's selling.
C'mon! Have some fuckin' interest in your profession!
A conversation with someone I work with prompted me to revisit this subject, but at greater length.
Have you ever wondered why men only live a few years, compared to some of the so-called "lower" animals? My mother's birds are going to outlive her by many years, maybe even decades. Even trees live several hundred and even thousands of years. Doesn't seem quite fair, does it? I used to say this, myself. When you think about it, how damn egotistical is that point of view? What makes us so special?
Let's just pretend that men routinely live 500 years, instead of 70 or 80. Tell me, what would you, yourself, do differently? Do you think that you'd spend more time with your family? You'd work less and play more? You'd go visit the aurora borealis or climb a mountain?
I don't think so. I think you'd be living exactly how you are right now. Sitting in front of your computer, your TV, your desk. Putting off getting married, putting off visiting your grandmother, putting off going to school, putting off having children.
We all tell ourselves, "There's always time." It's tomorrow, next week, next month, next year. We tell ourselves - no, we LIE to ourselves that there is plenty of time to live our lives. Suddenly, we find out that we're too old to have children because we're well past our reproductive years. Or our bodies have broken down so much that we could never climb that mountain. Our eyesight has degraded to the point where we can't even appreciate the stars in the sky. All because we put off enjoying the pleasures life offers us.
"Fear is the mind killer." Dune
I'm sure at least some of this orginates with fear. Fear causes paralysis.
Which of your fears screw you up? Fear of growing up or growing old? Fear of disapproval? Fear of missing out on something? Something else?
Aha. Suddenly I realize my own fear: fear of failure.
"You do it to yourself, just you, and that's what really hurts." Radiohead
Excuses, excuses, excuses. That's what fears are. It's what we tell ourselves to keep ourselves stuck. Nobody does it to us; we do it to ourselves and we do an ingenious job of convincing ourselves that our problems are all external. We had nothing to do with either causing ourselves to be stuck or staying that way. It's the rich. It's the poor. It's the government. It's my health. It's my family situation. It's my age. It's my finances. It's the illegal immigrants. It's my this, it's my that, it's my -OH, SHUT UP.
It's your Own Damn Fault.
My mother called me out on this over Christmas dinner. Thank goodness she did, too. I had become so mired in my own bullshit that I couldn’t see the way out. I needed someone to slap some cold water in my face. I hope you have someone in your life that cares enough to do the same thing.
"Live, live, live!!!" Rosalind Russell as Auntie Mame
Artists have been saying this for ages in books, movies, and other media: Get up and live!
There is a book for young adults, called "Tuck Everlasting". In it, the female protagonist has the opportunity to become immortal. One of the already immortal characters tells her this: "It isn't death that you should be afraid of. What you should fear is the life not fully lived." (My paraphrase. Italics mine.) In the end, she chooses to remain mortal.
"A life lived in fear is a life only half-lived." Strictly Ballroom
In the movie adaptation of "The Lord of The Rings", Elrond's daughter, Arwen, had to make this same decision. Would she continue in the way of the Elves, immortal and aloof, living as children without concern for time, and, ultimately, living meaningless lives? Or would she choose to love who she would love, even if it meant she was calling down her own doom upon herself?
"I choose a mortal life," she says to her beloved. You go, girl.
One final example. Harry Potter, in “The Sorcerer’s Stone”, finds the Mirror of Erised, which J.K. Rowling used as a metaphor for television. It shows the viewer their deepest and most desperate desires. Dumbledore explains to Harry that the Mirror “holds neither knowledge or truth” and that men had “wasted away in front of it, even gone mad”. He ends his speech with wise advice: “It does not do to dwell on dreams ... and forget to live.”
OK, I lied. One more example, but of someone who did it right: the one and only, Auntie Mame.
"Give me hope, help to cope with this heavy load, trying to touch and reach you with heart and soul."
George Harrison
Maybe you have a lack of faith in the future of mankind. I can relate, believe me. With all the problems we have, who wouldn’t be having a crisis of faith?
