So this is Christmas....

In this skeptical age, it's fashionable not to believe in much of anything. But the holiday season is all about belief. Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. The Grinch's change of heart. Olive the Other Reindeer. And of course, that little event a couple thousand years ago in Bethlehem. We all believe in some of it. Some of us believe in all of it. It's all good.

Me, I believe in Santa Claus. And I know at least one other person who does too -- more on that later.

The first time I remember visiting Santa was in North Carolina. I was probably 3 or 4 years old. And yes Virginia, I asked him for a (toy) vacuum cleaner -- the collection was starting even then. A year or two later, we moved back to Kentucky, and that's when Santa really took center stage.

We'd open our presents on Christmas Eve. I'm an only child, but my two younger cousins would come over and we'd have dinner with my parents, grandparents, aunt and uncle. Just when those of us who were waiting for Santa couldn't stand it any longer, he would appear. At the back door. With a big bag full of toys and other gifts. And the best part was, Santa Claus knew our names! Life was good, indeed. Never did understand though why my dad always missed Santa's appearance. He always had to go to the neighbors' house for some reason.

After we kids had a chance to tear open our presents, run through the house and scream for a while, we would all pack up and drive to another set of cousins' house about 10 miles away. Santa would visit them too, and knew all their names. And the really cool part was that Santa still knew my name too, and talked about visiting with me earlier in the evening. How much better does it get than that?

Somehow my dad always missed seeing Santa at my cousins' house too. Don't know why, but he always had to be somewhere else just before Santa showed up. Oh, and the adults still talk about the year Santa got chased through the snow by a pack of dogs.

Of course, kids grow up. In a few years, Dad stopped disappearing on Christmas Eve, and Santa waited until after we were asleep to make his appearance. Somehow though, the magical possibilities of Santa never left. Even at my most cynical, I've always found a way to believe in editor Frank Church's masterpiece from 1897: "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound, and give to your life its highest beauty and joy."

A certain young lady in Atlanta also believes in Santa Claus. She knows because she's seen him, and it wasn't even Christmas. I was fortunate enough to witness what transpired.

It was few days before the big day a couple of years ago. A gentleman and his wife, tired from their travels, went into a Max & Erma's restaurant for a late dinner. This particular gentleman was wearing jeans, a red shirt, was a trifle um, round, shall we say, and had a beard which hadn't been trimmed in a while. Looked a bit like me, some would say. Because it was getting late, the restaurant lights were turned down.

A young family -- Mom, Dad, little girl no more than four years old -- sat down at the table adjacent to the couple. Well, from the moment that young lady sat down, she was positive she was in the presence of the big guy with the sleigh. She was enthralled throughout her meal. Santa, feeling a trifle nonplussed, did his best to play along.

As the family was leaving, the little girl's head drowsily on her father's shoulder, Santa called out HO HO HO loudly enough for half the restaurant to hear. I know Santa will never forget how her eyes widened. Her parents smiled as they walked out. That little girl knew -- KNEW -- she had seen the real Santa Claus.

Oh, and by the way Dad, you'll be happy to know the next generation of Santa Claus is carrying on the family tradition.... Merry Christmas to all.

Barbecued Manatees for Charity!

Welcome friends, come in, sit down, have a munch of the Buffalo seagull wings. Thank you so much for attending our informational meeting.

As you all know, here in the cafe, we're big fans of southern cooking. Grits, cornbread, all the good stuff. And as anyone raised in the South in the last hundred years knows, there is precisely one correct way to prepare Southern food.

Fried.

With lots of grease.

Now it has come to our attention that not all regions of the United States are so blessed with culinary wisdom. Take California, for example. Lots of stuff out there that Paula Deen just wouldn't use.

Arugula. Tofu. Sushi. (OK, Paula would use that one, but only as bait for catching catfish.)

The Barbecued Manatee Cafe is dedicated to spreading cuisinal knowledge worldwide, so we want to help remedy the tragic imbalance in the Golden State. To do so, we need your help.

