Friday, August 23, 2013

Kings who can't see the noblemen all around

My wife is the principal of an inner-city Catholic elementary school.

 

With the first day of school only five days away, this inspiring little educational community found itself without a custodian.

 

So I was drafted into emergency janitorial service.

 

I spent the weekend cleaning toilets in that steamy building constructed over 100 years ago.

 

Gross.

 

Disgusting.

 

Backbreaking.

 

A menial job.

 

It made me think.

 

Lots of people are full-time potty scrubbers.

 

That's got to be brutal.

 

I've got it easy.

 

Do you appreciate the people that carry out  demeaning tasks?

 

Do you look down on them?

 

I hope not.

 

Ever been to a horse farm?

 

Somebody shovels manure in those stalls.

 

Someone removes entrails from a slaughterhouse at a  Chicago stockyard.

 

There's a cable TV show called "Dirty Jobs".

 

It features a host participating in the grossest and filthiest employment known to man.

 

One segment featured people who  scrape pigeon droppings off  buildings.

 

Despite the fact that you wouldn't get caught dead in one of these jobs, these folks toil away with a certain nobility.

 

The new film release called "The Butler" contains an interesting message.

 

Inside the White House, the most honorable personage at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue may have been the quiet unassuming manservant who was a witness to history.

 

So what's your attitude toward menial work?

 

You know, if you've ever been thrown into the role of caregiver for a dying relative, you've had your share of bedpan cleaning and related chores.

 

That should earn respect for nurses who are the mainstay of  works of mercy in the ICU.

 

So what's your attitude?

 

Do you look down your nose at the  true princes and duchesses of the working world?

 

I like them.

 

They are the real people as far as I'm concerned.

 

The world can't function without them.

 

But their pay is usually at the bottom rung of the compensation ladder.

 

If you get the chance, show them that you respect them.

 

If your order at the diner is the $1.99 breakfast special, don't leave 30 cents as the tip just because you've calculated 15%.

 

Leave a couple bucks and then say "thank you".

 

When you check out of your hotel room, write a note of appreciation to the hotel maid and attach a ten or twenty dollar bill.

 

Cleaning your room wasn't easy.

 

It's a tough job.

 

Lawyers and doctors are well paid for interesting and fulfilling work.

 

But the grungy load of the minimum-wage worker can be made a little lighter by your attitude.

 

Most of us, despite our hard work, have had a few breaks along the way.

 

Born into a good family with a little money.

 

You didn't do that. Your parents did.

 

Not a racial minority?  You did nothing to achieve that.

 

When you observe the fruits of hard labor, appreciate the gnarled hands that struggled to create convenience and comfort for you.

 

Look upon the denizens of the least sought after jobs and tell yourself this.

 

There but for the grace of God go I.

 

 

kings who can't see the noblemen all around

My wife is the principal of an inner-city Catholic elementary school.

With the first day of school only five days away, this inspiring little educational community found itself without a custodian.

So I was drafted into emergency janitorial service.

I spent the weekend cleaning toilets in that steamy building constructed over 100 years ago.

Gross.

Disgusting.

Backbreaking.

A menial job.

It made me think.

Lots of people are full-time potty scrubbers.

That's got to be brutal.

I've got it easy.

Do you appreciate the people that carry out  demeaning tasks?

Do you look down on them?

I hope not.

Ever been to a horse farm?

Somebody shovels manure in those stalls.

Someone removes entrails from a slaughterhouse at a  Chicago stockyard.

There's a cable TV show called "Dirty Jobs".

It features a host participating in the grossest and filthiest employment known to man.

One segment featured people who  scrape pigeon droppings off  buildings.

Despite the fact that you wouldn't get caught dead in one of these jobs, these folks toil away with a certain nobility.

The new film release called "The Butler" contains an interesting message.

Inside the White House, the most honorable personage at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue may have been the quiet unassuming manservant who was a witness to history.

So what's your attitude toward menial work?

You know, if you've ever been thrown into the role of caregiver for a dying relative, you've had your share of bedpan cleaning and related chores.

That should earn respect for nurses who are the mainstay of  works of mercy in the ICU.

So what's your attitude?

Do you look down your nose at the  true princes and duchesses of the working world?

I like them.

They are the real people as far as I'm concerned.

The world can't function without them.

But their pay is usually at the bottom rung of the compensation ladder.

If you get the chance, show them that you respect them.

If your order at the diner is the $1.99 breakfast special, don't leave 30 cents as the tip just because you've calculated 15%.

