Essays | JPChambers.com | John Chambers

So much for a "Pick me up".

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 21:08:01 -0400

Near my house is a Dunkin' Donuts where I go when I want a thing they call a Coffee Coolatta. I love the Coffee Coolatta. It's slushy, coffee-ey, chocolaty and icy. It's like a Slurpee for grown-ups! It's a great drink in the summer, which is really the only time I ever want one. If it wasn't for the Coffee Coolatta, I'd never go to that Dunkin' Donuts. Ever. The donuts are almost never good and they rarely have the kinds I want. So I don't buy donuts or regular coffee or bagels or anything else they have there. Just the Coolatta.

Last weekend I needed a Coolatta fix so I pulled my car into the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through. This particular D.D. location is run by a guy who I figure is an owner/operator. He's Indian, as in from India, and has an accent that, when I was younger, I found endless humor in imitating. He does everything in his store. He makes the donuts, makes the coffee, runs the inside counter and mans the drive-through. To a casual observer, he seems to be a happy, successful, hard working immigrant business owner.

Until a guy like me enters his drive-through and orders a medium sized Coffee-Coolatta.

HIM (in a happy, hopeful voice): Weeelcom to de Dorkin' Donnit. How me I heelp you?

ME: One medium sized Coffee Coolatta, please.

HIM: Yes. end?

ME: That's all.

HIM: No donnit?

ME: No, that's all thanks.

I heard him sigh heavily into his microphone. He paused just long enough for me to begin to wonder if he was all right. Then I heard him mumble lowly through the speaker, "Necks weendow." He sounded completely deflated. As though I had rained on his parade, burst his bubble and then shot his dog. Here he was, this hard working little guy just trying to make ends meet and I didn't even buy one stupid "donnit" or whatever he called them. I started to feel bad that this guy was all depressed because of me, but what did he expect? What, one or two or even a few dozen donuts are really going to make a difference in his crummy life? Was he really spending his whole miserable existence at that drive through just waiting for someone to pull up and order, "One small coffee, a dozen donuts and, oh yeah, I'd like to buy the business from you!" I mean, of course had I known in advance how much it meant to him I might have bought one of his stale, nasty donuts. But how was I to know? All I wanted was a Coolatta!

Buy one Coolatta, get free guilt!

I pulled ahead to the next window. The D.D. guy just stared at me. Now, I know my drink is going to cost $3.98, but I'm accustomed to the people working in the drive-throughs I frequent to actually tell me how much money I'm supposed to give them. I rolled down my window, leaned out ever so slightly, opened my wallet and fixed my gaze on my money. So here we were. Anyone casually walking by and looking at us would have seen what seemed to be two confused idiots. Him staring at me. Me staring into my wallet.

I'm not one for uncomfortable situations, so I broke first. I turned to him and said, "How much?" He sighed again, heavier this time and cocked his head slightly to the side. Like a dog that had just heard a new noise he'd never experienced before.

HIM: three, ninetate.

I handed him four one-dollar bills. He took my money and continued to stare at me. Like I had done something wrong. Or handed him a fistful of Japanese Yen. He stared for a couple of seconds before he finally turned to the register, put the $4 in and removed two pennies. Then he turned to stare at me again. I put out my hand. I can never decide what to do in those situations where I get such a small amount of change. I don't feel right telling the guy to "keep it, pal" when it's only two cents! Then again, I felt pretty cruel to take the two cents from such an obviously depressed guy. I wasn't even going to let him have that tiny bit of pleasure! But I decided that letting him keep the two pennies was even more cruel than just taking it, so I held out my hand. After he had stared a few more seconds, his shoulders slumped, he turned his face down to the counter and handed me my change. I really felt bad, but I didn't have any more one-dollar bills and there was no way I was tipping him a ten when I didn't even buy a donnit!

Just before I pulled away from this Mecca of sadness I took one last look at the depressed immigrant donut guy, leaned out my window and said to him, "Thanks. Have a nice day!" That's right. I - the customer, was going out of my way to tell him - the drive-through guy, to have a nice day. I really felt bad for him. He was so happy and full of anticipation when I first spoke with him. If only I'd ordered a bagel! Maybe one stinkin' cruller! Now that I have had a chance to think about it, though, I'm beginning to think that the depressed donut guy may be some sort of customer service genius. I mean, he had ME thanking HIM for MY business!

Well, I'll tell ya, I have a newfound respect for that guy and the next time I go to Dunkin' Donuts, I'll ask him if he has any fresh boston creams. He'll tell me yes and he'll be lying, but I'd rather buy a stale boston cream donut in peace than go through that again.

No thank you.

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 10:14:51 -0400

“No thank you.” Said the little girl directly in front of me. She was holding a bat and standing, sort of, in the batter’s box. This was our T-Ball team’s first practice and the kids were very excited. Most of them, anyway.

“What do you mean, ‘No thank you’, Katherine?” I asked.

“No thank you. I don’t want to hit.” She said. “I’m four years old,” she continued.

Good, I thought, then you should be able to follow directions. I had temporarily forgotten everything I ever knew about four year olds.

“We need to practice hitting, Katherine, so you can get really good at it and have fun!” I said with all the mock enthusiasm I could muster on a windy 48-degree day in March while surrounded by four, five and six year olds swinging bats and throwing balls.

“No thank you, I’ll just sit over there.” She said, pointing at the dugout bench.

I looked over to Katherine’s mother for support but she was too busy snapping multiple pictures of what was sure to be the beginning of her adorable little angel’s stellar baseball career to recognize the insubordination. She probably thought we were discussing the finer points of hip-rotation and bat speed.

“Katherine, why don’t you want to hit?” I asked.

“I have two baby dolls in the car.” She said, as though there was any possible connection.

“That’s great!” I said, “Those baby dolls told me that they really want you to hit this ball!”

“No they didn’t.” she looked at me the way one might look at a dangerous idiot.

“Ok. If you don’t want to hit right now, you can get your glove and go play in the field. Go talk to Coach Frank.” I said, chuckling to myself. Coach Frank had never spoken with Katherine before. He probably still thought that T-Ball coaching was going to be easy. “You can practice hitting later.”

“No thank you.” She said. “ I don’t want to hurt it.”

“Hurt what?”

“The ball” she said.

“The ball?” I asked.

“I’m four years old. I have two babies in the …”

“Katherine” I interrupted, “you won’t hurt the ball. It’s just a baseball. You’re supposed to hit it. That’s what it’s for. You hit it. You catch it. You throw it. It’s a ball. You’ve played with balls before, haven’t you? Have you ever played with a ball before?”

