So why am I sitting here on the Fourth of July banging out my miscreant thoughts instead of getting sunburned at a local fest or bloated from a cold frosty PBR? Because Americans can't read.
Every newspaper across the country today will invariably print a copy of the Declaration of Independence in full, which most will scan over instead of reading word for word, assuming they remember it from their school days. But like a bad game of "Telephone", the rights claimed therein have gotten slightly muddled after two hundred plus years. Specifically, the inalienable right to the "pursuit of happiness."
We aren't guaranteed happiness itself, rather, the right to try and make ourselves as happy as we wish. Whether or not we achieve happiness is another story. Unfortunately, we have become a nation of immediacy as illustrated by the brevity of "YouTube" clips, leaders speaking in sound bites, and television on demand through DVRs and TiVo. We have gone from a saving society that planned for purchases to one of debt where we get what we want now and deal with the consequences of that purchase later. Immediacy has pervaded every part of our lives. Pundits call elections the very second the polls close. Movies can be downloaded to your computer instantly for viewing so you don't have to waste the thirty minutes it would take to go to the video store and back.
Americans don't pursue happiness anymore, they expect it, and they expect it now.
I'm sitting in my office typing on my computer right now because I can't go to a fest or a picnic or barbecue. My wife is at work today. On a national holiday. In the summer. A holiday that celebrates the document that purports her right to try to be happy, which I would assume to be a day off to celebrate the nation's birth. Instead, she's sitting in an office rectifying obstacles to other peoples need for immediate happiness.
In other words, she's got to be the one who tells people they aren't getting the product they ordered because the Post Office is closed today.
My question is why the Post Office has the gall to be closed when every other business in America remains open on the nation's birthday? How dare they infringe on the happiness of the American people like that? Don't they realize that we will collapse as a civilization if we don't get what we want when we want it?
As I wait for my wife to get home from work, I could get in my car and waste the $4.26 per gallon tank of gas on hopping from strip mall to strip mall buying all those things I feel would make me happy today, from a new mattress (the top honor for our country as the biggest mattress sales usually correspond to our more patriotic holidays (President's Day, Columbus Day, Memorial Day, Labor Day, Veteran's Day, Fourth of July)) to a wide screen television to a garden gnome for the back yard. You name it, I could buy it today, on this, our biggest national holiday.
Really, what better way to celebrate our national birthday than by exploiting it's greatest virtue: greed. We have been a nation of consumers since the first days of the Republic, ever expanding, ever building, ever growing. So why should we close our businesses on this one day? It would be un-American to prohibit rampant commercial consumption.
And it would be un-American to ignore the true meaning of this day.
There was a time not so long ago that we held this holiday in a higher esteem. Growing up in the Seventies, the only businesses open on the Fourth of July were the grocery stores for those who needed a few more hot dog buns for the picnic or a bag of ice for the cooler. But they, too, shut down by noon. Perhaps it was the occurrence of the Bicentennial that made us a bit more reverent, but it doesn't explain how other national holidays were honored in the same way. You couldn't go to the mall on Labor Day because it was actually a day off from labor, for everyone. Now days, most companies don't even offer time and a half for working on that day.
The Fourth of July should be the day that everyone gets to pursue happiness by having a day off work and being able to enjoy the day in whatever manner they chose. The Fourth of July should not be a day when we expect happiness by having someone else answer the complaint line you have called because you are pursuing happiness. It's not guaranteed that someone will answer that line and make you happy, but you have every right to call and try to be made happy. It's that "try" part that trips everyone up.
So go back to today's paper, pull out that reprint of the Declaration of Independence, and actually read it. Double check that "happiness" part. It's not an inalienable right, but trying to be is. So I think I might go try and get my wife to take off work early so that I can try and enjoy the rest of this day. Sorry if that means you won't get your merchandise today. You'll just have to try and deal with it.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Friday, July 4, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
At least it's quiet in the winter...
In an age dominated by XBOX, Wii, and Playstation, it is always encouraging to see children outside, enjoying the great outdoors, getting fresh air and exercise.
