National Lampoon's "Trip to the Store"

When it comes to my rare opportunities for a solo road trip, I have a hard time taking my own advice. After all, I have often been heard to say that the secret of success is Low Expectations... although with my manager, I am always careful to say that the secret of success is managing expectations. See, I changed that one word -- I'm saying essentially the same thing, but now I sound like a Business Sage.

So you'd think I could maintain that cautious optimism (emphasis on the cautious) when it comes to making a break for it -- excuse me, I meant to say "going out alone"-- but you have only to click here and here for examples to the contrary. Regardless, even my trip last week to buy a grill seemed fraught with possibilities.

OK, maybe not like free tickets to the ballgame. But at least hassle-free: zip about 20 minutes down the interstate, grab the grill I'd already found, zip home, Bob's your uncle. What could possibly go wrong?

I don't know about you, but I'm a sucker for a story involving the words "What could go wrong?"

In this case, I think the solo nature of the trip was in part a smokescreen to get me to ignore the fact I'd have to pony up the bucks... but to be honest, the incumbent appliance is in such disrepair that grilling has been akin to cooking with an acetylene torch, so I had already mentally conceded the point.

All was carefree, until halfway into the outbound trip, when I encountered a sign with the Pennsylvania State Motto: "Roadwork ahead" (Memo to the Commonwealth: You might get away with it if you translate it into Latin). In a trice, we were at full stop.

I was approaching, sadly, the granddaddy of all delay-causers, the dreaded "Left 2 Lanes Closed". Now, here's something I've never understood: mathematically speaking, if you go from three lanes to one, shouldn't it take 3 times as long to put the same traffic through 1/3 the original roadway? Why do I end up at complete halt, and three miles from the actual closure? It took me over a half-hour just to get to the construction area!

As a saving grace, it was a pleasant evening; I was able to enjoy the spring weather with windows open... for about 5 minutes, till dusk began to descend. Another math equation: what do you get when you add dusk, spring, a tree-lined highway, and (100*(a warm vehicle+ a driver emitting CO2))? You get an A if you said "a cluster of vehicles filling up with mosquitoes". Actually, I can only speak for myself; I suppose it's possible the others were all listening to a lively symphony on public radio and conducting along vigorously.

Of course, when I finally made it to the Choke Point, I was faced with another mystery of road construction: what are all those people doing, anyway? A road crew makes all those "How many [fill in the blank] does it take to screw in a light bulb?" jokes look like understatement.

At long last, as it were, I arrived at my destination, with my "20-minute trip" having taken just over an hour. Of course, the purchase itself was no speed marvel, since the retail community is getting paid by the hour, but it was routine enough, I suppose. Then I was confronted with another of my negative qualities.

I have this thing about large objects and small spaces, particularly vehicles. I always figure it'll fit "somehow". I had purchased a pre-assembled grill (I don't really want to build anything that essentially produces a controlled explosion) but I really didn't pre-measure it, or my minivan ("featuring 3rd-row seating!").

The good news was that one of the store employees had come out to help; the bad news was that he was expecting me to have a plan. I was kinda hoping he had a plan. And I could tell he was a little contemptuous that I clearly had not thought this through.

No big deal: just take out the third seat. And then stuff the third seat into the second seat. Wait, my daughter's car seat is in the way. No, I can't put it there -- that's where my son's car seat is, from when I folded down the rear seat, earlier. Yes, I would appreciate a hand with this van seat since it weighs more than I do (at least till I started in on the Cheez-Its again).

OK, wait, the grill would fit right in the back if not for the shelf. Got a screwdriver? Sure, I'll wait. Back so... soon!? Let me grab all these little screws & nuts. Now heave! Oops, too tall -- try to lay it down. That crash is just the grill grates "shifting", right? Whew, finally... oh, I guess the propane tank goes up front with me, then.

I suppose it could've been worse; for several hundred bucks more, I could've bought a grill that I would have had to carry the van inside. And... I get home a mere 2 1/4 hours from the time I left. But for a good cause!

Except it's 5 days later and the new grill, and tank, and shelf, are still sitting in the garage. Haven't put them back together yet! Haven't used them yet! Haven't gotten rid of the old one yet! But: at least something's crossed off The List.

The Human Comedy

One of my most obvious qualities is that I always try to find the humor in everything. While I tend to think this is an excellent quality, particularly for a blogger, it must be said that it's not universally admired. Some would say, for example, that there's a fine line between "finding the humor in everything" and "refusing to take anything seriously."