Starting today, the Barbecued Manatee Cafe is proud to be leading the charge for food freedom to California. Ladies and gentlemen, please help us with this noble cause:

CRISCO TO FRISCO.

Yes, that's right, In order to bring the land of the Beach Boys, Stanford and Schwartzenegger up to the culinary standards of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Georgia Tech and Paula, we are embarking on a crusade to donate 100,000 tons of America's favorite shortening to the City by the Bay. We want to teach San Franciscans the joys of chicken-fried steak, fried cheese, fried fish, even fried Twinkies.

We hope to follow in the footsteps of successful programs in other cities such as Frostin' to Boston, Chili to Philly and our Minnesota chefs' spectacular Fruit to Dulut'. (But the less said about the Tabbouleh to Ashtabula fiasco, the better).

Let's face it, all those San Fran folks are way too skinny. They look too much like those subversive Euro types if you ask me. They need some good old-fashioned, artery-clogging fat to make 'em true Americans.

Won't you please help? We can't make our goal without you. It's easy to donate. Just buy a can of Crisco(TM) the next time you go to the grocery store. Then send it, postage paid, to Crisco(TM) To Frisco, c/o Sous Chef Ugotta B. Kiddin, The Barbecued Manatee Cafe. We'll do the rest. Although your contribution isn't tax deductible, you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you helped someone who may well have been denied the joys of fried goods their entire life.

And friends, keep in mind this is a pilot program. If this succeeds, we have an even more exciting project waiting in the wings for next year:

GREASE TO GREECE.

Thank you and please give generously!

Clean Sweep!

Let’s see. Time to take one of my favorite high-performance machines out for a spin.

Which will it be today? The sleek Italian one?

Nah, it’s broken down – again – in the garage.

The little red German runabout? Maybe. Or the other German one, the orange one with all the bells and whistles?

Maybe some good old fashioned American muscle, the one with lots of power and the slick automatic transmission. Or perhaps the SUV.

Ok, so how do I afford so many cars and where do I store them, right?

Not quite. Exec. Chef Heatherann and I have two cars, neither of which is described above. No, despite similarities to cars of their various nations, each machine I’ve described is a vacuum cleaner.

It’s time for a confession, right here in the café: Hi, my name is Rick and I collect vacuum cleaners.

(sound of crickets chirping.)

Why? Why collect an appliance, for heaven’s sake? Why collect something that gathers dirt from rugs and floors, scares the cats, and takes up valuable garage space?

Fair question. Short answer is, I don’t know.

See, I’ve always had an affinity for mechanical and/or electrical devices of all sorts from the time I was a child. You name it, if it plugged into a wall socket, I could be entertained by it. Mixers, radios, record players, copy machines, etc.

That pretty much holds true today. I love watching complex machinery in operation. Printing presses for example. Lots of moving parts, lots of noise, huge rolls of paper traveling from one side of the room to the other.

And while I’m glad I became a journalist in the era of computers instead of the typewriter, I’m slightly disappointed I’ve never actually seen a Linotype typesetting machine in operation. Molten lead, multiple motors, lines of words moving to and fro. What’s not to love?

But for some reason, the vacuum cleaner was always the one machine nearest and dearest to my heart.

Maybe it’s the sheer mechanical nature of it. It’s basically nothing more than a motorized fan that picks up dirt and blows it into a container, nothing more, nothing less. Really a simple device at heart.

Ah, but the execution, that’s another story. Take that SUV, for example, one of the newest additions to the collection. That’s what Hoover called a “Sport Utility Vacuum.” Looks like the illegitimate spawn of E.T. and #5 from “Short Circuit.” THREE motors. Lighted electronic controls. A complex dirt path guaranteed to clog. Weighs close to 30 pounds. It’s a technological nightmare just waiting to break – and that’s what makes it interesting.

Compare that to the Kirby G3 – a relatively simple design that hasn’t really changed much since Jim Kirby produced his first model nearly a century ago. Very powerful, built to withstand an earthquake, heavy, no frills -- except that automatic transmission for the self-propel feature. Although nearly as heavy as the Hoover, it's far lighter to operate.