But for the love of God, why must every child who steps foot out the front door commence screaming and shrieking at the top of the lungs? Every second spent outside is accompanied with an unending siren of ear-piercing squeals, without pause, without breath, without reason, and without regard for the rest of the neighborhood.
Sure, playtime is fun, it's exciting, it's imaginations run wild. Running around, expending youthful energies, enjoying life as only a child can. But why, simply why, must it be ensconced in cacophony that would put a NASCAR race to shame? Why are the parents so indifferent to how this may effect or offend their neighbors?
Many people chose not to have children for this reason. They chose a life of quiet, of peace, of calm. Unfortunately adult-only neighborhoods are only to be found in retirement communities. What of the twenty-somethings that want a tranquil street, free of tricycles, super-soakers, and other rugrat paraphernalia? Exclusionary communities are rare as most developers fear discrimination lawsuits. But if nudist colonies can exist on the requisite that it's denizens eschew clothing, then why cannot a sub-division constrain it's residents to a no-child policy? It is and can be a life-style choice and those who chose to be child-free should be availed neighborhoods that cater to that lifestyle.
Meanwhile, I'm going to medical school to become an ear doctor. When these fountains of sonic exuberance grow up, they're gonna be deaf, deaf, deaf...
But for the love of God, why must every child who steps foot out the front door commence screaming and shrieking at the top of the lungs? Every second spent outside is accompanied with an unending siren of ear-piercing squeals, without pause, without breath, without reason, and without regard for the rest of the neighborhood.
Sure, playtime is fun, it's exciting, it's imaginations run wild. Running around, expending youthful energies, enjoying life as only a child can. But why, simply why, must it be ensconced in cacophony that would put a NASCAR race to shame? Why are the parents so indifferent to how this may effect or offend their neighbors?
Many people chose not to have children for this reason. They chose a life of quiet, of peace, of calm. Unfortunately adult-only neighborhoods are only to be found in retirement communities. What of the twenty-somethings that want a tranquil street, free of tricycles, super-soakers, and other rugrat paraphernalia? Exclusionary communities are rare as most developers fear discrimination lawsuits. But if nudist colonies can exist on the requisite that it's denizens eschew clothing, then why cannot a sub-division constrain it's residents to a no-child policy? It is and can be a life-style choice and those who chose to be child-free should be availed neighborhoods that cater to that lifestyle.
Meanwhile, I'm going to medical school to become an ear doctor. When these fountains of sonic exuberance grow up, they're gonna be deaf, deaf, deaf...
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Moby's Courthouse Adventure
Going to the mailbox is always an adventure. No matter how many weeks in a row it spits out nothing but bills and junk-mail you find yourself hoping that something special will be waiting for you today. So with baited breath I opened the door to my tiny little house of snail-mail, hoping to spy the corner of a colored envelope, the signifier of a greeting card, or the bulging hello of manilla carefully cradling an unexpected gift. What I found was, indeed, unexpected. That cringe-inducing green logo from the State of Oregon. Anything from the state is never a good thing, unless it's a tax rebate check, but I owed this year, so I was unable to discern any good from this arrival.
Frowning with a deep consternation I carried it inside, set it on the counter, and stared at it trying to guess it's contents. Imagining the worst would make whatever was inside seem not so bad. Did I have a warrant out for my arrest? Was there an error in my taxes? Problem with my license? The sweat of fear began dripping from my furrowed brow. Just open it, I told myself, and get it over with.
I groaned. I cursed. I threw the damned thing across the kitchen. I cursed again.
Jury duty. I was being called for jury duty.
Being eligible for jury duty for the last twenty years, I had never once been summoned. Finally, it was my arch-enemy, Boregon, that caught up to me. Damned tree-hugging-granola-eating-Birkenstock-wearing-bleeding-heart-liberal-hippies. Oh, wait, that's me....