At minimum, I think I have become a little more savvy about it than when I was in third grade. I still remember that one day, something struck me as funny (no idea what, at this late date), and I actually stood up to share this comic gem with the rest of the class. Alas, Miss Hunt was not amused, and I was summarily dispatched toward the principal's office. I say "toward" because I was so terrified of Getting In Trouble that I merely lingered in the hallway till I thought a sufficient interval had passed for the punishment I was sure to receive -- 39 lashes with a metal-studded whip, I suppose -- and slunk back into the room. Miss Hunt, it seemed to me even then, was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, and I suspect she never figured it out. Gee... I sure hope she's not reading this!

All these years later, I'm hoping to become an adult any day now; I confess I succumb more often than not to the temptation to slip a joke into an e-mail memo at work. And I still get sent to the principal's office from time to time. One day we were inundated with "leaving early" memos, so finally I sent one that said, "I've thought it over and I've decided to stay till 5:00." One of my closest colleagues got in my face about that one, and it was only later that I found out he was headed to a doctor's appointment because he was facing a serious health issue.

As my son would say, "Is that funny? No." It's not a rhetorical question for him; he's just really working to master the twisted internal logic of the Knock-Knock Joke. So he tries to make one up, then he looks at me quizzically: "Is that funny? No."

My daughter has no such torments of self-doubt. She will initiate a knock-knock joke, then end it with a string of words that would be several sentences, if they were sentences. Or (sometimes) even words. But she always laughs uproariously, as if being tickled by the feathers of a thousand geese.

When they get a little older, perhaps I can make them understand that there's no need to "make up jokes" -- there's plenty of comedy lying in the road.

Or driving on the road: every time I see the IBS Septic Service truck go by, I wonder if the guy who named it knows what else IBS stands for.

Or beside the road: when the local florist puts up a sign that says "Everyday Sympathy Weddings", I imagine she really meant to make that one descriptive phrase, rather than a bulleted list of 3 distinct occasions.

Or beside another road: I recently saw a highway historical marker put up by the state Highway Superintendents. It was commemorating the first meeting of the State Highway Superintendents. Glad they didn't have to convene a blue-ribbon panel, or even do much research, to come up with that one.

And finally (oh, who are we kidding? More like, "enough for now"), I'm not even sure if this is funny in the Three Stooges pie-in-the-face sense, but the irony is so abundant that I just had to share:

Away back in the early sixties -- in that benighted era we now know as "before I was born" -- there was a famous incident in which Jack Paar, then-host of the Tonight Show, walked off the program and basically went on strike. The previous evening, the NBC censor had removed a joke he told as being too offensive for even sophisticated late-night viewers, and Jack took it personally.

I recently heard that same joke told on the air... by a radio preacher who was using it as a sermon illustration. The joke itself, that is, not the controversy. I can't remember what the point of the joke was to be; all I could think about was the irony. And I'm not sure what, if anything, all of this proves... except, maybe, once and for all, that God has a sense of humor.

You Must Remember This

With as much talk as you hear about etiquette, you'd think we'd be a lot better-behaved society. Not only has Peggy Post taken over from mom Emily as the Manners Maven -- and what is it about passing down these crowns, anyway? What qualifies "Dear Abby's" daughter to be an advice columnist? Does Martha Stewart have kids? Rachel Ray better get at it!

Sorry. Tune in in about 30 years when my (3)7-year old takes over for me. Anyway, in addition to Peggy Post getting quoted in every news story about impolite behavior, we have a column in our paper called "Ex-Etiquette", written by two women -- one of whom is married to the other's ex-husband. I guess instead of "in-laws", they're "ex-laws". Or maybe "out-laws".

Update: Martha Stewart has a daughter, described as a "radio personality" -- for Martha Stewart Living Radio on Sirius. Be afraid... be very afraid.

With two youngsters around, we are of course pretty obsessed with manners ourselves. It's a little unfortunate, actually, since my 4-year-old has decided it's amusing and much less taxing to pronounce her L's as W's. I say "decided"; she's perfectwy... I mean perfectly ... capable of enunciation. Goodness knows she gets all kinds of practice. In any case, I spend a lot of time reminding her to say please, and then reminding her again that "please" has an "L" in it.

It's all part of teaching your kids to make you look good. No, what I meant to say is "teaching your kids to grow up to be people you'd want in your home if you weren't forced to let them live there." All right, what I'm trying to get at here is that if you want your kids to stand out from the crowd -- in the good way, not the "spiked purple hair & nose ring" way -- teach them some manners.

Clearly manners are like the weather. From the cashier who won't even look up to the guy who cuts you off in traffic to everybody and his brother talking on their cell phones through dinner, conversations with others, and funerals, etiquette is no doubt easier to spell than it is to observe in the wild.

