Monthly Archives: March 2014
Ok, so it wasn’t a letter. Well, I mean, I suppose you could consider it one. Sort of. I don’t get very many comments on this site, and certainly not many from real people—I’m looking at you Malkovich. So when I do, I usually don’t realize it for months and then forget to respond to them at all, specifically that guy who found episodes of Jin Jin and the Panda Patrol after I mentioned it. I swear, I’m going get back to you soon. There’s another reason I’ve been thinking about comments and responses, and hopefully I’ll be able to share that reason relatively soon. So this was already on my mind when, in response to a terribly written and pointless rant about car window decals I posted a while back, random internet person Dave informed me that:
“The reason most people put decals on there cars is because they have built the motor, and turned them into little hot rods. A dumb ass wouldn’t know that. And it does make them look cooler. Nice webpage though, it makes you look like a idiot. But if you have anymore why’s hit me up, i’ll be glad to help you understand.”
While it took over a year and half from its original posting for Dave to stumble on it, probably while shopping for new windshield decals, I’m still a little miffed he hasn’t gotten back to me on the response I left for him. I tried to be timely. Also, Dave, you could not possibly have spent enough time on my site to establish that I am an idiot. Stats, Dave, stats. There just weren’t page views for the day you commented for you to have seen enough of Gas Station Burrito to make an educated determination. I would like an apology for that comment.
But in an effort to better communicate with all four of my readers and the other two people, in addition to Dave, who accidentally found GSB this year, I’d like to share my response again. I tried to balance being timely with offering a sincere and well thought out response. It’s probably the first time I was timely in anything and it was certainly more sincere than what that dick John Malkovich got…
I still don’t understand, but I appreciate your feedback. I’ve been thinking your comments over and I’d like to say this: To me it seems that the decals cheapen the car. I know next to nothing about cars, a fact I am ashamed of every day. Check the oil, fill the radiator, all four tires appear to be attached, that’s the extent of my knowledge. But the guys who rebuild their engines (and their friend’s engine, and their sister’s engine, and their neighbor’s…) the guys who bleed for their cars, who sink every day off and spare dollar into making, replacing, rebuilding, tracking down original parts, all in the service of, in some cases, works of art on four wheels, aren’t the type I’d expect to have decals on their cars.
Maybe I overestimate their pride in their own vehicles. Or I mistakenly thought they would surround themselves predominantly with similar-minded people, the sort who could tell you what you were running blindfolded just by listening to the engine turnover; the kind of person who would expect you to know their car a mile away from the custom exhaust system you helped them install, and to smile without realizing they had when the throaty rhythmic growl of a finely tuned engine hits their ears… and who, when in the company of the type of person who couldn’t tell a Cavalier from a Corvette and answers the question, “What do you drive?” with a color, knows that the subject of cars should never be broached.
With that in mind I find decals cheap and pandering for attention. It isn’t a lack of respect for the cars or those who built (or rebuilt) them. It’s the opposite, in fact. I find them cheap when I consider that those who’s attention they will grab are the opposite audience you deserve. They’re a stage cue for the shallow to swoon. The people you described, who’ve built motors and made hot rods, are exactly the type I would expect to avoid using decals. They’re not sorority girls hanging their graduation tassels from the mirror. They’re scrapped knuckles and grease ground in to the bone, and they are satisfaction that when they turn their key the engine starts because they made it. The people who know their car will know their car. They don’t need a decal to draw their eye, and certainly won’t be impressed by it. If anything, it seems to serve as a distraction from a truly beautiful custom car.
But, perhaps, we just have different opinions on the matter… thanks again for your feedback..
I wasn’t entirely satisfied with this response, wasn’t sure I was making my case clearly enough. I kept hearing my old boss telling me to stop over-thinking it and hit the button. Did I make my case? My opinion is that there are two types of car people: the kind that can rebuild a transmission, and the kind that can slap a light kit underneath their Civic that they bought at Wal-Mart. Which type sounds more likely to put a decal on their windshield?
“Is there a discount on that for wasting my time?” is what I expected George to say. While he wasn’t doing heel clicks and high fiving people the second time around, he also wasn’t looking for a fight, and that was an improvement. I’ve decided that George (not his real name) and I have something in common; he always expects the worst in a situation. The problem with that outlook is that a great deal of the time, you bring on that outcome. I expect the worst, but more in order to be pleasantly surprised. George on the other hand, expects it and brings that result on by being something of a cranky bastard.
“Why did you shake that customer’s hand when you saw him?” my coworker asked after George had left happy. Or George-happy at least, which meant he’d said thank you and didn’t look like he was going to punch me in the face.
“I helped him yesterday, I was taking care of something for him.”
“Yeah, but why did you shake his hand?”
