Giving good customer service is tough. It’s easy to get 90% of it right and still leave the customer with a bad taste in their mouth — an unpleasant truth when your business model depends on delighting the customer, as does mine. I was reminded of the delicacy of customer service last weekend, when a major airline lost my bags.
OK, let me lead this one off by clarifying. I often joke that I live in the ghetto; at the same time, I’ve never felt unsafe in my neighborhood. Everyone’s nice. That said, there’s either a high-speed chase going right by here or an LAPD chopper hovering over here once a month. And what do I ever hear about it? It’s not in the LA Times (they only have “a blog to cover murders”:http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/homicidereport/, and even that’s a day behind), it’s not on “KCAL 9″:http://cbs2.com/. But, gosh, it seems to be important enough at the moment, given the number of sirens I hear and what I imagine is the cost of keeping a chopper in the air.
So, why isn’t there a source for news about what’s going on in my neighborhood? I’m sure that news choppers are often up there following the chase, it’s just that the newsroom doesn’t feel like putting it on. Why not let me watch streaming video online or something? Or, the LAPD could have a blog with officers’ reports — names and addresses redacted, of course — that told people about what was happening in each division.
Now, let’s not get bogged down in technicalities. Sure, there are legal issues, but, hey, this is supposed to be about being a community. Letting me keep up on things would let me help! Or at least be nosy. At any rate, this is what I want. So, how do we get it done? And why isn’t it already done?
Seriously, I need to know if I really needed to lock my door when the hovering LAPD chopper sent its spotlight beam into my driveway earlier this evening. ‘Cause I would’ve rather been out there watching the show!
I suppose it’s no secret that I haven’t followed the Orioles closely in years. And it’s no secret why — they don’t make it to Anaheim often, and Chavez Ravine even less; they’re almost never on TV over here; and, of course too many losses, too little in the way of positive changes. But the O’s[1] are my team, and I love them. I love them even though they lost their last game 30-3, becoming the first team to give up 30 runs in 110 years. Actually, I think I love them even more now.
There’s something wonderful about being a fan of a team that is the worst. I remember, back in 1988, when the O’s lost the first 21 games of the season, to set the MLB record for most losses to begin a season. After 8 or 12 losses, we were all rooting for them to keep losing, to be the worst ever. Hey, worst ever is _something_, right? Second-worst is not only bad, but also forgotten, and if you’re going to be that bad why not be not forgotten?[2] Sadly, my Birds didn’t get the all-sports top-division honors, which I think required losing 26 games,[3] but 21 was darned good and looks to stay in the record books.[4]
And of course I remember the 1983 World Series, where we plastered the overmatched Phillies. I remember the young Cal Ripken, and the chants of Eddie-Eddie! and Jim Palmer’s steely stare, all coming from our small Zenith color TV. And, in the ’90s, when we were a powerhouse, vying yearly with the powerful Blue Jays or Mariners for the AL Championship. There was nothing like the pitching duo of the massively underrated Mike Mussina[5] and Gentle Ben Johnson, who towered over even Randy Johnson; later, Gregg Olson was a shut-down closer.
I wasn’t alone — as I’ve said before, “Baltimore went Orioles-wild after the Colts left”:http://juniorbird.com/archive/003087.html. When I was in second grade, one of my classmates was the son of NBA Hall of Famer and former Washington Bullet Wes Unseld. His dad was kind enough to take the whole class to a Bullets practice one day, but all the kids were disappointed. I mean, they weren’t the O’s.[6] Then, in 7th grade, my completely overwhelmed English teacher decided that the midterm should be to list the Orioles starting lineup. Even dorky ‘ol me got enough to pass — heck, everyone knew who started for the home team!
In high school, one of my classmates got jeered at regularly for wearing a Red Sox cap. At least it wasn’t a Yankees cap, he would’ve gotten beaten up for that. We had our priorities straight, and one was definitely kicking that team when it was down — you see, the Yankees were originally the Baltimore Orioles, until, in a conspiracy, the New York Giants basically forced the Orioles to leave town and move to Manhattan.[7]
“Jeffery Maier”:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAHQiDCY6jg basically ruined my Junior year of college. The first time in years I get an Orioles game on local TV, and he blows it for my team. I’m not forgetting that, you little punk!
And then years of mediocrity. Seriously, years. Culminating in the Expos moving to DC and stealing half of our territory, thus making us that much less capable of competing with Boston and the Yankees, financially. No, it’s not been a good time to be an Orioles fan.
!/images/darnedos.jpg!