The Germans take a different approach. The little red Miele canister is mostly plastic, very high performance, lots of attention to detail. The bright orange Sebo upright is a fun color, lightweight, blinking lights, variable speed, all the bells and whistles.

Just as with cars, the Italians build a high performance vacuum, the Lindhaus. And like too many Italian cars, the example in the collection is under-engineered, breaking down at the drop of a dust bunny.

Then there’s Ocala’s own contribution to the vacuum marketplace, the late, mostly unlamented Bison. The brainchild of a former Kirby distributor, the Bison was largely a Kirby clone made with cheaper parts and some seriously questionable engineering. The company started in the late ‘60s, collapsed in the ‘80s, the victim of an unreliable product and management woes.

But in between it built Bisons in the building here in Ocala that now houses the E-One fire truck factory welcome center.

It’s an odd duck, the Bison. (Forgive the mixed animal metaphor.) It’s loud, with a variable speed control that gives the user the chance to convince the neighbors that a small jet is about to take off from your living room. It’s ungainly, with a face only a collector could love. It’s badly built, with parts no longer available.

And that’s part of the appeal. The Bison is a small part of Ocala history.

Others have their historic role too. Noted 20^th century designers Raymond Loewy, Henry Dreyfuss and Lurelle Guild, among others, designed vacs. The vintage machines of the ‘20s, ‘30s and ‘40s are true works of mechanical art.

So why collect them? Why not? They’re out there dirt cheap (hey, I’m entitled to ONE pun here.) and they’re entertaining to me. Some folks collect old typewriters, others cameras, some even collect antique ice cream scoops. And Exec Chef Heatherann doesn’t have to worry about who does the vacuuming. Happy Hoovering!

Espresso Thought!

(Espresso = small, concentrated, unfiltered cup of coffee. Espresso Thought = short, concentrated, unfiltered thought.)

Literal espresso thought -- Is it ever a good idea to get your coffee from a coffee shop "barista" who asks if you want "EXpresso"?

Listen, children, to a story....

... that was written long ago ...

Those words are the opening lyric to "One Tin Soldier," a song first recorded in the 1960s. Probably best known for the version recorded in the early '70s as part of the soundtrack for the movie "Billy Jack."

For me, it was the first realization that music could make a political statement.

Music has been a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember. From the "Percolator Song" I loved as a small child to Petula Clark's "Downtown," the first song I remember liking on the radio, to "Woolly Bully," I loved it all in the 1960s. But I was too young to have any clue what cultural icons such as Dylan, Crosby, Stills and Nash, or even the Beatles were saying about the state of the world.

That all changed one day in 1972. I was in sixth grade in a Dayton, Ohio suburb. A troupe of touring college students of some sort performed at the school at an afternoon assembly. Lord only knows who approved their appearance at an elementary school.

Keep in mind, we're talking 1972 -- the Vietnam War was still raging, four students had been fatally shot at Kent State University only two years before, George Wallace was campaigning for president as a segregationist, and Watergate hadn't yet happened.

So this group presented songs and skits, all very entertaining -- I'm guessing. I remember enjoying the program, but truth be told, I don't remember a thing about it, other than the last number.

One Tin Soldier.

It started innocuously enough, with a lovely flute intro. Then the lyrics drew me in. The story of the mountain people's treasure and the valley folks who wanted it had me hooked. Then that devastating final verse -- where the valley folk, having killed their mountain brethren stand triumphant at the stone under which the treasure was buried.

As the song says, "turned the stone and looked beneath it -- Peace on earth was all it said." As they sang that line, the performers turned a stone facing the audience, revealing a peace symbol underneath.

Cue chorus: "Go ahead and hate your neighbor...." Flute coda of the intro. Curtain.

Wow. I was stunned. Who knew?

Our teacher, a conservative Christian, was appalled. Told us the message was satanic, the peace symbol a broken cross. Sounded a bit hard to believe, even then. The concept of peace as something evil was one I couldn't quite swallow.

