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Brit comedian Eddie Izzard does a bit about a school guidance counselor. “Aim lower, you’re British,” he advises, over and over. The student’s aspirations are gradually reduced to the comically macabre performance art of “putting babies on spikes.” If you’ve seen it (it’s in Dress to Kill), you’re smiling right now. If you’ve seen other Eddie Izzard routines, you believe me that it’s funny. If you’ve never seen Mr. Izzard perform, you are wondering how this could possibly be funny. Take my word for it, or watch a sample (contains profanity).
I noticed a similar lack of ambition, or perceived lack, in the Hollywood adaptation of Nick Hornby’s book High Fidelity. The movie changed the location from London to Chicago but didn’t much change the story, except for the ending. [Spoiler alert] At the end of the book, Rob finds happiness as a club DJ, the only thing he ever really loved doing – and, of course, gets the girl. In the movie, Rob becomes a record producer with a hit single – and, of course, gets the girl. It bothers me that the book’s ending was not seen as “happy” enough for the movie (This is completely my own interpretation of the change, BTW. It may not be why it was done at all.) And it isn’t just the difference between books and film. Even British films tend to be smaller, more personal, just ask Eddie (more profanity).
I find it interesting that in America, finding joy in your passion isn’t enough for a happy ending. You need fame and fortune, acknowledgment from the world at large. The Brits aren’t any less ambitious – they used to rule the known world, that’s pretty ambitious – they just have a more liberal definition of success. You don’t have to be rich, or rule the world, or the record industry, to be considered successful and happy. You just have to pursue your dream. Perhaps after the U.S. has conquered the world, we’ll be content with smaller successes, too. Oh, wait, we won’t be doing that – we elected the other guy.
But this does seem like an awful lot of pressure to put on schoolchildren. Since only the tiniest percentage of people achieve the sort of success seen in American movies, since our culture venerates a type of happy ending few can expect, since we clearly should not be satisfied with ordinary lives, we all are doomed to disappointment and a chronic sense of inadequacy. As a child, I was told I would grow up to do great things. What are these things, I wondered, and if I don’t do them, will I be a failure?
Kids today do have one outlet, one sure way to achieve real American success – reality television. You can be famous just by being foolish in front of millions of people. You may be one of the few who get rich, so toss your hat in ring and start behaving badly. If you happen to be rich already, you have a leg up on the rest of us. In just a few weeks you could become a recognizable face, a popular personality, a villain people love to hate. You could have the caché of Dr. No, Lady Diana or Michael Vick by next Tuesday.
This, it would seem, is where our rabid ambition has led us. There are moments when I am proud to be American, glad that the accident of my birth landed me here. President Obama’s election was one of those moments. Watching TMZ, was not.
According to the World Database of Happiness, we in the U.S. are currently ranked 20th in the world for average happiness level. We drop to 68 when they take into consideration the disparity in happiness levels among our population. I wonder if we’d be happier as a people if we could find a new way to define success.
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The Olympics started with a tragic accident, and we watched Nodar Kumaritashvili die, over and over. NBC played those four seconds at every break, it seemed. I couldn’t watch it. Part of me wanted to, just to see, but I had to turn away and fast forward through it. Did you, like watching the proverbial train wreck, find yourself glued to the screen? Did you stare at his body, tossed again and again off the track? Did you want to see it? Would you feel deprived if you couldn’t?
The people have a right to know. The press declares its freedom and gives us what we want. What they think we want. What we must want, since their goal is to draw the most eyeballs, generate ratings, ad sales, revenue. Anything that doesn’t interest us quickly disappears for lack of ratings, so we must want to see death, destruction, tragedy.
But do we have a right not just to know, but also to see? To be shocked, horrified, exhilarated, entertained by the death of someone’s son, husband, father, brother, friend? When they switch on the TV, they see him, too – is that fair? Is it right? There are far more of us – the hungry public – than there are of them – the grieving loved ones – so majority rules, right?
Is that it? Is the world run like a playground?
I felt the same way about the photos from Abu Ghraib. These human beings were humiliated and degraded. Not only that, it was captured on film (or bits – whatever). Let’s compound their misery and this horrible mistake by showing the pictures to the whole world. Great idea!
A friend suggested that the media must show these things, or we would cry cover up. Fine. Let the journalists look. Let them be our eyes, our witness. And let them report. That’s their job, isn’t it? Let them tell us what they saw, share their shock and horror, and we’ll forgo our more prurient tendencies. Maybe that will help us to be a little more human.