So being the out-spoken cultural critic that I am, I figured, hey , no big deal. No lawyer worth his salt would want my opinionated and jaded self on a jury. I'd be home by noon.
Luckily for me the courthouse is only a few blocks away. I dressed rather sloppy, hoping to give a cavalier impression. Through the metal detector, down into the limestone depths of the basement. Taking my seat in a crowded waiting room, I filled out a stack of information sheets. This was when I began to realize that should I ever be convicted of a crime, I never want a jury of my peers to decide my fate.
The night before I was instructed to call an information line that would give instructions as to what is expected at the courthouse. Certain things were not allowed: shorts, sweats, hats, and newspapers. Simple and straight-forward, or so I thought.
Did I magically get transported to Mississippi or did Oregon just become the most uneducated and bassackwards state in the Union? (And, yes, I just insulted Mississippi). Looking around me, I spied five people with newspapers, two baseball hats, and one plasticene soccer-mom flaunting her bought-and-paid-for assets in Juicy Couture. Violating the guidelines wasn't going to get anyone out of serving, as it was made clear that those who did would have to return in two weeks to complete a full jury service. All of this was in the informational bulletin we were instructed to call in for the night before. The summons itself was to be brought with as it had your juror number posted on it.
Six people did not bring their summons and did not know their juror number. Within the first fifteen minutes of my being there, seven people were asked to go home and report back in two weeks per their new summons that would be sent to them. The newspapers were confiscated, the baseball hats held until their owners were dismissed for the day. And then it got even better.
Upon entering the holding area everyone was given a clipboard with a series of forms to fill out. The top form instructed which we kept and which we turned in. There was a counter with baskets and above the baskets were examples of which sheet was to go in which basket. No less than fifteen people either had to ask which sheets to turn in or put the wrong sheets in the wrong baskets. So by this time I had counted thirty idiots out of the sixty five who had originally been there. Almost half of the jurors summoned that day were too stupid to make it past the sign-in.
I pray to whatever God or gods may hear me that I never ever ever have to go to court in Oregon.
My number is called and I am whisked away upstairs with about twenty others to a stuffy courtroom that looks like Mike Brady decorated it. We are all sworn in and asked to answer the questions both counsels will ask us. Getting wise to athiests, we are not asked to swear to God nor is a Bible anywhere in sight. Instead we are asked to tell the truth under penalty of purjury.
There went my loophole.
We spend two hours being told about the nature of the case, answering elementary questions about prior experiences that might relate to the case. A car accident is involved (this is a civil case) and anyone who knows me knows that I wreck cars on a fairly consistent basis. I figure that admitting I've been in over ten accidents in the last five years would surely disqualify me and get me excused (meaning I would not face another jury summons for another two years). Counsels excuse themselves to the judge's chamber to pick the unlucky twelve who would be their prisoners for the duration of the day.
The first number called to serve on this jury is mine.
After seating us, the judge begins to dismiss the remining jurors until she is interrupted by a shrill voice to my right. "I've decided that I can't be fair and partial in this case after all." Damn, why hadn't I thought of this? But on the flip side, why the hell didn't you say something before?
Idiot count: 31.
After randomly chosing one of the remaining candidates the case begins. A car, a bike, blah blah blah. Noting how Oregon, like Mississippi, is never in a hurry to do anything, I note that this case was filed in 2005.
Both lawyers sound like Ben Stein. The air conditioning is not working. The woman to my left smells like a nursing home and the fella directly behind me has the habit of clearing his throat every thirty seconds. By five o'clock we are nowhere near completion as the judge astutely points out and orders us to return the following morning. Had we not taken a recess every twenty minutes, being forced into a stale conference room, we might have finished in a day. Instead I was treated to regular intervals of Christian self-help book reviews by two probable 700 Club members and the ramblings of an unemployed machinist soliciting parenting advice for his meth-addicted teenaged step-daughter.
Waking up the next day I debated whether I should have coffee. Did I want to be awake enough to pay attention or drowsy enough to tune-out my fellow peanut gallery goobers?
