Mall Story

mallDo you still visit the mall? We do because it’s a place to walk when the weather is bad. But we don’t actually buy anything at the mall because the prices are higher since the stores have to pay rent equivalent to Venezuela’s annual budget.

Today is a rainy day so my son and I used the mall to kill some time and get some exercise. As we walked along the concourses we passed one store after another all missing the same thing: customers. The hangdog looks of the bored clerks, ahem, associates, ahem kids earning money to feed their Starbucks habits, is pretty pitiful. As you walk by they stare at you with the same longing a Millennial might have for a 3-hour work day. Indeed, no one’s holding anything besides a latte’, a baby stroller or pretzel. Actual merchandise purchases? None, unless you count a box of Cinnabons.

Stores for overpriced purses, Native American blankets and trinkets, tea, popcorn, tuxedos, $200 jeans, ladies evening wear, faux diamond jewelry, candles, make up, fudge, cases for smartphones, eyebrow knitting and shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes. All sorts of things, but no one to buy them. Even the anchor stores appear adrift. As we buzzed through one to get to the exit a hopeful sales person begs to help me.  When you politely respond, “sorry, just making a beeline for my car,” their face sags as if you just insulted their kicky little name badge.

I’m not ashamed to admit I’m old enough to remember a time before enclosed shopping malls and they were fun, festival-like market places. But when erstwhile open air centers, like Green Acres and Roosevelt Field on Long Island  were “malled” they instantly became popular destinations jammed with actual shoppers. Yeah, we bought things. Malls were also places we could drive to and hang out just after we received our drivers licenses. Now, they’re as cool as MySpace, populated mainly by speed walkers who would just as soon mow you down rather than avoid a collision that threatens to slow their pace.

Yes, malls are still jammed with Christmas shoppers but it’s not the same. In the 70’s when we lived in Central New York State we’d make a 30-mile trip to Syracuse and power shop at Fairmount Fair or Shoppingtown Dewitt. We’d buy so much we’d have to make several trips to the car to dump our bags and dive back in for more. Both malls are now dead and we do most of our shopping online or at strip centers where prices are better and you can zip in and out without having to endure walking by the screaming at the kid’s play place.

It’s still a kick to walk around the mall once in awhile, but I really don’t buy anything except maybe a snack or a drink from a vending machine. Although it is a little bit of fun when one of those obnoxious kids working at a pushcart attempts to stick a sample of “essence of tripe” under your nose, you advise them “get that away from me! It triggers my recurring flesh-eating bacteria.” It’s all in good fun.

 

 

Dupes are Wild

nflwildcardWhy do they call it the “wild card” spot in the playoffs? Doesn’t “wild card” really mean a card that can be anything? You know…deuces are wild! That means even a lowly 2 of clubs can be an ace of spades. When it comes to the playoffs for Major League Baseball and the NFL the term “wild card” refers to teams with mostly marginal records scamming a shot at actually winning the league championship by recording just enough victories to gain a spot in the tournament to fill in the bottom half of one of the brackets.  mlbwildcardNow by definition, if such teams were truly “wild cards” they could act like the wild deuce in poker and play as the first place team if they wished, gaining home field advantage and playing the worst-qualifying team in the first round. But they are not wild. They are what they are. Deuces who remain worthless twos, where every other card is better.  Indeed, “wild card” is a misguided euphemism for “crappiest team to scam a seat at the adult table.”

The NHL and NBA are much more honest about a team’s position in the playoffs. Teams are ranked by their records. Number 1 plays number 8 in the first round. In baseball, number 8 could hide its lousy record behind the “wild card” label. Actually, in baseball there are two wild card teams, giving  fans in two cities hope their under-achieving teams have a shot at the big prize.

Now, if I’m on a team that actually played well most of the season and earned a division or conference title I would be royally pissed that some lowly wild card team could get lucky and eliminate my team from contention   and win the championship, as has happened several times.

When I was a kid, it was simple in baseball. The first place teams in the American and National Leagues at the end of the regular season played each other in the World Series to determine that year’s champion. If your team ended up a half-game out after game 162, tough beans. Better luck next year. That made for some amazing pennant races and gave the regular season real meaning.

Remember the original meaning of the term. If you’re a “wild card,” it just means you have the right to pretend you’re something you’re not.

Read-tirement

Books HD

Books HD

When someone retires thoughts generally run towards travel, relocation, spending more time with the grandkids, or tackling those long-deferred “projects.”