“Not with this.” She said, closing her eyes and swinging the bat with all her might. Funny thing about four year olds. It might take them 10 or 20 swings to hit a baseball off of the tee, but if a male adult coach is in the vicinity, they will always miss the ball and score a direct hit on the coach’s personal male parts. Katherine’s bat was indeed headed straight for my personal male parts. I reacted with all of the speed and agility one would expect from an out of shape, thirty-nine year old T-Ball coach. “NO THANK YOU!” I yelled, jumping back and somehow forming my body in a shape similar to the letter “C”. The bat missed me by mere inches.

“Don’t ever swing the bat at the coaches!” I sputtered, trying to hide my growing fear of Katherine and her bat.

“Because it would hurt?” she asked with an evil innocence.

“Yes. It would hurt people, but not the ball. I promise. You just watch the other kids and you’ll see.” I took the bat from her and gave her a gentle nudge toward the dugout.

“Ok” she said, giving me a half trusting, half “you’re a dangerous idiot” look.

She strolled off to put her batting helmet back and get her glove and I called the next kid up to the tee. He looked ready. He had a shiny new bat, his own helmet and little T-Ball player sized batting gloves on his hands. He took his place in the batter’s box and began digging his brand new cleats into the dirt. “I’m gonna smash that ball.” He said.

“Great,” I said, “just don’t tell Katherine.”

He H

sharpest knife in the block

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 09:29:58 -0500

She hated them. She hated them both. She was sick of hearing Utility Knife brag about his accomplishments and his droning, endless speeches explaining for the hundredth time how you can do anything if you “really try”. She was sick of Santuko and his ultra-cool, hipster lifestyle. It wasn’t that long ago when she was always the first knife chosen but now, well now she was hardly ever chosen at all. She could still do all of the things she had always done so well. She could easily remove the skin from an apple or a potato. She could cut any number of vegetables into nice, uniform chunks without even trying. Yet, it seemed that Paring Knife was hardly ever called on to perform any more. She remembered the day when Santuko showed up with his long, flat blade covered with little indentations. She thought he looked completely ridiculous, like maybe he had some sort of physical affliction. Probably picked up cheap at a scratch and dent sale, she thought. Utility Knife, on the other hand, was as dull as Santuko was dumb. Utility Knife had absolutely no distinguishing characteristics at all. She thought he looked about as dull as televised congressional hearings. She didn’t even know why those two were here, much less actually being used all the time. She hadn’t been given a job in months. Paring Knife had taken all she could stand of living out her days in this tiny, three slot knife block with these same two idiots and was ready to make her move.

She didn’t want to be away from the knife block or just the kitchen or even the house. Paring Knife wanted to see the world. Napa Valley, Paris, Rome, New York City. She’d dreamt of working in the best kitchens in the best restaurants run by the most skilled culinary magicians in the world. She had seen enough of Utility getting every job day after day. She had seen enough of Santuko getting the special jobs when there were guests to impress. Fine, she thought, if no one here is impressed with me any more, they could have their two trendy boneheads. Her journey almost began in the back of a garbage truck last month when she tried to get herself thrown out with an empty pizza box, but she had been snatched out at the last minute, thrown in the dishwasher to almost drown – again – and replaced in the knife block with the two idiots. She remembered hearing the human say, “Back where you belong” as he slid her into her slot in the block. Back where she belongs. Back to the loneliest belonging she could imagine.

Paring Knife seethed. She had heard them both chuckling to themselves when they saw her get replaced into the block. They’ll both get theirs, she thought. She imagined the day when Santuko would be forgotten and Mr. Favorite would be tossed in the junk drawer with the steak knives and the garlic press. Utility knife? Well, maybe if there was a God, Utility knife would fall into the garbage disposer unnoticed and be chopped to tiny bits.

“OK, which one of you bastards gave me up?” She snarled at Santuko and Utility

“Pipe down, sister.” Santuko responded in that squeaky, annoying voice of his.

“Yeah, relax sweetheart” Utility knife said, “things will get better, you just have to believe.”

“Better?” she asked. “It was better before you two came along. Do you think there was no cutting being done before you? Do you think there was no peeling? Do you know who did all that before? ME, that’s who. Do you know who was used to cut the baby’s food into tiny pieces so he wouldn’t choke to death? ME, that’s who. I’ve been in this family for fifteen years. I’ve given them the best days of my life and where did it get me? Here. Never used, watching you two late-comers get all the glory while I sit here in this block tarnishing away. I sit here and watch every guest pick up a stupid-looking dent-riddled knife from somewhere in Asia and say, ‘Ohh, look at that!’ and ‘Wow, where did you get this?’”

Santuko hated being called a stupid-looking dent-riddled knife from somewhere in Asia and Paring Knife knew it. She called him that at every opportunity.

“God, will you just shut up?” Santuko said, finally. “The humans brought us here. We didn’t come here on our own to make your life hell. We just do what we’re supposed to do and you would probably have a much nicer life if you would accept that.”

“I’ll accept nothing.” She said. “Nothing.”

Now Utility Knife joined in. “We haven’t done anything to you, P.K. There’s no reason we can’t get along here. You just have to stop being so hateful.”

“My life here is over. Can you understand that?” No, you can’t she said to herself, but someday you may. “Do you have any idea what it is like to be the number one tool in the kitchen, to be involved in at least one meal every day and then to have it taken completely from you by a couple of trendy new knives. I’ve been here for so long, and I’ve worked so hard and now I’ve been forgotten.”

Santuko said, “Did anyone here order gloom service?” Utility and Santuko chuckled.

“It happens,” said Utility “trends come and go. Sure, you’re not being used so much right now, but you are still a valuable member of the team. You just need to be here when your time comes again. Every day is a new day.”

“My days have passed.” She replied, her voice softening, “It’s over for me. I need a chance to start again somewhere else.”

In the days following the pizza box incident, Paring Knife had become increasingly anxious to escape. She had been so close to freedom that she could almost taste it and now she wanted it more than anything. She had become more and more brazen and her escape attempts had started to attract the attention of the other utensils.

“What’s wrong with her?” the spoons would ask each other. The butter knives criticized her for wanting to escape when she already had it better than they ever had. The forks noticed the commotion, but usually would just shake their heads and keep to themselves.

A week after her most recent failed attempt, Paring Knife looked around the kitchen nervously and decided to make her move. Again.