But that’s it. I’m a fan. And I’m mad![8] I’m mad at Peter Angelos for not fielding a good team in a decade. And I’m mad at me for caring. It’s the Internet age, there must be some way for me to listen to the O’s on the radio for free online. Umm, does anyone know what that is? ‘Cause I’d love to find it. I’m coming home, baby!
fn1. O-apostrophe-s is the official style, which would make more sense if the grammatically-correct Os was a word, which it’s not, unlike, say, As.
fn2. Our current Presidential administration may also believe this, although Nixon sets a high standard!
fn3. Don’t you wish you knew who held that record?
fn4. To put things in perspective, the previous record was, I think, somewhere in the early teens.
fn5. A pity he was a Yankee when, in the year that Mark McGwire broke the home run record, Moose — supposedly a finesse pitcher — got Big Mac out on three straight fastballs in the All-Star Game.
fn6. Wes Unseld was super-nice to all of us then and a couple of other times I saw him. I wish I’d been able to appreciate it!
fn7. I swear, it’s true!
fn8. So mad that I’m out-of-focus!
If I were wheezing and gasping for breath as I begged for an appointment with my doctor’s receptionist, would you want me to keep it down during said begging? OK, you’d probably want to hear all the drama of my life since you were stuck waiting for your appointment. Being a gossip hound, I know that was exactly how I felt.
First there was the big guy who couldn’t avoid emitting a string of curses every time he moved. “Oh Jesus!” he’d creak as he sat down, then, vaguely, “Sorry!” Or, later, “Christ!” as he shifted in his seat, and “pardon me!” Standing back up earned a “Aww fuck! Oh excuse me.” At least he tried to be quiet. He didn’t try to be quiet when his cell phone rang, though:
bq. “Yeah, they think I have a hematoma. And cracked ribs. Yeah, it feels about like that. Naw, I don’t remember it all. Sure must’ve been, though! He keeps on calling me, says he wants to be my sponsor… I told him I’m not sure I want to take it all the way to sponsor, you know? More like a friend and a sponsor-y person to talk to. Exactly, I’m not sure I trust him! I totally think he was lying. Yeah, exactly. Naw, I’m not at the same doctor. Nah, he wouldn’t give me the pills. Yep, I’m gonna try this one, he works for Larry. Yeah, that’s right. No, I don’t wanna have the same sponsor as him, he seems kinda… hold on”
I think that was when he noticed I was taking notes on his conversation. A pity, since I’d been waiting for a good fifteen minutes when this guy started talking. Fortunately, there were two kind souls who followed on that show to make my 45-minute wait seem as short as possible.
First was a short, square, older Latin man who stomped in with the bow-legged gait of a physical laborer. “Why you give my son pills?” he asked. There was some hemming and hawing as the man insisted my doctor gave his son samples and a prescription, and the doctor insisted he just gave the prescription. “I don’t want you give him pills, you know he go to doctors and they give him pills and he take pills with a drink and he take too much of both,” said the man. “I only gave him amoxicillin and vicodin for the eye pain, he tried to get percoset but I wouldn’t give it to him,” explained my doctor, a short, swarthy man who — if the photos on his walls say anything — used to be an Air Force doctor and who graduated from USC but who seems to have season tickets to UCLA football.
I hope my doctor is not the guy to go for if you’re prescription-shopping. But that would explain his popularity.
He’s so popular his patients can’t wait to come back. One young lady, trying to lose weight, was coming in every six months. “I stopped feeding my cat seconds, too!” she said to her nurse as I passed her on the way to get weighed.[1] Old Black Lady Who Couldn’t Breathe also couldn’t stay away. She shuffled in, bright in her pink silk[2] shirt and pink polyester pants.
bq. “Hi honey. [wheeze] The other doctor [wheeze] finally [wheeze] diagnosed [wheeze] me with a [wheeze] breathing problem. [wheeze] I got tests [wheeze] and everything! [wheeze] I called you [wheeze] a little [wheeze] earlier [wheeze] and said [wheeze] I’d be in. [wheeze] I know [wheeze] I had [wheeze] an appointment [wheeze] last Tuesday [wheeze] but I was [wheeze] too tired [wheeze] to come in [wheeze] then, so [wheeze] I thought [wheeze] I’d come in [wheeze] now. [wheeze] Oh honey, [wheeze] cain’t the doctor [wheeze] see me [wheeze] today? [wheeze] I know [wheeze] I don’t have [wheeze] no appointment [wheeze] today but [wheeze] I was [wheeze] hoping?
She didn’t stick around for her non-appointment but I have faith in whatever doctor diagnosed her with a breathing problem. Still, she was a spry lady for someone I’d guess was in her late 70s — she kept on knocking things off of the receptionist’s desk, but she’d reach down and pick ‘em right back up!
See, with folks like that at the doctor’s, who needs TV? All you need is a phone with a little keyboard on it so that you can transcribe conversations while people think you’re just texting your friends. Like I’d text; I ain’t got no friends to text to![3]
Anyway, I still have the same unspecified blah that I’ve had for the last two weeks, but at least now we’ve Run Some Tests. Soon I’ll have a name to put to all this and then it’ll be all better! It’s just like being in House!
fn1. I’ve lost weight. More on that later.
fn2. Perhaps a rayon blend?
fn3. I know _you’re_ my friend. That’s not the issue here. The issue is that I’ve been in every night for two weeks because I’ve felt miserable, so I’ve turned all my friends away.