It was even hotter in the courtroom than the day before. The woman to my left now smells like moldy nursing home.
Thankfully we cruised through closing arguments. I was hopeful we would reach a quick decision and be on our way. The verdict was clear in my mind.
But leave it to Oregon to make things complicated
.
If we found the defendant to not be 100% not at fault, then we simply signed the verdict form and that was it. But if we found any shared responsibility then we had to decide what percentage was each party at fault. If the defendant was over 51% responsible then we had to determine exactly what % responsible he was and order him to pay that % of the awardable damages. If the plaintiff was over 51% responsible we had to allow the judge to determine the % payout.
Confusion and mayhem ensued.
Our elected fore-woman, she of the Pat Robertson Fan Club, could not understand the rules of the verdict sheet if God appeared before her and inscribed them on a stone tablet. Not wanting lose another day to the idiocracy, I jumped from the back of the bus and did my best Sandra Bullock impression. We needed to keep things speeding along or we were going to blow ourselves up.
"Let's make this easy on ourselves. Raise your hand if you think the defendant is 100% at fault and that the plaintif did absolutely nothing wrong to cause this accident."
No one raised their hands.
"Is the defendant 100% innocent?"
Eleven hands. We only needed nine. I pressed the button summoning the bailiff and put an X next to our ruling. Shoving the sheet at the fore-woman I told her to sign it. Before anyone could raise an argument we had reached a verdict.
And I had reached my own: The right to a jury trial as preserved by the Constitution is the single worst idea in the history of our republic, after Prohibition, that is. Speaking of which, boy do I need a drink....
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
Frowning with a deep consternation I carried it inside, set it on the counter, and stared at it trying to guess it's contents. Imagining the worst would make whatever was inside seem not so bad. Did I have a warrant out for my arrest? Was there an error in my taxes? Problem with my license? The sweat of fear began dripping from my furrowed brow. Just open it, I told myself, and get it over with.
I groaned. I cursed. I threw the damned thing across the kitchen. I cursed again.
Jury duty. I was being called for jury duty.
Being eligible for jury duty for the last twenty years, I had never once been summoned. Finally, it was my arch-enemy, Boregon, that caught up to me. Damned tree-hugging-granola-eating-Birkenstock-wearing-bleeding-heart-liberal-hippies. Oh, wait, that's me....
So being the out-spoken cultural critic that I am, I figured, hey , no big deal. No lawyer worth his salt would want my opinionated and jaded self on a jury. I'd be home by noon.
Luckily for me the courthouse is only a few blocks away. I dressed rather sloppy, hoping to give a cavalier impression. Through the metal detector, down into the limestone depths of the basement. Taking my seat in a crowded waiting room, I filled out a stack of information sheets. This was when I began to realize that should I ever be convicted of a crime, I never want a jury of my peers to decide my fate.
The night before I was instructed to call an information line that would give instructions as to what is expected at the courthouse. Certain things were not allowed: shorts, sweats, hats, and newspapers. Simple and straight-forward, or so I thought.
Did I magically get transported to Mississippi or did Oregon just become the most uneducated and bassackwards state in the Union? (And, yes, I just insulted Mississippi). Looking around me, I spied five people with newspapers, two baseball hats, and one plasticene soccer-mom flaunting her bought-and-paid-for assets in Juicy Couture. Violating the guidelines wasn't going to get anyone out of serving, as it was made clear that those who did would have to return in two weeks to complete a full jury service. All of this was in the informational bulletin we were instructed to call in for the night before. The summons itself was to be brought with as it had your juror number posted on it.
Six people did not bring their summons and did not know their juror number. Within the first fifteen minutes of my being there, seven people were asked to go home and report back in two weeks per their new summons that would be sent to them. The newspapers were confiscated, the baseball hats held until their owners were dismissed for the day. And then it got even better.