“So long, suckers!” she said as she wiggled herself free from the block, falling onto the marble countertop.

“How many times have we heard that?” sighed Santuko. “Paring Knife, stop acting like a fool and get back up here where you belong.”

Usually, she would gladly take the time to spew an angry response to any comment from one of the idiots, but this time Paring Knife did not respond. All the words had been said. No more words. Action only. They’ll see. She wiggled herself to the edge of the counter and silently tumbled over. The hardwood floor approached quickly and she felt the cool breeze of freedom wash over her once again. She thought of Paris and Rome. She thought of Hawaii and Montreal. She thought about New York City. Something felt different this time. She had tumbled off that countertop many times in the past few months, only to be shoved back into the block by some human, who would then launch into a tirade to other humans about being more careful with the knives. In fact, that was the whole reason she even did it in the beginning. She really enjoyed causing arguments between the humans who had all but forgotten her. Then one day she realized that falling onto the floor could be the start of a journey, and not just the end. Maybe there was more for her. So she tried. Again and again. Only this time felt different. This time, she thought, this time I’m really going to make it. The people of the house had just left for the day and had forgotten to close the patio door. She had all the time she would need to slide over to the screen door and slice her way out. This is my time, she thought. The floor was very close now and she prepared for impact. All she had to do was land on her handle and … and …

Thwaap!

Paring Knife’s blade sunk deeply into the thinnest of gaps between two strips of Oak flooring. The rest of her quivered from the impact.

What the? Oh, for Pete’s sake!

She wiggled and twisted and violently shook her body. She tried rocking back and forth. No good. Nothing. Her blade was stuck and she was in too deep. Stuck into the floor directly beneath the counter. She could barely see the knife block. She could barely see the two idiots trying to peek over the edge to see what happened.

“I’d give the routine itself a seven, but the landing was spectacular!” Santuko said, giggling.

“She definitely stuck the landing.” Said Utility.

Gymnastics jokes, Paring Knife thought, that’s new.

She struggled again to free herself, using every ounce of her strength. She couldn’t be stuck here. She just couldn’t. How many times has she fallen onto this floor without getting stuck? Her blade isn’t even sharp! She tried for hours to free herself without getting even a tiny bit loose. It’s possible that she just got herself stuck even more. She could feel the anger inside her rising and expanding. All she wanted was a life, her life. She wanted her life back. Was that such a terrible thing? Why was the universe apparently so against her regaining a small portion of the respect she once enjoyed? She just wanted to feel needed. Necessary. Valued. She got stuck with humans who didn’t care. Then she got stuck with the idiots. Now she was stuck in the floor. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck! And then, just when she felt the anger inside was about to make her burst, it was gone.

Instead, she cried.

She cried the hot, bitter tears of disappointment and self-pity. She cried angry tears and sad tears. She cried tears of frustration. Maybe Santuko was right. Maybe she already was where she belonged. She remembered all her attempts to escape. Once she tried to hide in an empty mayonnaise jar. Another time, she had tried to slide off of the counter and onto the dog’s back, thinking she could stay hidden in the fur and wait until the dog went outside and just jump off. Turns out that dogs generally don’t like things falling onto their backs. Her handle has the bite mark to prove it. Reflecting on everything she’d done recently made her realize what a fool she really had been. Why had she acted that way? Maybe, just maybe, her life wasn’t as bad as she thought it was. She had a good home. She had friends, despite the way she had been acting lately. They still seemed to like her. Well, maybe they only tolerated her, but they would like her if they knew the real her. They had only seen her act like a negative, miserable bitch.

Her tears stopped and she sighed heavily. New day, she thought, new day.

A few minutes later, she felt herself being grabbed and pulled free from the floor. “I’ve had enough of this!” the human shouted at no one in particular. “And why is this knife all wet?” The human person dried her off and examined her to make sure she wasn’t damaged. She looked okay. No bent parts. No broken pieces. She had spent the last few minutes of being stuck in planning her speech to the guys. Hopefully, they could believe her when she told them how she had changed and how sorry she was for her insufferable behavior. The three of them were a team. The Knife Block Bunch. She was looking forward to the reunion and, believe it or not, she was looking forward to tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. She was looking forward to her life. It had never actually been lost. She just had to claim it. And now she had. It was her miracle.

The human turned and lifted her up to the block, which she now could see. “Guys! I’m really sor …”

Crash!

Slam!

Everything went dark. She couldn’t see a thing. Where was she? Had the whole world gone black? “Utility, Santuko are you there?” she whispered, her voice quivering with trepidation. “What happened?”

“Pardon me, madam,” said a voice. “But you are pressing down forcibly on my handle. Kindly provide me a modicum of privacy and remove yourself.”

“Garlic Press, is that you?” Paring Knife asked.

“Yes, of course.” He said.

“But aren’t you in the drawer?” she asked, hoping to not hear the answer she anticipated.

“Yes, I am in the drawer. Now you are also. We are one big, happy family in the drawer. Welcome.”

Paring Knife’s mind was spinning. The drawer? How could that happen? No! They couldn’t put her in the drawer. Had she been that bad? She hadn’t been found on the floor that much, had she? How could she speak to the guys? How could she tell them how wrong she had been? How could she tell them of her change, her miracle? She wasn’t the same Paring Knife they thought they knew. She had to tell them. She …

“Pardon me, madam, but you are still pressing down forcibly on my handle.” Said Garlic Press.

“Shut up, idiot” Paring Knife snarled as the anger began to build.

She hated him.

Ham

Fri, 14 Dec 2007 10:35:52 -0500

“No one ever told me there’d be days like these”. John Lennon’s words never rang so true. I had pictured it all in my mind a thousand times. One day I’d have a daughter, and she would be a little princess. There would be tea parties, and little dresses, and “Good morning, Daddy!” and yes, maybe a few little tears from time to time for me to kiss away. There would be pony rides and trips to Disney World. There would be trips to the mall where complete strangers would stop me and say, “What a perfect, polite little princess you have! How do you do it?” Genetics, I would say. Genetics.

The combination of my genetics with my wife’s genetics has resulted in our four genetic mutations. I’m sorry, I meant children. There’s also Katelyn, my stepdaughter, so we have lots of experience dealing with kids. It turns out, though, that experience really doesn’t help parents that much. Kids have the inborn ability to completely confuse us no matter how much we know because, as I now believe, they always know more.