By the following year, I was back in Kentucky, in seventh grade. I joined the school band. Within a year, I could play the song on tenor sax. I also had the lyrics committed to memory. To this day, I can whistle that flute intro, sing the lyrics word for word, and whistle the fadeout.

It took a few more years to discover Dylan, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Woody and Arlo Guthrie and other rabble-rousing peaceniks, but eventually I did. And Springsteen, and Mellencamp and all the others. But that one song, that one place, that one performance, stands as one of the singular musical moments of my life, the one that taught me the true power of song.

Give it a listen, see what you think....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mASbP3Eq1VE

Espresso Thought!

(Espresso = small, concentrated, unfiltered cup of coffee. Espresso Thought = short, concentrated, unfiltered thought.)

Whatever happened to good old -ly?

You remember -ly. Had the ability to make things better, more precise. You know, like "Drive Safely." "Shop Locally."

-Ly, alas, seems to have fallen on hard times lately. Local signs advise area residents to "Drive Safe" and/or "Buy Local."

Write carefully.

This I Believe!

 Dave Schlenker, is, I believe, the best writer at the Ocala Star-Banner, and one of the finest writers I've read anywhere.  I believe he won't mind if I borrow the idea from a recent column of his, especially since he borrowed it from National Public Radio.

 I believe in many things, not least of which is the power of the written word.  This, I believe, will remain a primary form of communication for centuries to come.

 I believe men and women are more alike than we are different.

  I believe there is far too much to be learned to be able to learn it all in one lifetime.

  I believe that music can ignite the imagination, soothe the soul, inspire the mind and heal the body.

  I believe the best-engineered vacuum cleaners in the world are made in Germany. I believe the best-built vacuum cleaners in the world are made in Cleveland, Ohio and Andrews, Texas. 

  I believe "Network," not "Rocky" should have been Best Picture of 1976.

 I believe no one faith has a monopoly on heaven.

 I believe in soulmates, and that I've found mine.

  I believe instant coffee, like non-dairy creamer,  is a crime against nature. I believe anything labeled "instant espresso" merits the death penalty.

  I believe the death penalty brings society down to the level of the criminal.

  I believe both dogs and cats were sent to us from the Creator to demonstrate what unconditional love is.

  I believe small towns are over-romanticized.

  I believe living in a world-class city in my 20s made me a better citizen of both my own country and the world.

  I believe there's ample proof the Creator has a sense of humor.

  I believe old German cars, whether VW, Mercedes, BMW, Audi or Opel, all smell the same inside -- a mix of engine oil, well-baked upholstery, cracking dashboards and  gasoline.

 I believe cats and keyboards should not mix.

  I believe there are no coincidences.  We are all in each others' lives for a reason, regardless of how we came to be there.  I believe that reason is not always clear to us, but it's still there.

  I believe the sound of a cat snoring is really cute.

  I believe in Santa Claus.

  I am a happy soul, because I am blessed in too many ways to count.  This I believe.

 

  

Cafe open for business!

Wow,  didn't realize it had been so long since we've had visitors to the Cafe!  Guess I'd better start making up for lost time. Let me plug in the espresso machine and the jukebox and we'll get busy.

If you're new here, welcome, welcome, come in, sit down, and enjoy the ambiance.  The daily special today is free-range pelican pie, with a side order of Buffalo manatee flippers.  And, since today's Bastille Day, we'll throw in a free side order of escargot.

For the regulars, you'll find not much has changed.  Same lousy service, same sarcastic chef you've come to know and love.  Feel free to tip generously.

We do have a new item of decoration.  See the vacuum cleaner sitting over there in the corner?  That's the latest addition to the collection.  It's a Singer R5, produced sometime between 1940 and 1950.

Big deal, an old vacuum. What's so special about that?

Think about the dates.  This machine is somewhere between 59 and 69 years old. And yet...

... It still has its original bag.

... It still has its original CLOTH- (not rubber) coated cord -- which is still safely usable.