At first I shrugged and laughed it off, “I went to private school, we shake everyone’s hand when we see them.” Which is true, by the way. Picking out private school boys is easy; the year after they graduate, they’re the guys with terrible facial hair, the patchy, awful beards grown because they finally wouldn’t get detention for having whiskers, ten years out you can still pick the private school boys out of crowd by their khakis and blue blazers (and usually a white shirt with red tie) just a little too tight because it’s the same blazer they wore in high school, but the easiest way to ever identify a private school boy is that you can introduce him to a crowd of a hundred and he’ll shake every damn hand there. It’s a thing. Reunions are tough, but thankfully few and far between, and holidays home are worse, but depending on the group the handshake can become the man-hug: handshake, one armed hug, two slaps on the back (preferably slapping harder then the other guy).
The truth is, it was partially the knee-jerk reaction of the, “Good to see you” handshake when meeting a familiar face even while thinking, “Who is this guy?” But ultimately, I’d made the decision the day before that should I see George again I’d shake his hand, call him Mr——, and take him up to the register to ring him up. It’s the same principle as when a customer stops you to ask a question. Whatever you’re doing you stop, you put down your stack of books, and you give them your undivided attention.
In high school, I had a crew coach who made us do sets of eleven when it came to push-ups, leg lifts or the other countless physical hells brought down by the wrath of a Jesuit priest who would follow us in his battered Chevy Corsica on our runs to shout… encouragement. The idea behind it was to train us for the sprint at the end of a race, to condition us to push for one more even when we thought we were done. If you can do eleven then why not push for fifteen, and if you’re at fifteen then twenty is within reach.
Before crew, I had a Tae Kwon Do instructor who would line us up against the wall during our Saturday morning class, tell us to plant our foot and do ten side-kicks while he yelled out the count. With each kick we would yell, a vocal manifestation of the energy behind the side-kick. He would walk the line, adjusting our stance, reminding us to keep our arm up, holding his hand high above our head to aim our kick at. When we reached ten he would yell, “One more! One more! One more!” The ‘one more’ would usually surpass the initial count, the exercise becoming a competition to see whether our legs or his voice would give out first. These two coaches, in vastly different sports, understood not only how to train us to set goals, but also to never be satisfied simply by achieving them. They wanted us to fight to blow those goals away, to be prepared physically and mentally for the sprint, to always be ready for one more. It was to prepare us to take that next step when anyone else would have said they’d gone far enough.
JoAnn Falletta may be partially to blame for this entire situation, as is dead Russian composer Reinhold Glière. The Buffalo News’ Gusto section, specifically their recent review of the of Falletta conducting the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra performing Glière’s Symphony No. 3 ‘Il’ya Muromets’ at Carnegie Hall, is also on my list.
The problem stemmed from my store carrying two recordings of this symphony, one featuring Falletta and the BPO and one by somebody else. The one by somebody else was put on hold for George when he called. And the one by the BPO? That one, the only copy we had, sold about an hour before he came into the store. That’s how I ended up on the receiving end of George’s rant involving how much money he spends in the store (I don’t care), how rude he found our music staff (no they’re not, and also, pot calling the kettle black?), and how he’d driven all the way to the store the day after a blizzard (so you drove here on a nice day).
“Now I want to know what can you do for me,” he finished.
I was a bit lost for words. He’d thrown a lot at me. What can I do for him? Usually, the customer asking that is holding out their hands so we can throw money or free items into them until they finally love us again. Nothing makes me feel less inclined to help a person then having them berate me and then expect to be rewarded for having done so. Unfortunately, nine times out of ten, that’s how the situation is resolved, if not by me then one of my bosses who then berates me as well for not throwing a gift card at the customer myself. Money isn’t the answer, or at least it shouldn’t be our answer. A gift card doesn’t solve the problem, it pushes the problem down the line to someone else because now that customer knows were giving away free money every time they raise their voice.
“Not much,” he scoffed.
I agreed. There really wasn’t much I could do, and certainly nothing at all that would put that CD in his hand at that very moment. Underneath it all was realizing that it was our mistake–an honest mistake, I will stick by that, but our mistake nonetheless, and I wanted to make right even if George was a jerk. I called our only other store to have a copy of it, one about twenty miles away. After triple checking the product number, conductor and album name (loudly so that George could hear) I asked them to put it on hold under my name. I told him that I drive out to the other store and pick up the CD, but wouldn’t be able to get there until later that evening; I would call him when I was back at this store with the item on hold for him. He didn’t seem as though he believed me. He didn’t say thank you.
Round-trip from my house to the three stores and back is about forty miles. I spent most of it considering whether this was even worth it. Should I have just told him he was out of luck and let him yell at me a little more? What did it matter? His behavior certainly didn’t deserve the time I was taking out of my day to do this.
This wasn’t the first time I’d done something like this, but at least that time it was entirely my fault. A couple had shipped books out to their son, who was being held at a correctional facility. They were an early Christmas present for him, and at least they’d shipped out as early as they did, because I stuck the wrong address label on them. His books went to Pennsylvania and instead for Christmas he got a handful of body building magazines and Robert Greene’s “The Art of Seduction.” Why would you even—you know what? No, I don’t even care.