Don't complicate it. It's just another form of self-sabotage.
Did you know that there are some professions that create with a view to the future and save not a sip for the present or the past? The one I’m thinking of in particular is winemaking. There are some wines being bottled today that won't be ready for 40 years. The people who will enjoy the wine bottled this last season are only being born today.
Consider this animated story I found on YouTube. It’s in three parts and each segment is about ten minutes long. It's a Canadian program called "The Man Who Planted Trees".
If you have children, this is a must-see for them.
The man in this story grew an entire forest without thought of fame or fortune. He had faith in his mission and took small, steady, consistent actions every single day of his life. The result is that countless numbers of people benefitted from his generosity of spirit.
"If you don't find a purpose for your own life, someone else will gladly make one for you." Anonymous
Are you just wasting air and food? Does your life mean anything - anything at all? Mao Tse Tung, the deceased leader of Communist China, is credited with saying to an aide: "It is of no benefit for that man to live and it is no loss if he dies." In other words, Mao declared someone to be a worthless person. What can be said about your life?
It's not the length of the life you have that's important. It's what you did with it while you had it.
"I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing, I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu. And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter, And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying. An' he said: "Some day, I hope you get the chance to live like you were dyin'." Tim McGraw
A guest came in tonight that had been beaten and left for dead on the side of the road several months back. While at my counter during check-in, Guest (in the interest of privacy and safety, I am omitting the name of said guest), while relating issues regarding the upcoming trial, started exhibiting what seemed to be symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) . Guest started having trouble breathing, eyes were wide in terror, body began to hunch over.
"Look at me. Breathe," I said calmly. "Stretch your arms high and breathe again. Keep looking at me. Do you trust me?"
"Yes, you're a very nice person," Guest says.
"Thank you. Now, ask yourself, 'are you in danger right now?'" Guest starts to get wide-eyed again. I firmly pat Guest's hands on my desktop. "BE HERE RIGHT NOW. Are you in danger, right NOW?"
I explain that while the doctors did a great job fixing Guest's body (Guest nearly died five times on the way to the hospital that night), sometimes they forget to tell the patient that the soul needs attention in order to heal. The immediate breathlessness and anxiety Guest experienced can be remedied by focusing on the five senses. What do I feel? What do I smell? What do I hear? Over and over again. Assess your surroundings, is it really immediate danger you are getting warnings about? Or is it your imagination getting away with you?
Guest begins to cry a little and starts to tell me a little more about the incident, which is just harrowing. I recommend Guest seek out a counselor that specializes in severe trauma, ASAP. I also explained a quick-fix self-hypnosis technique that can help to calm the mind.
Honestly, it's neither my job nor my place to provide counseling. When I was in bartender training, that's one of the first things you learn - the Hollywood idea that the bartender can be your therapist is WRONG. However, what are you supposed to do when they are breaking down in front of you?
I don't want this blog to be too serious (in case the jpgs of Homer Simpson and pimps didn't tell you that in the first place). So, from time to time, I'm going to include little vignettes of my life. Like this one!
Last night I went to relieve the desk clerk where I work. He's a nice kid, about 21 or so, engaged to be married in a year. While we were talking shop and he was closing his shift, I saw some strange multi-colored-pillowy-fringey things behind him on the desk.
Me: "Oh, hey. What's that behind you on the desk?"
"Those?" He walks back, picks one up and puts his hand inside it like a puppet. "I'm getting ready to wrap these to put under the tree as gift decorations."
"You're making fake gifts? For decorations? Why?"
"Well, my fiance and her mother ..." That's when it hit me and I interrupted him.
"You got suckered into a girl project!" I exclaimed.
"What? No! I ..."
"You got suckered! You got suckered!" I was literally dancing a little jig in the lobby and laughing my ass off.
He just stood there staring at me, lips pressed tightly together.
This evening, a nice young cowboy dressed in t-shirt, jeans, and hat came to stay at the hotel.