... Its cordwinder still works.

... Its headlight still works.

... Its two-speed motor still runs just fine.

When's the last time you saw a machine that old of ANY kind that works that well?

So, with that level of build quality, it must be made in Germany or Japan, right?

Try Elizabethport, N.Y.  

THIS is the quality we used to produce in America.

Beetlemania!

Ah, the memories a few lines of a classified ad can conjure.  Take this example from a recent  ad in Ocala:  "1967 VOLKSWAGEN BEETLE ... This car was last driven in 2008, stopped driving when the battery ..."

And thereby hangs our tale ...

Once upon a time, there was an original Volkswagen Beetle. It ran flawlessly, got great gas mileage and remained dependable transportation for its original owner for some 20 years.

  This was not, alas, MY Beetle.  It was my grandmother's.  She drove it everywhere since she drove it off the showroom floor in 1969.  Rain, snow, sleet, sun, didn't matter.  It went where she pointed it.  She loved it, and it was a great little car. 

  Unlike today's modern VWs, the Beetles of yore were about as simple as it's possible for four-wheeled motorized transportation to get. No air conditioning. No power steering. No power brakes. Hand-cranked windows.

  

 I thought Mamaw's Bug was a blast to drive, and in college, decided to get one of my own.  Mine was a 1970, and had been owned by a mechanic. What could go wrong?

  Over the next three years or so, I managed to find out -- just about everything.   The car left me stranded on half the roads of Eastern Kentucky.  With rusty heater boxes and no ventilation fan, it forced me to scrape more ice off the inside of the windshield than the outside -- while driving. It had about as much horsepower as the average leaf blower, and when the muffler went bad, was twice as loud.

  The turn signal switch broke. VW used the same switch for several years before, and several years after, but in 1970, they used a design unique to that model year alone. I still remember the cost of that one -- $46 for the part alone, on a college student's budget.

  One low point was a rainy Friday in March when I was driving home from school for the weekend. I had the flu, and felt lousy.  Shortly after I headed onto the interstate for the 20-mile trek home, I heard a familiar thump-thump-thump.  Flat tire.  Just perfect.

  I got out of the car, dug the jack and the lug wrench out of the trunk. and got to work in the steady downpour. Car jacked up? Check.  Hubcap off? Check.  Lug nuts loose?

  No.  

  Try again.  Lug  nuts loose?  

  No.

  Try again, standing on the wrench this time.  Lug nuts loose?

  No.

  Thanks to some kind of mechanical gremlin, these old beasts had a nasty habit of locking the lug nuts, nearly welding the wheel in place.  I ended up having to flag down a truck driver to break the things loose. Not exactly my most macho moment.

  But the breaking point came on a day when the car actually was running well.  Heading into my senior year, I took  it to my trusted mechanic for brakes and a muffler.  Cost $125, and I thought it was money well spent, thinking it would at least get me through one last year of school.

  All was going fine as I headed toward home, once again on the interstate.  It was a really nice fall day, so I had the windows open and the AM radio cranked up, cruising about 65.

  Then I heard the sound of something dragging under the car.  With no idea what it was, I pulled off at the nearest exit.  The car was still running fine, with no obvious sign of distress as I pulled into a parking lot and shut it off.

I got out, walked around the car, raised the engine cover in the rear, looked around.  No obvious problem.

Until I looked under the back seat.  Where I expected to see solid sheet metal, I saw only a perfectly rectangular hole. Automotive history lesson here, folks: in original Beetles, that's where the battery lived.  

  As for what happened, let's pick up the thread of our classified ad above, with some slight spelling correction along the way:

  "Stopped driving when the battery fell out of car onto highway due to extensive floorpan rust (embarrassing, huh?)"

  Well, embarrassing isn't exactly the word.  When I called my mom to tell her I needed a tow truck, and the reason why, she cracked up.

  Honestly, I don't recall my mom laughing that hard before or since.  She must have laughed for a solid five minutes. She was still laughing when I hung up the pay phone to wait for the tow.