They were sweet and understanding, and I ended up going to two different stores in order to get the books shipped out by the next day. In that case I didn’t have a problem doing it, they just as concerned that I didn’t beat myself up over it as they were about the books themselves. At least they knew what happened to their son’s package and we could get everything straightened out. Most people aren’t as patient Mr. & Mrs. Wuhr. They didn’t want anything other than to know we could take care of it. I’d forgotten about that couple until after I’d picked up the CD. For that memory alone I’m glad I did this. It’s important to hold onto any bit of kindness you encounter. Some days they’re all you’ll have.
“What can you do for me,” he’d asked.
Not much. And initially, there wasn’t much I wanted to do. I was tired, my day was almost over. I didn’t have the energy or the patience for this garbage. He was a jerk. And that’s when it’s important to smile, when you have to smile. You have to take a deep breath and push yourself to eleven, and then to fifteen, to twenty. You have to find a way to go the extra mile, or go ‘above and beyond’ as we call it at the store. One more. There wasn’t much I could do. One more. I could do this much. One more.
I expected the worst when he came back. A demand for a discount or repeating his complaints from the day before. Instead, he remembered my name. He spotted me first and called out my name. His face was still blank, but his voice was softer this time around. So I set down the books I was putting away and went over to him. I smiled and shook his hand. I told him it was good to see him and that I’d checked on his CD as soon as I came in that morning to make sure it was right where I’d left it. I rang him up for ‘Il’ya Muromets’ and a few magazines he also had, and told him to ask for me if there was anything else he was looking for. George said thank you this time, and that he appreciated how quickly I was able to get it for him. He still didn’t smile though. Next time, next time he’ll smile. Unless he’s a robot that requires the sweet symphonic stylings of the BPO to recharge at night….
Recently I was in a bookstore (this wasn’t recent; also, I work there) and witnessed a thirteen year old girl who, when asked by her mother if she liked a particular calendar, lifted her leg and made farting noises while she hopped in a circle, as if propelled by said imaginary gas. This was certainly inspiring to witness, but what may have been most noteworthy was the fact that her mother seemed to understand her. The older woman put the calendar back, and nodded in agreement. She even responded as she continued to pick up and put back other calendars. Sadly, the girl did not react similarly to the other calendar selections, so I can only assume the initial selection so disturbed her taste in organizational products, that her response was entirely appropriate.
After all, how dare her mother suggest that Doctor Who calendar—does the woman not know the next Doctor is going to be old? Gross. So gross, mom. Better to play it safe with one of the 18-month Justin Bieber affairs; after all, he’s dreamy, and the calendar’s duration is ironic (by the girl’s definition of the word) in that’s how long his probation for drunk drag racing will be. Ironic like her 80s acid-washed skinny jeans. Don’t lower your red over-sized sunglasses at me when I’m talking to you, it is 8 o’clock at night in January and you are indoors, it has been dark out for six hours. Those are unnecessary. We both know this.
I can only conclude, therefore, that her response is a new method of communication for young girls, and one we could be seeing more of going forward. I am not nor have I ever been a girl (ok, so there was that one time), young or otherwise, and certainly have only the most rudimentary understanding of anything spoken by the fairer sex regardless of age, so this is an entirely plausible explanation.
There is a precedent for this as well, as girls have always had a coded or secretive manner of speaking amongst themselves that has baffled the male of the species on the rare occasion we noticed it was going on at all. Men have historically preferred, in situations where excessive violence was inappropriate for their needs, either one word answers or responses quoted verbatim from movies or television shows. Women, on the other hand, can communicate effectively with only raised eyebrows and well-timed dirty looks. Well-timed in this instance refers to all of the woman’s friends seeing said dirty look with the exception of the one at which it was directed. Bitches.
However, one exception to the male’s method of communication, when violence, mono-syllabics, and cartoons were ineffectual, has always been the tried and true fallback of flatulence and/or eructation. Let me explain in terms the typical male who has not lost interest in this piece already may understand: farting and burping.
As the walls between gender roles continue to be broken down and redefined, and methods of communication adapt to the prevalence of these so called “internets” to become increasingly text- or emoticon-based, perhaps this girl’s behavior was entirely appropriate. Should she have been asked in text message by a peer, would not a cartoonish hand giving a thumbs down have been all the response that was needed? Looking at gender specific methods of communication, in a similar situation, would a young man (or any man) have not belched his displeasure at a particular calendar? Conceivably, could the lifting of her leg and hopping around have been young female’s adherence to straight old schools rules, as explained by David Bowie, in that she is replicating and elaborating on what the male has done before? Was she trying to one-up her male counterparts?
Perhaps I witnessed the beginnings of a fledgling system of communication that combines both vocal and physical properties in a manner not seen since offensively comedic recreations of Native American rain dances?
This could be the start of a new craze, similar to the Paris/Ritchie dialect prevalent in the early 21st century, in which young women would carry on entire complex conversations consisting only of variations of the phrase, “Oh my god, that’s so hot.” Evidence to date suggests that this incident involving the young girl and her mother was isolated, so shooting the girl on sight, in hindsight, has proven to be a wise decision. However, only time and a keen eye at the mall, where the female is reported to congregate in relative ease within their natural habitat, will determine whether this event is as isolated and unique as one hopes.