We don’t have any grandchildren so cross off that one from the list. We like where we live and I’ve seen enough airports for a long time so travel, except for short one or two-day car trips are on the back burner. I have begun to work on some projects I’ve put off, but the thing I’ve discovered to be the most satisfying after two months on the shelf, is grabbing a comfortable seat near a window with the sun shining through, and reading a book.

Oh, I’ve always been a reader but most of my reading would be at bedtime and within ten pages I’d conk out and the book would clunk me on the noggin’. What a treat to read during waking hours! Doesn’t matter what the book is. I’ve buzzed through everything from John Sandford and David Baldacci cop capers and international intrigue, to memoirs from John Fogarty and Toni Tennille to the guilty pleasure of a James Patterson page turner, a guide to paddling in Michigan and a battered copy of a Hemingway novel.

Doesn’t matter what form the book is in as long as it’s in English. I’ll read ’em on my Kindle or an actual book. The library is a five minute drive from our house and we’re there several times a week, so there’s no excuse to ever be without a book.

When I find myself with even a five minute window of opportunity, I rush to grab whatever I’m reading at the time and slam down a page or three, rather than waste the time online or watching TV. At any one time I might have two or three books stacked up on my night stand ready for consumption. The pile is never depleted. When I’m down to one, I’m off to the library.

I honestly didn’t see this coming when I thought about retiring, so this has been a pleasant surprise. So much so, if I can put down the book I’m currently reading…I might write one myself. But meanwhile, I don’t need to relocate or travel much. I can visit all sorts of places, and with a myriad of fascinating characters, right from my Lazy Boy.

 

Dart misses target

lastddart

Personally, I wasn’t happy when they named it the Dart. We had a history. The good part was I passed my driver’s test in my brother’s ’65 Dart. The bad news is when I inherited that lemon during my senior year in college, first I got into an accident that crushed the trunk, then I decided to make a little $$ by offering a rides home and back for Thanksgiving break. The Dart would have none of it. Somewhere on Route 17 in the middle of the Catskills the Dart decided “no mas!” At least for a few hours while it took a long break on the shoulder and mocked me as I sprayed something into the carburetor that was supposed to cure what ailed it. My passengers were not amused and by the time we limped onto Long Island many hours later, they rather brusquely informed me they would find another ride back to school. The Dart appeared to have felt flush with victory at the news its mopey passengers wouldn’t be making the 300 mile return trip, and performed flawlessly on the way back.

Busted by a birther

In a small way I relate to being on the wrong end of “birther” accusations. I was born in Woodbury, New Jersey, but my family moved back to its native New York City just 6 months later, meaning I had no recollection of my brief time as an infant in the Garden State. I’ve always considered myself a New Yorker, because that’s where I was brought up. Many years later when my wife and I moved to Arizona we registered to vote. When I was asked where I was born, I instinctively said “New York City.” At which my wife, helpfully cut in to correct me by blurting out, “No you weren’t! He was born in New Jersey!” Duly busted I could only grimace and nod to the clerk who gave me the most sympathetic look as she shook her head…and made the correction.

A 24-year wait for the perfect pizza

I’ve been living in my neighborhood for 24 years and never once stopped in a little deli that sported a modest sign hawking pizza and wine. Been by the place thousands of times without stopping in but I decided today was the day to end the string. Looked up their number. Wasn’t easy. The place has no website but does have a Facebook page which is also where the menu is found. When I called to order a pizza and bread sticks the phone rang a few times and was answered by a woman with a light accent that I couldn’t quite identify. When I gave my order, she “ok, I’ll get it ready. Give me 25 minutes.” It sounded like a mom taking a request for a special dish from her kid. When I arrived an older gentleman greeted me warmly, smiled, and directed me to the pick up counter. The place was immaculate and modern with rows and rows of fine wines and a cigar humidor. The kind woman who took my order smiled when she saw me. Didn’t have to say my name. She just knew..and brought me my order. I paid the gentleman up front and told him, sheepishly, how long I’d passed his place without stopping in. He just replied, “it’s ok..you passed by for 24 years, I’ve been here for 28, so it’s not so bad.” Well…the food was awesome. Not some corporate franchise cardboard, but a tasty pie with perfect crust. The moral of the story, slow down, get to know your neighbors..and support them. They’ll appreciate it.