  I found it considerably less funny.  There's a story, possibly apocryphal, that Elvis Presley once shot a high-priced sports car when it refused to start.  Standing in that parking lot that day, I knew exactly how he felt.

  But the faithless Bug had the last word.  In the intervening years, I've owned four more VWs, including the Jetta that currently graces the driveway of Maison Cundiff.  So there must be something special about them that keeps me coming back.

OK, fine, I wouldn't have shot it.  But I would have Tasered it.

Rut-Ro! It's a Conspiracy!

Rut-Ro!

  Chances are, if you're somewhere between age 6 and 60, you probably know just what that means. It's cartoon dogspeak, of course, for "Uh-Oh!"  Like many foreign phrases, it can convey a range of meanings in just two syllables, anything from "Oops" to "Oh S***!"

  But who said it first? And who decided that animated mutts should speak in a language where everything begins with the letter R?  Let's face it, if you'd never heard it before, "Mutt-Mo" or "Zut-Zo" could make just as much sense, no?

   First things first.  The first cartoon canine to utter the now immortal phrase Rut-Ro was none other than Astro Jetson, a/k/a Tralfaz. (If you don't know where Tralfaz comes from, to quote Annie Savoy, you could look it up.  If you don't know who Annie Savoy is, I give up.  Don't expect me to do all the heavy lifting here, folks.)

  Astro was the quintessential cartoon dog -- smart, loyal, capable of understanding English, and of speech -- as long as every word started with R.

   Some time later, another telegenic pup came along, name of Scooby Doo.  He and his merry band of meddling kids roamed the country in the Mystery Machine, solving crimes before the police, foiling the aims of various and sundry villains and ne'er do wells.  

  For animation lovers, the series raised numerous existential questions:  Was Freddie really gay or did he just dress like it?  Why were Daphne and Velma portrayed in the classic Ginger/Mariann dichotomy rather than having brains and beauty in one female character? And why exactly did both Shaggy and Scooby perpetually have the munchies?

  And perhaps most perplexing of all was the fact that Scooby spoke the same language as Astro.  "Rut-Ro" was as common as Scooby Snacks whenever the lovable Great Dane was around.

  After spending a considerable amount of time researching this issue -- at least 90 seconds, anyway -- I have discovered the answer to the one mystery Scooby and the gang couldn't solve.  According to that unbiased, unimpeachable, trusted information source Wikipedia, Astro and Scooby spoke the same language for one simple reason:

  THEY HAD THE SAME VOICE!

  More specifically, Hollywood voice actor Don Messick voiced both characters.  Messick, well known for other cartoon characters, including Bamm-Bamm Rubble, Boo Boo Bear and Papa Smurf,  created Astro's trademark R-centric speech in 1962.  Seven years later, he voiced Scooby in the same voice.  Messick also voiced the cartoon villain sidekick dog  Muttley's classic snicker.

  Now some among us might wonder if the the Astro/Scooby/Muttley combo is really a secret language for dogs, who are patiently biding their time, using it as a means of communication to coordinate their own plot to take over the world and make bacon the international unit of currency. I asked Snickerdoodle the Wonder Pup what she thought of that theory.

  She snickered and said it was, and I quote, "Rabsorootry ririculous."

  Hmmm ....

Rut-Ro.

Postscript -- Sparky the Wonder Cat  was sitting on the desk as I wrote this.  No joke, he clicked on the mouse in an apparent attempt to delete part of what I just wrote.  That can only mean this is bigger than I thought.  Now it's a cross-species conspiracy!

RUT-RO!

It's not easy being green!

  Funny how our perceptions change over time, isn’t it? The shock of the new becomes the yawn of the everyday, the cutting edge gets dulled into the commonplace.   

Take punk rock, for example.  What began in the 1970s as a rebellion against overblown “progressive” rock music soon devolved into lifestyle accessories.  The authentic ripped jeans, the safety pin piercings and the spiked hairstyles became today’s “distressed” jeans, 18-karat eyebrow rings and $100 (or more) stylist-created coifs. Yesterday’s rebels with a cause are today’s rebels without a clue.