Everyone expects free shipping, thanks to Amazon. Including my company’s customers. I can’t blame them; heck, I expect free shipping myself. But it’s tough when you’re sending 30lb boxes of perishable goods around the country. Shipping costs can be equal to product costs for some East Coast destinations — and this cuts down on my sales. It’s tough, but there is a silver lining. Once again, simply having a business plan has saved me. Well, that and making some phone calls.
Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with a gin and tonic on a hot day– nothing a Campari and soda can’t fix, anyway — but sometimes you want something with a little more pizazz, and the champagne drinks are just too hoity-toity.[1] Here’s my proposal for a nice brunch or post-brunch sippin’ martini.[2]
!/images/noontini.jpg!
Noontime Martini
bq. 2 oz vodka
2 oz orange juice
3/4 oz Dry Vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Yes, it’s a very strong screwdriver. No, it doesn’t taste like one — more like a smooth lemonade. It’s too strong to guzzle but quite soft and pleasant to sip. Now, granted, I made this one for the wondrous AIG, who is cooking me dinner at night when I’m feeling poorly,[3] so I haven’t experimentally determined that it’d be good with brunch, but I have faith. Perhaps you, my faithful readers, can give me some reports from the field
fn1. And a Salty Dog’s not to everyone’s taste.
fn2. I’m aware that this is not actually a martini, but at least it’s not one of those awful Kamikaze-based “martinis,” and I’m not sure that there’s an obvious category that it fits in. Probably a sign of my ignorance, tho.
fn3. If she’s cooking dinner for me, I’d best be doing something nice for her! She deserves it.
Let the official record show, today Junior said a new word. He said it clearly, loudly, and proudly, and I do think I’ll hear it again! I got out of bed, uncovered his cage, walked out of my bedroom and was called back with a boisterous “good morning!”
I’d said those words every morning when I uncovered Junior, greeting him and then giving him his breakfast (Junior hasn’t yet learned the word “breakfast” — or any other food-related word). But he’d never said anything back. Today he did! I hope he does tomorrow.
Junior’s actually been doing well with the words lately — the AIG is convinced that he said her name (he might have, but he’s not a big name-user), and, the other day, when we were playing the game where I bounce him up and down on my hand,[1] he repeatedly said a nice clear “woooo.”[2] So, perhaps he’s got a lot to say these days.
Cockatoos aren’t good talkers in general, but it’s always fun when Junior learns to say something new, because he always uses words with very specific meaning. Even better, he always goes on to combine his words into new phrases. For instance, he made up “pretty white bird,” “who’s the bird?” and “[insert adjective -- white, cute, pretty, etc.] birdy bird!” (He also made up birdy, so far as I know.)
Talking pets are fun.
fn1. A game he loves when he’s already worked up, and one which seems to burn off energy in a good way.
fn2. I was trying to get him say “whee!” but I guess Junior’s more of a cracker.
For some reason, very few things make a home look bad to me as a fridge whose light has burnt out. To me, it says “I just don’t care about having a pleasant, maintained place to live.” I mean, you go into the fridge several times every day, right? So it’s not like you can avoid noticing it.
Of course, with an attitude like that, my fridge light would burn out. For the last week, I’ve had a nice, ghetto kitchen with a darkened fridge. Très Palms.
!/images/fridgelight/dark.jpg!
Doesn’t that just look depressing? I mean, apart from the very bachelor-y selection of food inside. Shouldn’t all of those comestibles be highlighted, shown off, made to look appetizing? And how can that happen without a fridge light.
Finally I got time to get lights today. And it’s better.
!/images/fridgelight/light.jpg!
Isn’t that cheery? Doesn’t that just help my refrigerated products say “consume me, I’m delicious?” Well, maybe not. It’s not Bel Air in there, but at least it looks cheery in there. Now my fridge says “welcome! Here’s what you have to eat!”
Welcome indeed. I know some shelving that could learn a lesson from that!
I always fall down on my planned approaches to productivity when, at that moment, it’s not productive to be productive. I’m sure you know those times — I should do something, it’s actually kind of important, but it’s either inconvenient or impossible and so I don’t do it right then. And then the moment passes and the thought is lost or the task becomes even harder to do. For a while, recording my mileage, keeping up on my credit card purchases, and even capturing ideas on-the-go were all in this category. But, lately, I’ve been doing a lot better — because I made the effort to set myself up to be productive in a moment, any moment.
I’m a big fan of Getting Things Done; but I haven’t been very GTD-y lately. With too much on my plate, I fell off the wagon. But the point of GTD is to make it easier to handle the volume of work coming in, right? So why did a more busy, more overwhelming time get me away from GTD?
The answer isn’t in the failure of the GTD approach — it’s in the failure of my implementation. And this answer pointed me to the value of maintaining a strong personal commitment to the work you do — and continually questioning that commitment when you don’t get that work done.
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