As you might guess, like any truly good and heartfelt rant, this one is based in experience. A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege of visiting the church where I was born (not literally, of course... but only because it was a Wednesday). As a preacher's kid, I spent a lot of time there in my first 3 years of life. Later, when I was in grad school and living nearby, it pleased me to the depths of my tradition-obsessed soul to attend there for 2 more years and be part of the same choir in which my parents had sung.

So I was equally tickled to be there again, and moreso because my wife had been invited to be guest preacher for the day. Over the course of the day I met, once more, some people who had been part of the church 20+ years ago during my last stint, and even some who were there my first time around. And when I spoke with them, what do you suppose is the first thing almost all of them said?

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Can we agree that the purpose of conversation is to foster goodwill and a sense of community between two people? Why, then, would you begin a conversation with the verbal equivalent of the duelist's glove slap?

Now this is by no means an isolated occurrence. Naturally, it's a staple of high school reunions; my 25th featured several instances of this gambit (ironically, most of the time by people who wouldn't have been caught dead speaking to me the first time around).

Last week my wife was also accosted in just such a manner at a funeral home by someone who followed up by saying, "I came to church on Christmas... I wore a purple dress." This was, as you can imagine, the very key that unlocked a virtual flood of memories. She always takes pains to memorize everyone who attends once, cross-referenced by occasion and color.

Look, rest assured that once you have jogged my memory a little, I will regale you with the many fascinating things I recall about you from That Special Time In Our Lives.... Till then, please remember that in my adult life, I've lived in 5 towns in 3 states, attended 7 churches, and had (gulp) 10 different jobs. So a little context, at least, wouldn't hurt -- have some pity on a guy.

Talk: Not So Cheap After All

It pains me deeply that I haven't posted in a couple of weeks... but I'm actually somewhat comforted to think that anyone who might read me regularly is probably just finishing the last mega-post anyway. The truth is, the hiatus was kind of unavoidable; the epic 3-part Orlando entry used up all my words and I had to wait for the new shipment to come in.

Unfortunately, I suspect someone screwed up the order -- it seems to be all words like "malfeasance" and "egregious", so it might have been intended for one of those political bloggers. At least it's clearly a blog-related batch: many of the words are misspelled and all the plural words seem to have sprouted apostrophes.

Anyway, even in my absence I have been thinking bloggy thoughts, and by a coincidence one of the major topics of discussion in the world as a whole was, in fact, words. How they can be used, who can use them, and what the consequences might be for using them.

Of course, I refer to the incident in which a certain radio Personality decided to use some, shall we say, "racially loaded" language, causing a prolonged bout of Analysis by all concerned, as well as a lot of people that really had nothing to do with it. I mentioned in my Orlando saga that I was at least blessed with 4 ESPNs in the hotel; what I didn't mention was that in thumbing through those channels, and the adjacent news channels, I was greeted by the face of the aforementioned Personality at seemingly every turn. Well, either him or a certain rotund (and orotund) fellow -- whom I also decline to name -- who I believe has been designated by the UN as Special Representative for Minorities and Oppressed Persons Everywhere. How else to explain why he turns up on my TV whenever Injustice is afoot?

OK, I'm being a bit arch just because I enjoy it, so let me be clear: what the Personality said was stupid and offensive and wrong (in perhaps more senses than one -- they look like any other basketball team to me), and he deserved to be punished. The furor, however, really stems from more than just the act itself.

First, this was an excellent opportunity for white America to leap up as one and proclaim, "We're not racists, oh no, not us." It's not like anyone is seriously going to try to defend the guy, so it's an absolute free shot for everyone who can claw their way in front of a microphone.

Second, since it was a sports-related story, it provided a chance for the sports networks to assert their journalistic chops, to prove they're not just the Toy Department of the television universe. So we saw wall-to-wall coverage (at least for the whole time I was in that hotel room).

Third, he was really living in the wrong time; this is an era where one of the most prized virtues is Political Correctness, so any comment that's stupid and cruel and offensive is always going to be raised to the level of a felony.

Interestingly, as a white middle class male -- not the "majority", exactly, but fairly privileged at least -- I have found that it's "my kind" that is the last acceptable target for ridicule. Last year Hefty advertised their One-Zip bags as being so simple, even a husband could use them. I actually sent them a protest e-mail; I said, I get the joke but I notice you don't advertise them as simple enough for Polacks or blondes. They did respond promptly, but basically said lighten up, it's a joke.

But of course, we've all gotten used to the Bumbling Dad/Husband from TV sitcoms and commercials. And I suppose it won't kill me... it would just be nice if we all stopped trying to look good at the expense of others. It would be egregious malfeasance not to.