   

  For would-be iconoclasts, that complicates life – how do you rebel when the symbols of your rebellion have become everyday occurrences?  Worse still, what do you do when the very sorts of people you’re trying to shock approve of your style?

   

  I couldn’t help wondering about that the other day when I encountered a young woman in the supermarket.  Encountered is probably too strong a word – we passed in the soup aisle, both lost in our own thoughts.   

  She was a teenager, shopping with her mother. She was dressed in a Goth/punk style that really wasn’t too extraordinary.  The most notable part of her appearance was her green hair.

   

  It was a lovely spring green, neither St. Patrick’s Day decoration bright nor Easter basket grass pastel.  It was, simply, an attractive shade of green.   A few years ago, I might have been shocked. As it was, I thought,  “Hmm, that green suits her. Looks nice.”

 

  Later, I considered her likely reaction to my opinion. She probably would have been appalled.   

  Think about it. In her eyes I’m an ancient geezer, old enough to be her father. I’m supposed to see the green hair and disapprove, my disapproval validating her rebellion, yes?

  

  Besides, even if I ever had been as young as she – a highly unlikely prospect -- I couldn’t possibly remember what it was like to be that age, to be not yet in control of your own life, to need to assert your individuality in whatever small way possible.

   

  And yet I do know that feeling, as does anyone who’s ever gone to high school, no matter when.  I also know it gets easier to be who you are once those alleged “best years of your life” are behind you. In that sense, the young woman’s rebel challenge still rings true.

   

 So here’s to green hair and what it represents.  And here’s to not being afraid to express yourself in whatever way suits you best.    

Just Say No to No?

Had an interesting discussion with a family member over the weekend.  He's a  longtime veteran salesman, selling expensive high-tech equipment to medical facilities.

Somehow we got onto the matter of dealing with salesfolks.  He maintained a potential buyer should NEVER say no to a sales rep, because it's rude, politically incorrect and damaging to the rep's ego and sense of self.  

Instead, he wants the customer to say "maybe," then when the rep calls back at a later date, tell him/her that the budget doesn't allow the purchase, or that it doesn't fit the buyer's needs, or whatever.

Excuse me? When did a simple, straightforward, politely delivered "no" become rude?

Don't get me wrong.  I have the utmost respect for good salesmen and saleswomen.  It's a tough job, and one I know I'm too introverted to do well.

In my former career as a hospital housekeeping department manager, I dealt with all kinds of salespeople, selling everything from floor scrubbing machines to paper towels and soap.  Believe me, a good sales rep is an asset to a department manager, introducing new products to improve productivity, offering to train department members, and keeping up with the buyer's needs.

But if I can't afford what the rep's selling, or it doesn't suit my needs, or even if I just don't like the product, why should I prolong the dance of the transaction when I already know what my answer will be?  Why not just tell the rep no, respectfully, and move on?  It doesn't mean I'll never buy from him/her, just that a particular product isn't right at a particular time.  A waffling answer just wastes two people's time.

Even now, in my job search, I still prefer the direct approach.  I am in essence selling a product -- me -- to prospective employers.  If I'm a good fit for the job, by all means, tell me.  And if I'm not, tell me that too.  We save time, we part with respect, and we move on.

Sorry, but if your ego is damaged by hearing the word no instead of maybe, then you might be better off in another line of work.

Soaring Birds at Last!

FINALLY,  a team to root for in the NCAA championship game.  No, not Michigan State or North Carolina.

No, my loyalty is to the birds.  In this case, Louisville's Lady Cardinals, who will play Connecticut for the women's title.

Once again:

GO CARDINALS!

Espresso Thought!

(Espresso = small, concentrated, unfiltered cup of coffee.  Espresso Thought =  short, concentrated, unfiltered thought.) 

Who knew? Disco can save your life!

Researchers have found, no joke, that the beat of the Bee Gees' disco classic "Stayin' Alive" is the perfect rhythm for performing CPR.  The 103-beat-per-minute song is ideal for keeping blood pumping and oxygen moving to the brain until professional help arrives.