Leave a couple bucks and then say "thank you".

When you check out of your hotel room, write a note of appreciation to the hotel maid and attach a ten or twenty dollar bill.

Cleaning your room wasn't easy.

It's a tough job.

Lawyers and doctors are well paid for interesting and fulfilling work.

But the grungy load of the minimum-wage worker can be made a little lighter by your attitude.

Most of us, despite our hard work, have had a few breaks along the way.

Born into a good family with a little money.

You didn't do that. Your parents did.

Not a racial minority?  You did nothing to achieve that.

When you observe the fruits of hard labor, appreciate the gnarled hands that struggled to create convenience and comfort for you.

Look upon the denizens of the least sought after jobs and tell yourself this.

There but for the grace of God go I.


Thursday, August 15, 2013

Please help me save this endangered species

I want you  to buy a book.

 

Today.

 

And I want you to go to a bookstore to buy that book.

 

I want you to do this because the future of books themselves may be at stake.

 

Here's the story.

 

More than half of the books purchased in America today are not actually books.

 

They are something called  e-books.

 

This means you read the written word on a digital device instead  of turning  pages where ink appears on actual paper.

 

These devices are convenient because hundreds of books can be contained in one slim device you carry in your briefcase or purse.

 

E-books are also less expensive because you avoid paying for the manufacturing and shipping of those hardcovers and paperbacks.

 

E-book proliferation also threatens to bring to  extinction one of my favorite places on earth: the bookstore.

 

I remember when Waldenbooks, B. Dalton,  and Borders were found in every mall and shopping center.

 

All gone.

 

In Northeast Ohio, Barnes & Noble is hanging in there holding the line.

 

In other parts of the country, chains called Books-a-Million and Joseph Beth  are carrying the torch.

 

And  the battle isn't just against the lower cost and  convenience of e-books.

 

The bookstore itself has been the target of discrimination by your government.

 

The cheap e-book is transmitted  wirelessly without the payment of a sales-tax that your local brick-and-mortar retail facility is forced to impose.

 

This discourages customers at the store front.

 

In addition, the walk in retail establishment pays property taxes, rent, payroll, and utilities.

 

 

 

And even if you are shipping actual books to your home, you're probably going through the online behemoth called Amazon.

 

Amazon dominates the marketplace without all the  neighborhood store overhead that I've listed.

 

Yes, the bookstore, with its thousands  of tomes waiting to be cracked open  so that you can read the dedication page.

 

What's more fun than reading the dust jacket of the latest Stephen King release and then smugly putting it back on the shelf as you avoid following millions of literary lemmings chasing after another overrated over commercialized author?

 

How about the children's section?

 

 

Feeling the texture of the puffy toddler books and pulling out the pullouts.

 

Being transported back to a simpler time  when Curious George  and Dr. Seuss could capture your imagination.

 

Get lost in the wonder and enchantment found at Barnes and Noble or  one of those independently owned bookstores where out of print volumes can still be found.

 

 In any case, I think you get my point.

 

I love real books and I love real bookstores.

 

I don't want them to go the way of the Edsel.

 

So, go shopping the old-fashioned way to help preserve a special experience.

 

Besides, you don't want to take one of those digital devices into the John.

 

My wife calls it the "reading room".

 

The only reading surface allowed in there is made of real paper.

 

Old fashioned and analogue, that's me.

 

 

Paying cash.

 

See you in the checkout line.

 

Thursday, August 8, 2013

It wouldn't hurt if real life had a laugh track

Well, here's a slice of my fantasy life.

 

I think of myself as Robert Petrie on the old Dick Van Dyke show.

 

I Love Lucy, Seinfeld, Mash.

 

All  great situation comedies.

 

But none of them  compare to the world that the head writer of the Alan Brady show lived in.

 

And like Rob Petrie, I find humor in almost everything.

 

You already  know that I can't help myself when someone passes gas.

 

Dogs, babies, and geriatrics innocently go "pffftt" and set my dial on the laugh cycle.

 

At the office, Buddy Sorrell (Morey Amsterdam) and Sally Rogers (Rosemarie) went into one shtick after another  helping Rob create comedy routines for a tyrannical variety show host.

 

I'm always cutting up at the office to try to lighten the mood.

 

Once a client with bad body odor left the office and I pretended to be pass out. My staff almost called an ambulance.

 

At home, I've got my own Laura Petrie.

 

My wife is a similar brunette beauty who also looks good in Capri pants.

 

And like Laura, she is mystified by the way I find humor in various home disasters.