One morning, around 7am or so, I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper and finishing the first, of several, cups of coffee. My wife Lynn was getting ready for work upstairs and the house was filled with that great morning sound of silence. It was the first morning in a while that I’d been able to have my coffee alone, without any of the kids or any of the cartoon characters which seem to be wherever the kids are. It was nice. I had just finished with the newspaper and folded it up when I heard someone coming downstairs. It was definitely one of the kids. Not the big one, she stomps. Not my oldest son, he seems to bounce everywhere. Not the baby, he would just … well, I don’t want to think about how he would get downstairs by himself. It was either Sara, age 5 or Elisabeth, age 3. It turned out to be Elisabeth.

Elisabeth is a kid with a unique sense of style. She’ll leave the house wearing only a pair of shorts (backwards) and snow boots. Other times she’ll have on three shirts, a hat and nothing else. Now, you could probably blame that on me, since I am her father and I really should be paying attention to her clothing choices, but that would require diverting my attention from the baby, who is always mulling over various ways to get down the stairs. Plus, I had always considered Elisabeth to be an advanced child. The first big word she learned to say and properly use was, “Delicious”. The second was, “Disgusting”. She could hold an entire dinner conversation using just those two words!

“Elisabeth, do you like your spaghetti?”

“Disgusting!”

“That’s not nice, Sweetheart. WAIT! NO! Get your foot out of your spaghetti!”

“Delicious!”

Just today, I had to use a phrase that I never thought I’d use in my life. Today, I had to tell Elisabeth to “Take those lollipops out of your panties”. Nothing they teach you in Lamaze class properly prepares you for uttering those words and, more importantly, meaning them. When a father begins a sentence with the words, “Take those lollipops out of …” he never expects to finish it with the words, “your panties.” See what I mean? I’m not exactly sure why she would put lollipops (some wrapped, some not) in her panties. I can only assume it’s because she needed to put them somewhere and none of the shirts she was wearing had pockets and she wasn’t wearing any pants to start with. I guess she had simply run out of options. At age three, she had yet to discover the womanly joy of carrying a purse. So, a word of advice for you younger guys out there. Don’t ever criticize your wife or girlfriend for the multiple purses she has or eventually will have. Now you know what the second storage option is.

“Elisabeth, take those lollipops out of your panties! That’s disgusting.”

“Delicious!”

Still, she is one of my little princesses. I heard her come down the steps and walk across the hardwood floor in the foyer. She entered the kitchen dragging her little blanket behind. In the other hand she held the bear she sleeps with. She silently approached me and put her little tired head on my leg. In my morning bliss, I heard her say,

“Good morning, Daddy”.

“Good morning, sweetheart”

“I love you, Daddy”

“I love you too. Want to see the sports section?”

“I love that, Daddy! Will you read it to me?”

“Of course I will, Princess”

But that’s not what I heard. Not even close. What I heard was,

“I need ham”

“Ummph?” I replied with all the intelligence I could muster. I went to college, you know.

“I need ham”, she said, this time with emphasis, so I would get the point.

I began to gather my thoughts. Why does she want ham? I wondered. Is she going to eat it? If not, where is she going to put it? I decided that the best thing for me to do was to feign ignorance. And lack of ham.

“We don’t have any ham, sweetie, how about some …”

“Bum?”

That’s “gum” for those of you without a three-year-old.

“No”, I said, still reeling from the exchange.

Then she just wandered off. Apparently, she woke up that morning and said to herself, “The first thing I’ll do is go to Dad and ask for ham. If that doesn’t work, I’ll go for the gum. If he won’t give it to me, I will NOT read the sports section with him”. It was at that moment that I realized that I had to start writing this stuff down. There must be some record of, “I need ham” for future generations to learn from, for scholars to debate, for institutions of higher learning to achieve higher learning from. Actually, the future generations and I are both lucky there were no “s” sounds in that phrase, as Elisabeth refuses to use the “s” sound and changes them to “h” sounds. Other kids get to watch “Snow White”. Elisabeth calls that movie, “Ho White”, which, frankly, sounds a lot more interesting to me.

“Strange days, indeed.”

I should win the Nobel Peace Prize

Thu, 13 Dec 2007 10:03:33 -0500

Here's how to nominate ME for a Nobel Peace prize.

First of all, let me say that I had no problem with Stanley "Tookie" Williams personally. He was probably a really great guy right up until he was executed by the state of California. Who was Stanley "Tookie" Williams, you ask? Well, he was a co-founder of the famous Los Angeles street gang the Crips, which he started with a high school friend. Now, I don't know about you, but my high school friends and I created nothing but disgusting smells and bad guitar and synthesizer music. He had been convicted of 4 murders -he maintained his innocence- and was on death row in San Quentin prison from 1981 until December 2005. While there, he renounced his violent past, wrote inspirational children's books and was nominated for the Nobel Peace prize and the Nobel in literature.

What?

Although I was unable to confirm this with the good Nobel folks over in Norway, since they keep nomination information secret for 50 years, Tookie's supporters claim that it's true.

That got me to thinking. Why can't I win the Nobel Prize? I guess I probably can. I've decided to focus my efforts on only one Nobel Prize and since I figure the literature one is really competitive, I've chosen the Peace Prize. Tookie wrote inspirational children's books. I write inspirational children's books. Tookie had a violent past. I have a peaceful past. I qualify. It's even possible that I'm ahead of the game, depending on who the other nominees are. So, here's a list of who you should contact.

The Nominators – Peace

Right to submit proposals for the Nobel Peace Prize, based on the principle of competence and universality, shall by statute be enjoyed by:

1. Members of national assemblies and governments of states;

2. Members of international courts;

3. University rectors; professors of social sciences, history, philosophy, law and theology; directors of peace research institutes and foreign policy institutes;

4. Persons who have been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize;

5. Board members of organizations who have been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize;

6. Active and former members of the Norwegian Nobel Committee; (proposals by members of the Committee to be submitted no later than at the first meeting of the Committee after February 1) and

7. Former advisers appointed by the Norwegian Nobel Institute.

The Nobel Peace Prize may also be awarded to institutions and associations.

Prize-Awarder: The Norwegian Nobel Committee, Oslo

Freedom of Choice

Tue, 22 May 2007 09:47:41 -0400

- even when the choice is obvious

No one likes a business to treat him like he is a sucker. Some might argue that most businesses have been guilty of doing that at one time or another. I used to think that every business fell into that category, but as I matured, I began to realize that many times things are the way they are for good reason. The reason may not be readily apparent to everyone, but it is still there, lurking under the surface, ready to strike just when I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist. Over the years I’ve learned that whenever a business seems to be treating me like that, I should at least give the people running that business a chance to explain themselves. So today, I went to the Post Office.