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I was sick last week – down with a flu for five days. An enforced stay-cation. Idleness without guilt. I spent most of my days on the couch watching TV and drinking tea. I watched a lot of TV – really, a lot. And so I feel I should take this opportunity to confess publicly: I love television.
And not just the good stuff on PBS or Discovery. Give me Tabatha’s Salon Takeover and RuPaul’s Drag Race. Launch My Line and So You Think You Can Dance. Fringe, Heroes and Doctor Who. Gray’s Anatomy, Private Practice and House. Bones, CSI and NCIS. I am addicted to Project Runway and Top Chef. I don’t give a fig for cars, but I can’t stop watching Top Gear. I love staying home to veg in front of the TV. It is with guilt and embarrassment that I reveal my weakness for the “Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine.”
But, why a confession? you might ask.
I am not supposed to like television. I am supposed to be far too sophisticated, too cultured, too busy to waste my time with the boob tube. I should find it boring, pointless, grating or cloying. I should be appalled by the poor quality, the ridiculous plotting, the vacuous people… but I’m not. (Well, there are some shows that fall below even my watchability threshold.) I am a disgrace to my upbringing – a failed culture snob.
I worship my DVR and I’m done trying to hide it.
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“You’re not fat enough to be an American.” I heard this statement recently on the BBC’s “Top Gear.” And it was funny. Even the young, not-at-all-fat American woman laughed, albeit uncomfortably, when it was said to her. According to the World Health Organization, the US falls at #3 worldwide in percentage of obese adults, behind the Pacific Island nations of American Samoa and Kiribati. Not that the Brits have all that much to celebrate – they’re at #10. There has been a lot of discussion in the last decade about why we’re getting fat and how to stop it. The first question seems pretty simple.
You may have noticed a billboard for Coca-Cola with the tag line, “Enough for your meal.” It is touting the new twin pack of 50 ounce bottles of Coke, implying that previous packages have been inadequate. That’s right, those old 2-liter bottles do not hold enough for a single meal. When feeding your family, you need a full 100 ounces of Coca-Cola to be sure you don’t run out. Really?
Now, I don’t even like soda, so this concept is completely alien to me, but EEW. How many people are at this “meal” for which 100 ounces is “enough”? Are we feeding octo-mom’s brood? God forbid someone should have to drink water, and whatever you do, don’t give those children milk. (Sorry, octo-mom, I’m sure you don’t pour cola down their gullets.)
As of the 2000 census, the average family had 3.14 members – up about a half point from the previous decade – so let’s say that families have grown slightly faster and presume that today the average family has 4 members. That’s 25 ounces, or just over 3 servings, of Coke for each person. The billboard shows two bottles of regular Coke, so we’ll use that in our example… According to Coca-Cola’s Website, that’s nearly 300 calories and 90 grams of carbs – presumably all from sugar.
I know I’m not the only person flabbergasted by this campaign. I know this because I’ve marveled with my friends and seen others marveling, too. One woman even posted a picture to Flickr. So, I guess the only question left is, “How do we stop it?”
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What happened to Day Six? you might ask… it happened, but I missed it. Yes, for the first time in my life, I missed a shift. I was mortified. The manager said, “It happens.” Really? Not to me. And no one called, so I didn’t even know I’d missed the shift until two days later. It seems that sometimes schedules are changed at the last minute. Now I know.
So Day Seven was a Saturday – the last Saturday before Christmas, to be precise, and the URL was hopping. I raced up and down the stairs of hell a dozen times an hour, maybe more. Most people were very nice, and some were even patient. I tried on sneakers for a man shopping for his wife – assessing the arch support. We went with the black ones. I found snow boot stand-ins for a woman who had recently had surgery on her foot. It needed to be soft and unzip, unlace or unbuckle all the way down, so she could get her swollen foot safely inside. The answer? Mukluks! I don’t think I realized these were an actual brand of shoes until I started this gig.
For my much needed and well-deserved break, I made a bee-line for the mall Santa. Not to sit in his lap and rattle off my list – just to watch. He is one good looking Santa, even with the coccyx cushion. I don’t think the facial hair is real (I wasn’t close enough to tell), but it is very good. And he has the jolly twinkle down to a science.
Most impressive, perhaps, is his sincerity. He listens with earnest attention to each and every child. And some of those kids have a lot to say. One girl of about nine stood before him, weight shifted to her right, in serious discussion for nearly five minutes. Santa was rapt the entire time, focused and in character. There was not one ironic glance. No hint of levity. Santa is listening, and he cares. That is a skill.
I returned to the URL and to hell refreshed and restored. Ready to charge up and down the stairs for a few hours more….