But if the Bee Gees aren't your cup of espresso, don't fret.  Queen's "Another One Bites The Dust" has the same beat.  Just be careful not to sing out loud while you're doing compressions ...

Mysteries of Life!

It's always seemed to me that much of the world's innovation comes from people thinking "there must be a better way." See a need, then devise something to fill it.

Josephine Cochran, for example, got tired of servants breaking her china. So she invented the first automatic dishwasher.

Murray Spangler was looking for a way to sweep floors that wouldn't aggravate his allergies. So he combined a pillowcase, a box and an electric fan. He sold the design to Mr. Hoover and the rest is vacuum cleaner history.

Throughout history, inventors from Ford to Edison to Gates, Jobs and Wozniak have sought a better way to do things. If necessity is the mother of invention, then improvement is surely the father.

But there are some products on the market that don't seem to fit my tidy little theory.

Take the tea bag squeezer, for example. I didn't realize there was anything a small piece of plastic could do that a teaspoon against the side of a cup can't.

Or indoor wind chimes. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against wind chimes. I just never found it necessary to bring a small set inside and place it on my desk. Nor have I ever felt compelled to use "artificial wind" (as noted on the box), also known as a battery operated fan, to produce the soothing sound I can get for free outside my front door.

But my favorite solution to which there is no problem has to be the Grapple. (Pronounce it with a long A -- "Grape-L")

If my theory makes sense, it means someone, somewhere, looked at an apple, and thought "hmmm, what a lovely food product. Hand-held, portable, all natural, great tasting. But there's gotta be a better way."

So what did they do? The perfectly logical thing, of course. They infused it with natural and artificial flavor to make it taste like a grape! Mr. Spock would be so proud!

So would Dr. Spock, apparently. The company's marketing folks say the Grapple could improve children's eating habits and "introduce them to more produce." Such as what? The strawberry-flavored banana? The pineapple-flavored orange?

Hey, it could happen. After all, the apple doesn't fall far from the vine, right?

Wide Awake in Dreamland!

This could qualify as the strangest dream I've ever had.

The other night, I dreamed I was Hillary Clinton's second husband (?!?)  I was kidnapped at gunpoint by a comedy troupe on the order of the Capitol Steps or SNL's crew,  to provide statements that would be quoted out of context about Hillary in order to be funny.  The kidnappers were dressed like stereotypical Secret Service agents -- black sunglasses, trench coats, very real guns. I was taken to a room with a lot of other folks, including Madeleine Albright, and eventually, Bill Clinton. Later, I found myself unharmed, back out on the streets of whatever unknown city I was in.

Since the Cafe is a strictly nonpartisan place, we'll skip any kind of political analysis. And since it raises some really scary possibilities, we'll definitely skip any kind of Freudian analysis too.  Geez, I've gotta stop flipping between CNN and "24" reruns right before I go to bed ...

Peace, love and German engineering!

Attention Retailers:

I understand your desire to invoke the spirit of the 1960s in some of your advertising and store promotion signs.  What better way to denote free-spirited originality than to co-opt some of the symbols of that turbulent generation, right?  Sorta like how you play "classic rock" in the store? Especially if you're trying to attract postmodern millennials and their Gen Y brethren, yes? A little irony, like a little sarcasm, goes a long way.

Fine, I can live with that.  The medium is the mess, so to speak.

But pay attention here. This will be on your final exam, if only in a karmic sense:

THIS site shows an example of a peace symbol. Notice how many points it has?  That's right, FOUR.

Now THIS one shows a Mercedes Benz star logo.  How many points does the Mercedes star have? THREE.

Contrary to popular belief, these two symbols are NOT interchangeable! One straight line makes all the difference in the world.  If you're insist on invoking the peace symbol to sell overpriced clothing made in third-world sweatshops, at least get it right. Failing that, pay the Mercedes folks a royalty, slap a three-pointed star on the back pocket and triple the price.