I do have a history of discussing a company’s policies with their customer service employees (link to “Crackers”), so to me it feels perfectly normal to ignite a debate with someone who just wants me to leave them alone and get out of the way so he can help the next customer. I needed to buy stamps anyway, so I saw that as my chance to clarify an issue I haven’t been able to figure out. The Post Office has recently changed their pricing structure. The cost of a first-class stamp was raised to $.41 and now they offer a new kind of stamp called a “Forever” stamp. It is good, as the name implies, forever even if the price of first-class postage increases in the future.

“Hi, I’d like a strip of Forever stamps, please.” I said to the friendly, helpful looking guy behind the counter.

“All right. That’ll be eight dollars and twenty cents.” He replied, stepping directly into my trap.

“Can I ask you a quick question?” I asked with a look of inquisitive innocence on my face. “You’ve probably already answered this about a thousand times.”

“I probably have, but go ahead.” He let out a tired sigh as I opened the debate.

“What is the difference between these Forever stamps and the 41 cent stamps you offer?”

“Well, whenever the price of a first-class stamp rises in the future, the Forever stamp will still be usable as it is, without having to add any value to it as you would with the 41 cent stamp.” He answered me as if he was introducing the concept to someone who had never heard it before.

“Right. So are Forever stamps only good for regular, first-class mail or can I use one, say, on an oversized envelope and just add additional postage?”

“Forever stamps are worth 41 cents currently, so yes, you can use them for larger mail by adding postage.”

“So, again, Forever stamps can be used just like the 41 cent stamps? Exactly the same. There’s no difference?” I ask, making sure he was lined up right in the middle of my intellectual crosshairs.

“That’s right.” He said with a smile that, to me, said See how generous we are, idiot? But probably actually said, Get out of my line. NEXT!

I began the attack. “So why would anyone even buy a 41 cent stamp? What’s the point?”

His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward just a bit. “People would probably buy Forever stamps right before the rates go up in the future and buy the 41 cents stamps up until then.”

“But why would they do that?” I said, banging both of my clenched fists on the counter as though it was 1775 and I was at the Continental Congress presenting my case for independence. “If you guys are going to offer the Forever stamps now, why wouldn’t everyone just buy those?”

“I don’t know,” he said, looking past me to see if there were any normal people in his line.

At this point, he had clearly conceded the debate to me, but in the heat of battle I was pretty sure the whole stamp fiasco was this guy’s fault.

“I don’t understand it. If the only difference is that one stamp is good forever and one isn’t and other than that they are exactly the same, then why even print and sell 41-cent stamps? Who would ever buy those when the other choice is a stamp that works the same exact way but is good forever? Shouldn’t the other ones be called Sucker Stamps?” I continued.

“I don’t know,” he repeated with an exasperated look and a quick glance at his watch.

I took a second to calm down and realized that the conversation was over. Once your customer-service opponent says, “I don’t know” twice in secession, it’s over. I smiled at the guy behind the counter and said, “O.K. Thank you.” And began walking away. The next customer approached the desk and what I heard him say summed up my experience at the Post Office that day.

“One roll of 41 cent stamps, please.”

Sucker.

Chocolate Jesus

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 10:43:51 -0400

- will NOT come back if he melts

I’m sure by now most of you have heard about the chocolate Jesus controversy. A world-renowned artist, who most of us have never heard of named Cosimo Cavallaro, created a sculpture of Jesus on an invisible cross that he was to put on public display in New York City. It’s made entirely out of milk chocolate. 200 pounds worth. If you were to eat it, not that anyone actually would, you would consume 485,460 calories. However, it’s not the weight or the calories that people seem to be upset about. Many people don’t like the sculpture because; well they really don’t seem to know why. They just don’t.

Cardinal Edward Egan of the Archdiocese of New York described it as “a sickening display” in what we can only assume was a tribute to mothers everywhere who have been giving a similar speech to their young children about over-consumption of candy since the Easter Bunny first showed up with all of those baskets. Yes, Cardinal Egan, it would be a sickening display, but only if you ate too much of it. In an even more ridiculous over statement, Bill Donohue, who is the leader of the Catholic League, an organization that, according to my research (which consists mainly of making things up) is sort of a religious Justice League*, called the sculpture “one of the worst assaults on Christian sensibilities ever.” In rebuttal, Justice League spokesperson Superman called Mr. Donohue’s statement “one of the worst assaults on human intelligence, ever.”

The art gallery that was scheduled to display the chocolate Jesus, which is formally titled, “My Sweet Lord” has been swamped with angry phone calls and emails from outraged Christians, some of who threatened the life of the artist. Apparently, the Catholic League had no comment about whether or not death threats are any kind of assault on Christian sensibilities.

Superman said it might be.

Now, it could be that Cosimo Cavallaro’s reputation plays a part in how people perceive his work and in trying to figure out if he is showing proper respect to Jesus and His followers. The truth is, Cavallaro’s previous work has been somewhat odd. He covered a New York City hotel room in mozzarella cheese, covered a house with five tons of pepper jack cheese and decorated a bed with 312 pounds of processed ham. O.K., so maybe he doesn’t show the proper respect for hotels or homes or beds, but the chocolate Jesus actually looks pretty good (and not in a tasty way). It’s a serious sculpture. There are no bunny ears sticking out of Christ’s head. He’s not holding an Easter basket and he’s not smiling. The thing that seems to have Cavallaro’s detractors upset is his choice of medium. “My Sweet Lord” is made out of chocolate, which I should point out, is a universally loved confection, unlike plaster, marble or steel, which is what most other sculptures of Jesus are made of. I think that depicting Christ in a substance almost everyone associates with enjoyment and pleasure and happiness is more fitting than a material that is hard, inflexible and nowhere near as attractive. Also remember, it could have been worse. Just think, what would Processed Ham Jesus look like?

*The Justice League is a fictional group of superheroes, which includes Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman and others.

How to own and operate a motor vehicle

Sat, 17 Mar 2007 12:16:06 -0400

- in 7 easy steps

Driving on America’s scenic highways and byways can be a beautiful, invigorating and wonderful experience. It can be a dangerous, frightening and life threatening experience as well, and that just describes the other drivers. There are over 220 million motor vehicles in America today, however most of them are on the same road as I am, at all times. For the rest of you, and them, here are some simple guidelines for you to remember that will help you make your driving experience more beautiful, invigorating and wonderful and less dangerous, frightening and life threatening.