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Bacon wrapped matzoh balls with horseradish cream; Sweet potato fritters with fried sage; Cucumber salad with toasted garbanzo beans, chili threads and a crispy sesame leaf; Chicken sandwich on homemade rye with pickled turnips; Sticky pudding with sage and brown sugar ice cream.
It is not a pretty neighborhood. We walked down hobo alley – where there actually were men on the sidewalk playing dice for money (I thought that only happened in the movies!) – to get there. The Alexandria Hotel use to be a glittering home-away-from-home for the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Humphrey Bogart, Mae West, Rudolph Valentino, Clark Gable, Greta Garbo, Winston Churchill and several U.S. Presidents, including Taft, Wilson and Teddy Roosevelt. Now it is home to low-income residences made up of “Micro-Lofts®,” complete with community spaces and regular visits from social services. And The Gorbals.
To say that this is an unexpected location for a foodie paradise is a gross understatement.
The restaurant isn’t fancy. There is little to distract from the food – I’d describe it as Minimalist Rustic Industrial. Rough-hewn tables, exposed pipes and ductwork and an open kitchen with counter seating. The lunch menu is on a chalkboard over the tiny bar. If there is anything else on the walls, I didn’t notice. The only decoration I saw are the leaded glass windows that look out onto the lobby – I assume they are original to the building.
It was a bit surreal to see Ilan (Top Chef Season Two winner) bustling about in the kitchen. I went over to thank him for the beautiful meal, and he was gracious and warm. We talked about the food – he was curious to know what we thought of it. He really seems to be treating the restaurant as a laboratory, trying things out and modifying as he goes. It was the first day for the Sweet Potato Fritters, for example. They are absolutely delicious – crispy and caramelized on the outside, rich and creamy inside – and the unexpected addition of the sage leaves is the perfect foil for the sweetness. There was an issue with structural integrity, however. With no coating on the outside, they didn’t really hold together the way you’d expect something called a fritter would. Ilan is working on it, and in this workshop of a restaurant that seems just fine.
It’s a tiny operation. Well, maybe there’s a larger staff at dinner, but when we were there, there was Ilan, a sous chef and one server. Far from seeming neglected, the spare staff added to the homey sense of the place – almost like the chef is cooking for you in his home. I have great respect for a man who takes his prize money and spends it so carefully (the rent at the Alexandria must be cheap), and keeps the focus where it belongs – the food. I am enchanted by The Gorbals and its unassuming proprietor. I hope to go back soon to sample more of his outstanding food.
http://www.thegorbalsla.com/
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Given the level of organization I have experienced thus far at the URL, it is hardly surprising that when I showed up this morning for my register training (a few minutes late, I admit) I was not expected, and there really wasn’t anyone there to help.
A very nice gentleman pointed me in the direction of the training room, indicated the CDs, and said I could use any computer. Then he disappeared. And I didn’t see him or any other HR person again.
So I started. It’s a self-directed, interactive course with video segments, guided practice at a training register, and multiple choice and matching questions. The test at the end is a series of policy and procedure questions based on a video customer, including a few transactions. My favorite question is below.
What should you do when the prompt “Insert the check into the printer” appears?
a. Insert the check into the printer and press “Enter.”
b. Place the check in the cash drawer.
c. Ask the customer for another form of ID.
Really.
By admin
Revelation for today: When the URL is slow, this job is mind-numbing. I am not surprised by the boredom; I am surprised the store was slow on a Saturday evening before Christmas. I’ll chalk it up to the rain.
The lull did, however, afford me the opportunity to take a few pictures. The manager seemed a bit suspicious but didn’t object. I was photographing the ankle boot army at the time:
A somewhat diminished spiky, furry phalanx!
Perhaps if I’d been seen taking pictures of hell, the reaction would have been different? Maybe they think I’m a spy! Is there such a thing as a “secret associate”? You know, like a secret shopper, but on the staff? Probably not, but if there were, I think I’d seem like one of them. A coworker asked me today if I was an associate or a manager. I answered honestly and asked if I appeared managerial. He said, “Yes.” I’m not sure what I’m doing to give this impression, and, really, it only came from one person. But, like complaint letters to big corporations, I presume that one comment represents multiple people with the same thought. Can you take a principle like that and scale it down to the personal? Does it still apply? I’m going to pretend it does.
Anyway, here’s hell… and if that’s not bad enough, hell isn’t waterproof, either. It leaks!
A tiny corner of hell.
The obstacle course that is the eighth circle has new tricks and traps. Puddles, trashcans and flattened cardboard boxes block aisles and stairwells. Fun!