One HoJo’s to Go

hijoI have a couple of lasting memories of Howard Johnson’s. One, because of the shape of the scooper they used, the ice cream looked like upside down dunce caps sitting atop a sugar cone. Each scoop not only had that distinct shape, they all also seemed to always be infused with chips of ice because, I guess, of some mandated freezer setting that was totally inappropriate. 

hojocone

My other lasting memory is service that varied from slow..to glacial. A stop at a HoJo on a road trip meant you were going to show up at your destination at least an hour late.  But you didn’t really care because that orange roof, the prospect of digging your teeth into a clam roll or hot dog on one of those oddball buns and licking one of those dunce cap ice cream cones represented everything good about America. The service may have been slow, but at least it was friendly. The prices weren’t bad and moms and dads could feel confident they were treating their families to a wholesome meal and clean bathrooms.

I’m thinking about Howard Johnson’s because with the recent closing of the Bangor, Maine restaurant, there’s only one left–in Lake George, New York. That one seems to be doing well but I expect that one day the last HoJo will be NoMo.

Only those of a certain age remember time when there wasn’t a fast food joint at every exit and places like Howard Johnson’s and Stuckeys and Horne’s horneswere the oases you hoped would appear around the next bend with their tall signs stuckeysbeckoning you from the road for food, rest and yes, their restrooms. I never fell victim to a Stuckeys pecan log roll but guess what, I still have a shot. According to their website  there’s a Stuckeys near Indianapolis…that’s within a day’s drive from my home.

Just as Howard Johnson’s hangs on with one last location, one Horne’s restaurant remains in Port Royal, Virginia.

I think the last time I went to a Howard Johnson’s was back where I went to college in Oswego, New York. My then-girlfriend, who’s now been my wife of 43 years, and I, would hop over to HoJo a few blocks from campus to take advantage of their “Double Bubble” drink special, which provided giant alcoholic beverages at college student prices. Even though the college was the town’s meal ticket the waitresses always scowled at us scruffy students and served us only begrudgingly knowing we were not only scruffy, but crappy tippers. Still, for my wife and I it brings back warm memories of our courtship and we still do “double bubble” several times a week at home. I can tell you this..the service is a lot friendlier!

Still, it’s sad to see some of our cultural touchstones fade with time but business is business I suppose. However, I’d give anything to lick one more ice chip -infused dunce cap cone. Fall in Lake George sounds nice.

The art of parting

It’s been a month since I left my laptop and iPhone on my desk, locked my office and walked out of Fiat Chrysler Automobiles for the last time and into retirement. Since then, among other things, I’ve thought about my other workplace exits and how some were better than others.

This one was probably the best. I had it planned for several months so it came as no surprise to my boss, who had treated me royally. My wonderful team tossed me a great lunch, presented me with a basket of bourbon, signed each bottle, and produced several videos that absolutely blew me away ranging from heartfelt expressions of farewell, goodbye, thanks and hilarious wiseass comments–to a collection of outtakes from my standups that exposed me as more than fallible, and they even created a spoof of my infamous “April in the D” song with the words changed to “All Because of E.” It was very hard to keep it together viewing those videos knowing that short of an occasional lunch or drinks, after 11 years I wouldn’t be seeing my second family every day. 20160729_135507

By the time my last day, July 29th, rolled around, I was spent from all the “goodbyes” and actually slipped out of the office with barely a word, swiped my badge for the last time, got in my car and called my wife, telling her “retirement as begun!”

But not every one of my employment exits was quite as, let’s say, smooth. There was the disastrous merger between Time Warner and AOL when I worked at CNN. We knew there would be layoffs but while I was at the Detroit Auto Show my boss took the time to page me (this was 2001) to let me know our bureau in Detroit would “not be touched.” Big relief! For 72 hours. A few days later I had returned from a shoot when my boss called me to let me know he was paying our bureau a visit the next day and that I should arrive and 9am and the rest of my staff should come an hour later. I was pretty obvious I was getting the boot. So I asked him what happened. “Oh,” changed our mind,” was his lame answer. I was pretty stunned and upset, then got it together spending the next few hour giving my staff the news, exchanging a few hugs, a few tears and then started gathering my stuff and put the past 20 years behind me. When the loser came in the next day to give me the official word and have me sign papers re my severance I asked again why the change of heart. He actually said, “now’s not the time.” Huh? Time had run out, and so did I.