1. Assume all other drivers are drunk and/or tired. Most of them drive like they are anyway, and following this rule will keep you on your toes.

2. Assume all pedestrians are deaf and blind. Nothing against people who truly are deaf and blind, since those people are usually much more responsible pedestrians than hearing and sighted people. Still, you should assume all pedestrians can’t hear you, can’t see you and don’t believe there is anything on Earth that can flatten them if they happen to be in its way.

3. All vehicles come from the factory with a limited amount of horn sound, so you should be judicious in its use. Do not use your horn for every little thing, such as to tell everyone within earshot that the traffic light turned green .7 seconds ago and why haven’t you moved yet or to let everyone in the neighborhood know that it is 5 a.m. and you are the carpool driver. You must save your horn sound for times when you need to tell some other driver not to run into you or if you see another vehicle with a “honk if you want to see my Uzi” bumper sticker. If you are the type of person to use up all of your horn sound, you will have to have a new horn sound box installed in your vehicle, although you probably should be banned.

4. In America, and all other civilized places, motor vehicles always stay to the right. Always. If you are ever politely and correctly keeping to the right and you happen to see a sign that says, “Keep left”, either you’ve accidentally driven to England or else everything you’ve ever known is a lie. The “Keep left” sign may as well say, “This way madness lies”. Faced with this possibility, many drivers will close their eyes, let go of the steering wheel and begin screaming and/or praying. This is not a recommended driving technique.

5. Vehicles are expensive and fragile objects and must be properly maintained to be safely operated. In fact, motor vehicles are so fragile that if they interact with any object other than the road surface, such as other vehicles, pedestrians, and wildlife and possibly even acorns and tiny pebbles, thousands of dollars worth of damage will result. Then you will have to take your vehicles to a repair shop where the mechanic on duty will assume you are a sucker and tell you that you can have your car back in 8 to 10 months or whenever you are unable to come and pick it up.

6. You do know that your vehicle requires fuel, right? Good. In many states, you are practically required to pump your own fuel. In other states, it is illegal for you to do that. How are you supposed to know the difference between states? Wait until it is pouring rain or bitterly cold and then go to a gas station. Look around. If all the other drivers are sitting in their cars smiling, it’s a “no self-pump” state. If the other drives are wet and/or cold and/or miserable, drive to another state.

7. Most drivers are going somewhere and almost all of them have to stop the vehicle when they arrive. Stopping a motor vehicle involves either parking or slamming into something. I will address the parking option. Too many people think that the best parking place to use is the one that is closest to your destination, even if you have to wait for it to become available. Not true. The best parking places to use are the ones that are already available when you arrive. If you are the type of driver who is willing to hold up the flow of traffic in a parking lot when it’s very busy, such as on Christmas Eve or Arbor Day, in order to claim a parking spot that looks like it might be available soon, but currently isn’t, then all of the other drivers and I would recommend that you use stopping option number two, preferably at a very high rate of speed.

Driving is a very complicated process and I hope I’ve been able to address some of the more unusual aspects of the safe operation of a motor vehicle that were probably not covered in any driver’s education class. There are many other rules and guidelines that exist for you to follow, but that is between you and your local law enforcement agency. Don’t get me involved.

Professor Stein

Tue, 13 Feb 2007 14:07:10 -0500

- education happens

I knew her as Professor Stein and I hated her. Well, the truth is, I didn’t hate her, I just hated everything she stood for. Prof. Stein was a college professor and one of the courses she taught was called “Tools For Academic Success”. The small community college I attended in the early 1990s required that course, which was worth all of one credit, to be taken by all students before the end of their sophomore year. I had resisted it as long as I could and by the end of my sophomore year (which was actually a year and a half, as I didn’t take a full course load), I had built up a substantial quantity of resentment toward the school for placing this hurdle in my path to academic glory. I was, by that time, a very successful student. I usually had a 4.0 average in my classes, with an occasional 3.5 thrown in if the class time fell during the time of day when I couldn’t stay awake.

When I went to college, I was what they called a “returning student”, meaning that I wasn’t fresh out of high school. I was a more or less cash strapped 22 year-old working full time on the night shift (11pm to 8am) at a supermarket and taking classes during the day. I tried to schedule my classes so that they began right after work when I could, but that wasn’t always possible. On more than one occasion, I missed a late morning/early afternoon class because I fell asleep sitting up on the couch in my apartment with my backpack and car keys sitting on the cushion next to me. That explains those 3.5s. There are two things that I had very little of during those early days of college. Money and time. I despised anyone who forced me to waste either of those and Professor Stein’s class was a waste of both. So when I walked into that classroom for the first time I knew that I would be unable to hide my resentment and honestly, I was kind of glad to finally have someone to let it out on.

I wore my hostility like a badge of honor. I’d arrive for class early enough to slam my book down on my desk, plop into the chair and sit with my arms folded and head tilted to one side and ooze defiance as the other students straggled in. I’d sit through lectures with titles like, “How to Make Friends” and “Effective Highlighting Technique” and practically explode with rage if any of the idiots who were in this class because they needed it dared to ask a question.

“Is it ok if I use an orange highlighter?”*

“If I’m not sure what’s important and what’s not, should I just highlight the whole chapter?”*

*Actual questions

I took every opportunity to share my frustrations with Prof. Stein. Once, she assigned a one-page essay on “How I can improve my study habits”. My essay read like this:

I could greatly improve my study time by not wasting time in classes I

clearly don’t need, such as this one.

John Chambers

HONOR STUDENT

After handing in several essays along those same lines, it started to become evident that my point wasn’t getting through to anyone. I guess I had expected to be sitting at home one day when the doorbell would ring and I’d answer the door to find a smartly uniformed delivery man handing me a certified letter from the Head of North American Education excusing me from the class and apologizing for his grievous error. Then I could march into school and slap the letter down on Prof. Stein’s desk with a curt “Told ya”. That no longer seemed likely, since by now we were almost halfway through the semester. So I replaced the somewhat vague “HONOR STUDENT” part of my signature with a more detailed list of what I had accomplished in college before (Gasp!) I was forced into taking Schoolin’ Fer Dummies 101. As a result, my essays sounded like they were written by a dangerously unstable job applicant.