Hell has leaks.
I’d like to take this time to note that since the last time I worked, hell has been significantly cleaned and straightened. It really is rather impressive. Fewer boxes are sliding off the shelves and blocking your path. The boxes are neat and orderly and facing the same way. The same shoes are still not consistently together, but it’s a lot easier to navigate, to be honest. Not that I had much to do down there today. Did I mention it was slow?
By admin
Exciting things happen every day. To me. They didn’t used to, but with a few minor adjustments, I’ve been able to up my excitement quotient significantly. No, I have not started holding up liquor stores or running out into traffic. In fact, I didn’t change my behavior at all. The trick to having an exciting life is lowering your expectations.
What do you think is exciting? What makes you smile? Is your life mostly dull? I highly recommend lowering your threshold for amazement, amusement and joy. That is how I made my life more exciting: with ordinary victories and mundane diversions.
In my new job at the Undisclosed Retail Location (URL), I have found a wealth of amusement. I am starting to understand the eighth circle of hell – the stockroom for those of you who missed my previous entry. About 80 thousand times each shift, I go questing for shoes in hell. And sometimes I find them. Without any help. This moment is one I savor. I have the Box. In the Box are two shoes of the same size and color, but different feet. If the story ended right here, I’d be satisfied. Finding the Holy Grail is reason enough to be excited.
But then I return to the surface with my prize and am rewarded with a smile from a happy customer – well, sometimes. Some people are annoyed they had to wait so long. If they had any conception of what it’s like down there, they’d all be showering me with pearls and fancy titles like Archduchess of Ankle Boots or Thane of Cawdor. But, really, the finding is enough – and a thank you, maybe a smile, too, is nice.
Now, while searching through hell I have found additional amusement in the shoe style names. Who would call a high heeled pump “Clown”? Look at my fab new Clown shoes?! Really?!!? I wish I could remember which line that was, but I can’t – just believe me when I tell you it was a fancy dress-up sort of shoe with a big, tall, spiky heel. My other current favorite is “Kookiee.” It’s a hideous patchworky-looking skimmer flat (I think that’s redundant, but I added “flat” for those who read skimmer and said “huh?”).
Tonight’s unexpected bonus was a row of stiletto, black patent leather, lace-up ankle boots, with wispy fur trim around the top. One pair alone might be sweet, but a row of a dozen is enchanting! That was my biggest smile of the day. I would not in a million years want to own this shoe, but boy do I love looking at a phalanx of them. I giggled. I pointed. I commented to the man who was setting them up. I was pleased to discover he understood – or at least could appreciate – my delight. If they’re still there Saturday, I’ll take a picture.
By admin
So, I’m not working a full-time job for the first time in… well, in my adult life, I guess. I decided I should take this opportunity to do things I didn’t have time to do before. I am volunteering at a high school for pregnant and parenting teens. I’m cooking and baking bread – a lot. I am pretending to be a lady who lunches. I am spending more time with my friends. And, since freelance work is thin on the ground in December, I got myself a holiday sales job.
I have not worked retail since the mid-1990s. When I landed that non-customer service related job, I celebrated – NO MORE CUSTOMERS! Because, face it, most of you are mean and impatient on a good day; and at Christmastime… you’re all demons. Well, I’m back again in sales-land, in the ladies shoe department of an Undisclosed Retail Location (URL).
Tonight was my first time on the sales floor. I have had no training. I don’t know how to clock in. I cannot ring up a sale. There is no manager around to tell me what I should be doing. I don’t understand how the department is organized. And the 2-story stock room bears an uncanny resemblance to the eighth circle of hell.
I was in the store less than five minutes before being yelled at by a member of the public. While waiting to ask someone just what I should be doing, a customer asked me to ring up a sale. I explained it was my first day, and I didn’t yet know how. She told me she was a manager at the URL and could show me. This didn’t seem right. I don’t know her, and I’m pretty sure she’s not allowed to ring up her own sale. So I told her I wasn’t comfortable doing that. This made her very unhappy. She stormed off, and I retreated to the stock room for a tour with a remarkably friendly and helpful young man we’ll call Roger.
After the grand tour of hell, I did some “go-backs” – which had some other odd name I can’t remember – to try to get the hang of things. Roger had to go to dinner, so I was sent to the floor and stapled to Emily – no, that’s not really her name, either, and there were no no actual fasteners involved. In fact, I ended up on my own pretty quick. I was able to help a number of customers and even found some shoes for them down in hell. Most everyone was kind and understanding – I wonder how long I can keep telling people it’s my first day?