When I left The Detroit News, it was to take the job that morphed into the one I held at FCA. The automaker was starting its first blog (2005) and the head of PR wanted an autowriter to manage and ghost write it for him. Cool job. I had been looking for work for a bit and six months prior had accepted a job at the rival Detroit Free Press but the News hated having their autowriters poached by the competition and gave me a huge raise to stay. So I did, but I still hated it there and kept looking. when the FCA job came through I jumped at it but never got a chance to give notice quite the way you should. While covering the annual auto industry conference in Traverse City, Mich., I called in a story we would be breaking, but I was flummoxed to find it wasn’t in the next day’s paper. That was the last straw for me after putting up with three years of what I thought was questionable and unethical editing decisions. What no one knew was that I had already sealed the deal on my new job so I had nothing to lose when I exploded in the media room at the conference, slamming down the phone and declaring, loud enough for all to hear, “screw it! I quit!” Of course it took only two breath’s time for that revelation to reach my boss back in Detroit who was not pleased to hear of my impending departure from a reporter at the Free Press. Oooops. They tossed me a goodbye thing anyway..maybe to make sure I was really leaving!

My favorite exit was from my part-time job as a stockboy/cashier at a department store on Long Island when I was in high school. Part of my duties was as the “bargain broadcaster,” announcing in-store sales from time-to-time as well as letting the shoppers know when the store was about to close. I shared the announcing duties with a friend who had a big, big voice. It was our last night on the job, and then we were headed Jones Beach to celebrate. But my friend and I were not what you would call “model employees.” He had been fired, twice, and I was laid off once. It was his turn in the booth to announce the impending closing of the store. He had to say, “Attention S. Klein shoppers. When you hear the bell, it means the store will close in 10 minutes. Please bring your purchases to the nearest cashier and check out.” Then the security guy named Bill would ring the bell. However, since it was our last night, my friend, whose name I am protecting, decided the announcement should be a little more, um, emphatic so he changed it. “Attention S. Klein shopper. When you hear the bell, it means the store will close in 10 minutes. Please bring your purchases to the nearest cashier and check out. SO BILL, RING THE EFFIN’ (he said the real word) BELL SO WE CAN ALL GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE!” We hit the exit before security could propel us by our belt loops out onto the hot, asphalt parking lot.

What I learned over the years is no matter what the circumstances of your departure from a job, always leave on the best terms possible. In all cases, except for the department store thing, I made sure I shook the boss’s hand, left a nice, positive goodbye note to my co-workers and removed any rotting deli from my desk drawers.

DTW to JFK to BOS to CDG to LHR to STFU

airportcodesYou’ve seen those people. You may be one of them. You know. Inveterate airport code posters on Facebook or Twitter. “Hey! I’m LGA to HNL for a fabulous 2-week vacation.” I always thought that a person willing to reveal their absence should add the helpful information, “so go ahead and rob my house. Just got a new 75-inch TV. Best to take it out through the garage. Don’t worry. No one will be home for the next two weeks.”

But it’s not only vacationers. It’s business travelers. I suppose it’s a way of broadcasting you’re traveling the world on the boss’s dime and that makes you one cool ass guy or girl. It really doesn’t. It broadcasts the fact that you’re deluded into believing people will be jealous of you because you spend much of your life on an airborne tube stuffed with people who smell bad and try to pound a steamer trunk into the overhead bins.

I don’t think I’m being paranoid by never posting on social media that I’m away from home. Believe me. My “adoring” public can wait for the photos until I return and my home and family aren’t sitting ducks for whatever mayhem this crazy world has in mind.

As for the ego trip of letting the world know that I’m traveling the world? Please. Given the conditions of air travel today I would think it much more prestigious to boast about traveling in complete comfort in a shipping container in the depths of the cargo hold of a Great Lakes coal hauler.

So if I see a post from you that’s nothing more than a string of airport codes I’ll just figure it’s a cry for help. Perhaps the code you need to post is SOS.

 

Justifiable Shopper-cide

ddsAlmost two weeks into my voluntary unemployment, called, “retirement,” I’ve become all too familiar with a life form I’ll call DDS, “death deserving shoppers.” These are shoppers whose eyes are fixed-focused on their phones, whether plying the aisles of a store or navigating their way around a parking lot. Their eyes never leave their phones, even as they walk, blissfully blind about the possibility that oncoming vehicles will turn their smartphones, and bodies, into instant speed bumps. Where we once had the expectation that pedestrians would look both ways before crossing a roadway, and give way to cars and trucks that could impair their ability to reach their destination alive, now the DDS simply dive in, figuring the squeal of brakes, a flipping finger, maybe a horn honk would validate their selfish supposition motorists will do anything to work around them without causing fatalities. Actually, if you are, or know a DDS, you should know we motorists don’t care about avoiding your fatality. We are simply averse to all the paperwork.