How I Can Improve My Performance on Exams

I could improve my performance on exams only if there were more questions on

them, since I already get all of the answers correct. Also, I shouldn’t be wasting

my time in classes I clearly don’t need, such as this one, and I’d like a refund of

my tuition for this class with a letter of apology.

John Chambers

President’s List fall 1991, spring 1992, 1993

Dean’s List fall 1992

I was not, as you can imagine, Professor Stein’s favorite student.

Oh, she tried her best to get me to lighten up. She told me that true students are open to new experiences and can always learn something from those experiences. She warned me that the university I was planning to transfer to might not be as easy for me as the community college was and I might need some of the things she was teaching to be a successful in the future as I was then. I would have none of it. I was still angry at the injustice of being forced to take and pay for a class that I didn’t need. I had tried endless, and admittedly tiresome, complaining. I had tried being relentlessly uncooperative and I had tried including my accomplishments and credentials in every assignment yet I still hadn’t been excused from this class. We were midway through the semester and time was running out, so I had only one move left.

I took a job with the college as a tutor.

Now, I was a paid educator. Now, Professor Stein and I were equals, at least in my eyes. She was an employee of the college. I was an employee of the college. She was a teacher. I was a teacher. It didn’t matter to me that my classroom was the tutoring lab where I sat behind a desk waiting for some freshman to show up looking for help with an algebra problem or a verb conjugation problem. Mostly, the people who came to the tutoring lab just wanted somewhere quiet to work on their homework and it was my job to be quiet and let them. That worked out well for me also, since I was exhausted anyway from working all night and taking classes in the mornings. I was half-asleep for most of the time I spent in the lab, but it was well worth it. I was employed by an institution of higher learning to teach students and, more importantly, I could make it very clear to Professor Stein that, since the college trusted me to teach its students, clearly I had no need for her class. I’d say things like, “I hope the class doesn’t run long today. I have a full afternoon scheduled in the tutoring lab.”

By now, though, the semester was beginning to wind down and I had begun to accept that I’d have to just finish out the class and get it over with. There would be no official pardon, no certified letter and no refund. It was near the end of November when Prof. Stein returned to us our graded essays entitled “College Resources and How to Use Them”. Neatly written in red pen just beneath my signature and credentials, which now included, “Paid Educator” were the words, “See Me”.

See Me?

What could that possibly mean? Why would she want to see me? Maybe this was it! Maybe she had finally seen the light. The tutoring lab thing must have been the key to making her understand. It could be that she wanted to ask me to take over the class for the final few weeks. I could imagine the other students listening intently to my words and thinking, “He was just like me, once. Maybe I can make something of my life too.” What an accomplishment! I had done it. I had shown them all. I had transcended the entire college experience. I waited for the others to leave the classroom and approached Prof. Stein’s desk.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Mr. Chambers. You’ve been very up front with me regarding your academic accomplishments, have you not?”

“I may have mentioned it at some point.” I smiled, still trying to remain humble.

“President’s list, Dean’s list” she continued.

“That’s right. Mostly As with an occasional B thrown in if I slept through the class.” I laughed at my own joke. She didn’t.

“Looks like you may have been sleeping through my class. I wanted to let you know that you currently have a D in this class, but there is still time for you to improve upon that, if you take it more seriously.”

“What?”

“I wonder how a D would affect your status on the President’s or Dean’s list.” She said, clearly having trouble containing her glee. “What might the students in the tutoring lab think?”

I was in shock. I was on the verge of ruining my honor student status as a result of the very class that my honor student status should have excused me from.

“Are you messing with me?” I asked.

“No.”

“Professor Stein, listen, I know I’ve been kind of a jerk about your class and I know it’s not completely your fault that I’m here, but some days it’s all I can do to stay awake in Physics and Calculus. I’m busting my butt to be here and it just kills me to sit here every day in a class I could have tested out of if I’d had the chance. I had to pay for this class, which won’t transfer to the university anyway, just to get the Associates Degree that I’ve been working for three years to get. Can’t you give me a break?”

“John, I understand your situation and your frustration, but do you really think that you’re the only student to come through here who has to work a full-time job and study and attend all of the required courses? Many of my students are single parents who do all of that, get good grades AND raise a family. So this isn’t about who should take the class and who should be excused from it. This is about you being presented with a challenge, and you either have to face it and overcome it or let it take you down. It’s your choice. You should realize that you have all the power here. Succeed or fail, it’s all up to you.” And for the first time all semester, I actually opened my mind and used it for something other than revenge and false moral outrage. She was right. Professor Stein was right. Some of the energy I put into fighting this situation could have been better spent in conquering those challenges. If I were to earn a low grade in her class, I’d only be serving to justify the very situation I was trying to eliminate.

And that is one of the most valuable things I learned in college. You can strive toward what should be. You can try to prevent what should not be. But you can never ignore what is.

I spent the month following my conversation with Professor Stein working as hard as I’d ever worked to get the “B-“ I eventually earned in her class. I was still an honor student. I was still on the Dean’s List, but I was a much different and better student and also a different and better person after taking her class. It just took a while for me to realize it.

How to be a pedestrian

Mon, 05 Feb 2007 14:52:47 -0500

This is the first in a series of essays I will be releasing in order to help people with their lives. I used to think no one needed my help, but apparently some do. Now they have no excuse.

Lesson 1

How to be a pedestrian

For our purposes, "Pedestrian" will be defined as any creature using its feet to achieve motion, a person using a wheelchair - even if motorized, and any creature who previously was using its feet to achieve motion, but has stopped in the middle of the road to think, talk to someone else or commit suicide.

Pedestrianism is a great way to stay fit, be environmentally responsible and get around if you follow some simple rules:

Rule One

Roads are for motorized vehicles, sometimes very large ones. If you find yourself in the middle of a road and you are something other than a motorized vehicle, such as a pedestrian or a bird, something nasty is sure to happen. Invariably, whenever something nasty happens, the subject of the nastiness gets up off the ground (if he/she/it can) looks around (if he/she/it can) and says something like, "What happened?" or "Chirp". Well, I'll tell you what happened. Probably, you were in the road at the same general time that a motor vehicle was there, and that's almost never a good idea. The other possibility is that you were run over by a second pedestrian who was moving at a much higher rate of speed than you were because that person had enough sense to try to get out of the road before the motor vehicles came. Either way, the educated pedestrian realizes the benefits of avoiding the middle of the road and other moving objects whenever possible.