 

Laura once got her toe stuck in a bathtub faucet.

 

My bride watched as trained fire professionals scoured our home looking for the source of  smoke.

 

An ardent fire lieutenant discovered a wooden spoon  left protruding into the flame of a gas burner on the stove.

 

My Laura was mortified.

 

"That's NOT funny!"

 

Oh yes, that is funny.

 

I almost wet my pants.

 

When my kids  misplaced something, I would find the item, place it on top of my head, and confront the careless offspring, explaining that there was no hope of finding it.

 

This was always a family favorite, especially when my serious tone contrasted with the ridiculous sight of someone's underwear sitting on top of my noggin.

 

Like Rob, I put on a serious suit every morning.

 

And I look for absurd life moments all day long.

 

Just like my hero.

 

My spouse cried when my toilet replacement project led to the appearance of the  Old Faithful geyser right next to the commode.

 

By the way, the  water pressure in my house is powerful.

 

Hit the ceiling it did.

 

Hilarious to me.

 

Not hilarious to Laura.

 

Episode 38, I think.

 

How about the dozens of times Mel Cooley turned to Buddy, his Don Rickles-like nemesis, and exclaimed "yecchh!"

 

I imagine myself in that funny, smart world.

 

And I try to be there in real life.

 

Guess I'm crazy, huh?

 

Maybe so, but I'm generally happy most of the time.

 

Just like the Petrie family.

 

Lighten  up and  find the sitcom in your life.

 

It doesn't have to be my favorite show featuring this  couple  from New Rochelle, New York.

 

But it should include a lot of laughs.

 

Belly laughs that are medicine for your soul. 

 

You and your whole family will feel better.

 

I guarantee it.

 

If you don't, I'll come find your missing underwear.

 

Yecchh!

 

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Humbling experiences can be really gross sometimes

Sometimes God lifts you up from a humiliating experience.

 

And sometimes he reminds you that you might be a little too big for your britches.

 

Here's the story of two walks.

 

The first occurred in high school.

 

The boys bathroom had an ancient iron closer to keep the door from slamming shut.

 

The elevated closing device featured a receptacle filled with grease.

 

The receptacle was about the size of a can of evaporated milk and it kept the mechanism self-lubricating.

 

The bottom of the receptacle popped open one morning as I exited the washroom.

 

Emptying the oily greenish black substance onto my head.

 

Bull's-eye.

 

It was as if a big turkey left  a splat of  dark gobbler poop on my head.

 

It slowly oozed down  my forehead.

 

My homeroom teacher stifled a giggle and told me to go home to clean up.

 

Calls to my parents went unanswered so I began to walk the almost 2 miles home.

 

The looks I got.

 

Folks stared at the jarring sight of what must've appeared to be a slowly melting zombie.

 

Scary sophomore gooped up with molasses.

 

Cars honked.

 

Many laughed out loud.

 

My own version of the Bataan Death March on  that steamy day in early June.

 

I was completely humiliated.

 

The worst walk of my life.

 

I'm never forget it.

 

Fast forward many years.

 

This same beloved alma mater, the place where that horrific stroll began,  invited me to return as an adult.

 

They are holding a high school Hall of Fame ceremony.

 

And I am one of the inductees.

 

Unbelievable.

 

I rise early.

 

I'll savor this moment of glory.

 

Parking  a block away from the school so I can enjoy a walk going to the building.

 

This walk will contrast with the greasy stroll away from that structure that defined embarrassment for an awkward young man many years ago.

 

On this day, I'm not a nerd.

 

I'm a big shot.

 

A celebrity.

 

Wait.

 

I've stepped in something.

 

Dog crap.

 

A huge smeary smelly pile of it.

 

With my head in the clouds, I didn't pay attention to my steps.

 

My dress shoes had fido feces in every crevice.

 

The fancy indentations that make wingtips so popular are now filled with putty.

 

Puppy putty.

 

Six inductees sat up on the stage that day.

 

Five of them tried to inconspicuously slide their chairs away from the man of stench.

 

I wasn't famous.

 

I was fume-ous.

 

A couple of ladies appeared ready to throw up.

 

They were grateful when I skipped the reception.

 

Two walks.

 

One long ago.

 

One just a few years ago.

 

Both reminding me that I'm not all that after all.

 

And both making me laugh when I think of them.

 

There's an old saying that says if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.

 

In my case, all I have to do is take a walk.

 

Join me?

 

After all, what's a little goop or a little poop between friends?

 

Meet you out front.

 

Watch your step.