Upon entering the holding area everyone was given a clipboard with a series of forms to fill out. The top form instructed which we kept and which we turned in. There was a counter with baskets and above the baskets were examples of which sheet was to go in which basket. No less than fifteen people either had to ask which sheets to turn in or put the wrong sheets in the wrong baskets. So by this time I had counted thirty idiots out of the sixty five who had originally been there. Almost half of the jurors summoned that day were too stupid to make it past the sign-in.
I pray to whatever God or gods may hear me that I never ever ever have to go to court in Oregon.
My number is called and I am whisked away upstairs with about twenty others to a stuffy courtroom that looks like Mike Brady decorated it. We are all sworn in and asked to answer the questions both counsels will ask us. Getting wise to athiests, we are not asked to swear to God nor is a Bible anywhere in sight. Instead we are asked to tell the truth under penalty of purjury.
There went my loophole.
We spend two hours being told about the nature of the case, answering elementary questions about prior experiences that might relate to the case. A car accident is involved (this is a civil case) and anyone who knows me knows that I wreck cars on a fairly consistent basis. I figure that admitting I've been in over ten accidents in the last five years would surely disqualify me and get me excused (meaning I would not face another jury summons for another two years). Counsels excuse themselves to the judge's chamber to pick the unlucky twelve who would be their prisoners for the duration of the day.
The first number called to serve on this jury is mine.
After seating us, the judge begins to dismiss the remining jurors until she is interrupted by a shrill voice to my right. "I've decided that I can't be fair and partial in this case after all." Damn, why hadn't I thought of this? But on the flip side, why the hell didn't you say something before?
Idiot count: 31.
After randomly chosing one of the remaining candidates the case begins. A car, a bike, blah blah blah. Noting how Oregon, like Mississippi, is never in a hurry to do anything, I note that this case was filed in 2005.
Both lawyers sound like Ben Stein. The air conditioning is not working. The woman to my left smells like a nursing home and the fella directly behind me has the habit of clearing his throat every thirty seconds. By five o'clock we are nowhere near completion as the judge astutely points out and orders us to return the following morning. Had we not taken a recess every twenty minutes, being forced into a stale conference room, we might have finished in a day. Instead I was treated to regular intervals of Christian self-help book reviews by two probable 700 Club members and the ramblings of an unemployed machinist soliciting parenting advice for his meth-addicted teenaged step-daughter.
Waking up the next day I debated whether I should have coffee. Did I want to be awake enough to pay attention or drowsy enough to tune-out my fellow peanut gallery goobers?
It was even hotter in the courtroom than the day before. The woman to my left now smells like moldy nursing home.
Thankfully we cruised through closing arguments. I was hopeful we would reach a quick decision and be on our way. The verdict was clear in my mind.
But leave it to Oregon to make things complicated
.
If we found the defendant to not be 100% not at fault, then we simply signed the verdict form and that was it. But if we found any shared responsibility then we had to decide what percentage was each party at fault. If the defendant was over 51% responsible then we had to determine exactly what % responsible he was and order him to pay that % of the awardable damages. If the plaintiff was over 51% responsible we had to allow the judge to determine the % payout.
Confusion and mayhem ensued.
Our elected fore-woman, she of the Pat Robertson Fan Club, could not understand the rules of the verdict sheet if God appeared before her and inscribed them on a stone tablet. Not wanting lose another day to the idiocracy, I jumped from the back of the bus and did my best Sandra Bullock impression. We needed to keep things speeding along or we were going to blow ourselves up.
"Let's make this easy on ourselves. Raise your hand if you think the defendant is 100% at fault and that the plaintif did absolutely nothing wrong to cause this accident."
No one raised their hands.
"Is the defendant 100% innocent?"
Eleven hands. We only needed nine. I pressed the button summoning the bailiff and put an X next to our ruling. Shoving the sheet at the fore-woman I told her to sign it. Before anyone could raise an argument we had reached a verdict.
And I had reached my own: The right to a jury trial as preserved by the Constitution is the single worst idea in the history of our republic, after Prohibition, that is. Speaking of which, boy do I need a drink....
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
The Four Basic Requirements
Although I was intently listening to what my wife was saying as I shoveled the last of my Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity breakfast into my mouth, I couldn't help but overhear the exchange in the booth behind me. It was shocking enough that I instinctively held up a finger to pause the conversation and cocked my head ever so slightly so as to get a better listen. This time there was no mistaking it. My face must have betrayed my thoughts as Lisa asked me what was wrong.
"Nothing. It's just that the table of teenagers behind us just said 'please and thank you' to the waitress."
"You're kidding."
What have we come to as a society if shock and awe is what comes of witnessed politeness. Is it so unusual that someone born in the Clinton administration should possess manners and common courtesy? The sad fact is that it is rarer than Paula Abdul saying something coherent. If you were to ask any sixteen year old who Emily Post is they probably have never heard of that blog. We don't necessarily need to bring back the days of armor-clad knights defending the altruisms of chivalry, but we do need to return to the days when you took off your damned hat indoors (domed stadiums excluded, although domed stadiums in general should also be abolished...).
Manners fell by the wayside after Vietnam, when anything resembling the pre-war generation was shunned and ridiculed. Gone were the days of opening car doors for the ladies (the revolutionary "woman's movement" rendered that archaic and condescending), dressing up for special occassions (relax, man, just be yourself). Things degenerated even more as these kids grew and had children of their own in the Reagan years, better known as the "Greed is Good" era. It became the "All About Me" decade where personal well-being and wealth trumped all. This generation saw the sacrifice and hardships that their parents went through and were determined not to let those same hardships befall their children. So they coddled them, capitulated to every demand, tried to be their friend. The "me" philosophy exploded exponentially with this generation compounded by years of purposely shunning the lifestyles of the "Greatest Generation". Instead of creating a culture free of worry and sacrifice, we created a monster of selfishness, self-indulgence, and tunnel vision. So much has been done for the children of the nineties and beyond that they cannot do for themselves. They simply do not have the motivation to do for themselves.
There is a way to correct this. Our education system will never fully recover from the tragedy it is today. No politician will ever be able to fulfill promises of fixing the present system. But if you take into account the education opportunities of "the real world" and fold them into the school curriculum, the system may have a chance of succeeding. There are a few certainties that every person will face as they go through life and the school system should prepare their students for them.
Before graduating high school or getting a GED, every child should have to complete the following:
1. Spend 2 months working in a restaurant (in any capacity)
2. Spend November and December working at a retail establishment
3. Attend 2 weddings
4. Atend 2 funerals
All of the above address the fundamental lack of social skills of today's youth. Businesses that participate in a school-sponsored program receive tax beaks or government incentives. For the restaurant portion, the paycheck goes to the school for funding, the tips are kept by the student. In retail, the school and the student split the paycheck. Couples can claim their marriage license and clergy fees as charitible donations for allowing students to attend the ceremony. Funeral parlors would be able to offer discounts to families allowing students to observe.
In the restaurant business a person learns self-motivation, team-work, politeness, communication skills, how to count change, memory improvement, and physical stamina. They see what it's like to be run ragged, criticized, tormented, short-changed, and stiffed. They learn to appreciate the dining experience from a perspective everyone should have. If this were a life-requirement then the table of skater-punks crowding a booth at the local Denny's at 1 a.m. might think twice before unscrewng the lid to the salt shaker and pouring ketchup in the bottom of the sugar caddy.
It's NOT the most wonderful time of the year, Mr. Mathis, if you work in retail, that is. Rather, it's experiencing that need for immediacy on a grand scale. Patience is an elusive beast. Every Lexus-driving soccer mom becomes a army drill sargeant carricature: "You will wrap that for me, now! You will find that in your back room for me, now! You will give me a discount on that for no apparent reason, now!" If you think the mall is a scary place as a shopper, then try manning the register as you smile that Pepsodent smile, all the while shifting restlessly from foot to foot to avoid popping the countless blisters you have on your hot and sweaty feet, eyeing the never-ending queue of frowning troglodytes, and listening to Frosty the Snowman on the cheesy muzak loop for the eightieth time that day. For two months. Come January, the shopping experience will be a whole new ballgame.
I went to a wedding once where I counted four people in baseball hats. In the church. There was the wedding where a guy sitting next to the fella video taping the event, at the very back fo the church, fell asleep and snored so loudly the happy couple heard him and turned around. There is an eighteen minute gap in their vows where all they can hear are nasal ramblings. I've seen jeans, shorts, even sweatshirts. Not that I'm a religious person by any means, but I was under the impression that this was a solemn ceremony performed under the presence of God. In his house, no less. Dress up, if not for the happy couple, then for God's sake. This is the most important moment in most people's lives; dressing for the occassion is not asking much. If anything, you are in house of God, remove your damned hat! This is the chance to learn quiet respect, dignity in a formal setting, the importance of personal appearance, and selfless attention.
But we'll skip the reception. The less people who learn how to do the Electric Slide the better off we are as a nation.
It doesn't matter what movie you watch, someone dies, everyone takes off their hat. We mimic hollywood in so many aspects of our lives, so why not this? Wear something black (although other colors may signify mourning in other cultures, so be aware), conservative, and clean. Black jeans are not a viable substitute for black pants. Do not wear Raiders gear. Do not wear sunglasses unless you are immediate immediate family or Jack Nicholson. Do not bring a cell phone, pager, Game Boy, BlackBerry, or any blue-tooth item (this goes for weddings as well). Learn about the feelings and emotions of others. Learn to express grief. Learn to respect the grieving of others. Realize your own mortality.
We've all experienced these events, whether it be going out to dinner or buying a gift for Mom. We've either seen someone we know get married or had a relative pass away, and if not, we know we will at some point in our lives. We had better be prepared for it, because judging from my own experiences, we've prepared for these things as well as we prepared for Hurricane Katrina.
So it was a great head-turner when I head those two simple but oh-so-mature words in a crowded pancake house:
"thank you", from the mouths of babes.
"See, it's not too late," I said to my wife, sipping my coffee through a smile.
"They're probably Canadian....."
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
"Nothing. It's just that the table of teenagers behind us just said 'please and thank you' to the waitress."
"You're kidding."
What have we come to as a society if shock and awe is what comes of witnessed politeness. Is it so unusual that someone born in the Clinton administration should possess manners and common courtesy? The sad fact is that it is rarer than Paula Abdul saying something coherent. If you were to ask any sixteen year old who Emily Post is they probably have never heard of that blog. We don't necessarily need to bring back the days of armor-clad knights defending the altruisms of chivalry, but we do need to return to the days when you took off your damned hat indoors (domed stadiums excluded, although domed stadiums in general should also be abolished...).
Manners fell by the wayside after Vietnam, when anything resembling the pre-war generation was shunned and ridiculed. Gone were the days of opening car doors for the ladies (the revolutionary "woman's movement" rendered that archaic and condescending), dressing up for special occassions (relax, man, just be yourself). Things degenerated even more as these kids grew and had children of their own in the Reagan years, better known as the "Greed is Good" era. It became the "All About Me" decade where personal well-being and wealth trumped all. This generation saw the sacrifice and hardships that their parents went through and were determined not to let those same hardships befall their children. So they coddled them, capitulated to every demand, tried to be their friend. The "me" philosophy exploded exponentially with this generation compounded by years of purposely shunning the lifestyles of the "Greatest Generation". Instead of creating a culture free of worry and sacrifice, we created a monster of selfishness, self-indulgence, and tunnel vision. So much has been done for the children of the nineties and beyond that they cannot do for themselves. They simply do not have the motivation to do for themselves.
There is a way to correct this. Our education system will never fully recover from the tragedy it is today. No politician will ever be able to fulfill promises of fixing the present system. But if you take into account the education opportunities of "the real world" and fold them into the school curriculum, the system may have a chance of succeeding. There are a few certainties that every person will face as they go through life and the school system should prepare their students for them.
Before graduating high school or getting a GED, every child should have to complete the following:
1. Spend 2 months working in a restaurant (in any capacity)
2. Spend November and December working at a retail establishment
3. Attend 2 weddings
4. Atend 2 funerals
All of the above address the fundamental lack of social skills of today's youth. Businesses that participate in a school-sponsored program receive tax beaks or government incentives. For the restaurant portion, the paycheck goes to the school for funding, the tips are kept by the student. In retail, the school and the student split the paycheck. Couples can claim their marriage license and clergy fees as charitible donations for allowing students to attend the ceremony. Funeral parlors would be able to offer discounts to families allowing students to observe.
In the restaurant business a person learns self-motivation, team-work, politeness, communication skills, how to count change, memory improvement, and physical stamina. They see what it's like to be run ragged, criticized, tormented, short-changed, and stiffed. They learn to appreciate the dining experience from a perspective everyone should have. If this were a life-requirement then the table of skater-punks crowding a booth at the local Denny's at 1 a.m. might think twice before unscrewng the lid to the salt shaker and pouring ketchup in the bottom of the sugar caddy.
It's NOT the most wonderful time of the year, Mr. Mathis, if you work in retail, that is. Rather, it's experiencing that need for immediacy on a grand scale. Patience is an elusive beast. Every Lexus-driving soccer mom becomes a army drill sargeant carricature: "You will wrap that for me, now! You will find that in your back room for me, now! You will give me a discount on that for no apparent reason, now!" If you think the mall is a scary place as a shopper, then try manning the register as you smile that Pepsodent smile, all the while shifting restlessly from foot to foot to avoid popping the countless blisters you have on your hot and sweaty feet, eyeing the never-ending queue of frowning troglodytes, and listening to Frosty the Snowman on the cheesy muzak loop for the eightieth time that day. For two months. Come January, the shopping experience will be a whole new ballgame.
I went to a wedding once where I counted four people in baseball hats. In the church. There was the wedding where a guy sitting next to the fella video taping the event, at the very back fo the church, fell asleep and snored so loudly the happy couple heard him and turned around. There is an eighteen minute gap in their vows where all they can hear are nasal ramblings. I've seen jeans, shorts, even sweatshirts. Not that I'm a religious person by any means, but I was under the impression that this was a solemn ceremony performed under the presence of God. In his house, no less. Dress up, if not for the happy couple, then for God's sake. This is the most important moment in most people's lives; dressing for the occassion is not asking much. If anything, you are in house of God, remove your damned hat! This is the chance to learn quiet respect, dignity in a formal setting, the importance of personal appearance, and selfless attention.
But we'll skip the reception. The less people who learn how to do the Electric Slide the better off we are as a nation.
It doesn't matter what movie you watch, someone dies, everyone takes off their hat. We mimic hollywood in so many aspects of our lives, so why not this? Wear something black (although other colors may signify mourning in other cultures, so be aware), conservative, and clean. Black jeans are not a viable substitute for black pants. Do not wear Raiders gear. Do not wear sunglasses unless you are immediate immediate family or Jack Nicholson. Do not bring a cell phone, pager, Game Boy, BlackBerry, or any blue-tooth item (this goes for weddings as well). Learn about the feelings and emotions of others. Learn to express grief. Learn to respect the grieving of others. Realize your own mortality.
We've all experienced these events, whether it be going out to dinner or buying a gift for Mom. We've either seen someone we know get married or had a relative pass away, and if not, we know we will at some point in our lives. We had better be prepared for it, because judging from my own experiences, we've prepared for these things as well as we prepared for Hurricane Katrina.
So it was a great head-turner when I head those two simple but oh-so-mature words in a crowded pancake house:
"thank you", from the mouths of babes.
"See, it's not too late," I said to my wife, sipping my coffee through a smile.
"They're probably Canadian....."
this blog may also be viewed at:
www.myspace.com/mcmuppet
don't forget to read Chicken's blog at:
www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie
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