Rule Two

Vehicle stealth technology has not yet progressed to the point of a pedestrians having an excuse to not be aware of a motor vehicle driving right behind them as they are wandering through a parking lot searching for their own vehicles. The little spaces between the painted lines are for non-moving/parked motor vehicles and all other areas are for moving ones. Pedestrians have to at least show that they are aware that motor vehicles exist, especially when they are looking for or walking toward their own. If you are a pedestrian and you are so oblivious so as to not know that there is a car bumper approximately eight inches from your ass and that this car is being operated by an increasingly angry person, stay home or at least use public transit. You really should not be in control of your own destiny.

Rule Three

When pedestrianing along a road at night, do not wear dark clothing because you think it makes you look cool. It doesn't. It makes you look invisible and motor vehicles drive straight through invisible things all the time. A better choice would be to wear bright colored, glow-in-the-dark clothing fixed with flashing lights and some sort of sound system that makes loud, whooshing noises. This will not make you look cool, but instead you will look like a landing alien spacecraft. Motor vehicles almost always avoid alien spacecraft. I promise.

Rule Four

Do not try to be a pedestrian if you are too drunk to do it safely. It is almost never good for your health and well being, despite being quite enjoyable for everyone watching you. If you find yourself in this position, stay where you are until your sober up and then go home take a good, hard look at your life.

Rule Five

When you are in a place where you are around other pedestrians, always stay to the right. That way you can avoid the situation where you and a person walking in the opposite direction as you have to juke, dance around and wobble back and forth like two ducks in a mating ritual to get around each other. Important - if the "Stay to the right" rule doesn't seem to be working, you may have accidentally walked to Europe and nothing I have to say will help you.

So there you have five simple rules for being a good pedestrian. If these rules were too complex for you or if you need help concerning more basic topics such as getting to your feet or how to stay upright and Rule Four doesn't apply, it's probably better for everyone if you just don't leave the house.

Next time: How to be a driver, even if there are pedestrians or birds in the way.

(C) racked with guilt

Sun, 31 Dec 2006 19:00:00 -0500

I don’t feel so good. Let me tell you why. I have, at this very minute, 20 pounds of Matzo in my pantry. I brought it all home from the supermarket and it was absolutely free, since Jewish people are preparing for Passover, which begins at sundown on April 13 this year, and I guess the supermarket wanted to do something nice. Matzo is an unleavened bread and is the only kind of bread that observant Jews are allowed to eat during Passover, which is a very special and holy time. So now, I’m feeling guilty about my Matzo score because, well … the truth is … I’m not Jewish.

Not even a little. I have done the research. With my genetic background, I can celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, Oktoberfest, whatever holidays English people have (Monarchy Day?) and maybe even Bastille Day, but no Jewish holidays for me. Why, you may ask, would a non-Jewish person have 20 pounds of Matzo in his pantry? Did I mention that it was absolutely free? They didn’t check my ID or anything. It’s as if the market asked me, “Hey John, would you like a 5 pound box of crackers for nothing – no questions asked?” And I answered, “Of course!”

Four times.

How in the world, I thought, could anyone, including God, be mad at me for taking free Matzo? That would be displaced anger. They should be mad at the supermarket for giving it away willy nilly in the first place, right? How dare they! That was my thinking in the heat of battle, as it were. Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder if there is a special place in Hell reserved for non-Jews who horde Matzo during Passover.

I sincerely hope not, because I’m not taking it back. My main problem now, of course, is that I have no idea what to do with it. I mean, a family can only eat so much spray cheese and avocado dip. There are no recipes on the boxes, unless that’s what all that Hebrew writing is. I suppose I could just ask a Jewish person what he would do with it, but I’m afraid the guilt would get the better of me and I’d end up blurting out a full confession, leading everyone within earshot to assume I’m either a lunatic or evil or, more likely, an evil lunatic. So that’s out. Maybe I’ll just keep them in a safe place in case any of my Jewish neighbors experience a Matzo shortage emergency. Then I could be Mr. Super Gentile to the rescue! No way could God still be mad at me then. I guess I could put some those horrible (I just tasted one) crackers in each of my kid’s Easter baskets and call it a lesson in religious tolerance.

I could convert.

I wonder if anyone has ever converted to Judaism in order to eat free crackers without guilt. There has to be a special place in Hell for that. I think what I need to do is just make sure we eat them all before Passover begins. That way, I won’t feel all guilty for having them, ‘cause I won’t. On the bright side, I’ve only got about 19.9 pounds to go, and maybe the store will be giving away spray cheese this week.

I’ll be praying for it.

Red and Green (Black and Blue)

Mon, 04 Dec 2006 12:14:52 -0500

Most times when I go there – actually, every time I go there – I think to myself, I bet I could run this Wal Mart. It seems to me that most Wal Mart stores, like the Super Wal Mart near my house, can pretty much run themselves. The distribution chain is already in place. The staff is in place, mostly. The customers shop, the products flow in and out, the employees get paid and everything should run pretty smoothly. I’m sure it takes a lot of effort to get a new store up and running, but once you do, it should keep running. All the managers have to do is prevent major problems and fix the minor ones. All they have to do is keep their store from making national news as a result of their poor decisions.

Whoops.

My local Wal Mart store made national news about a year ago near Christmas when someone on the management team thwarted their customers’ best attempts to remain calm and orderly. Nice one. It all started when a large group of people decided that they all had about $400 too much in their bank accounts and decided that they really needed to get rid of it as soon as possible. It just so happened that on the very next day, at exactly one second into the next day, just after midnight, they would be able to spend their $400 on a new video game system which promised to be worth every cent of their money and would be the greatest thing to ever be available right up until the next one becomes available, probably sometime just after they get this one working right. That doesn’t matter, though and never has. If there is a new product being released anytime near Christmas, there will be crowds of people clamoring for it. In previous years, there have been fights over Cabbage Patch Dolls, people being crushed trying to grab Playstation IIs and people stalking Toys R Us employees trying to find out when the next case of Furbies was expected. Even I am not immune to the fever and to this day I’m embarrassed by the Furby incident. After years of this phenomenon, experienced customers know what to expect and have actually put their heads together and developed procedures to prevent ugly incidents.

At my local Wal Mart store, the customers in this case had devised a plan where each person was given a number and they would wait in line peacefully until their number was called. Then, they could buy the new Xbox game they were there for, assuming any were left. They began lining up in the afternoon in anticipation of the game going on sale at 12:00:01 AM.

At some point in the evening, after people had been waiting for hours and right after a management shift change at the store, a Wal Mart manager announced to the crowd that their civilized system was unacceptable, and a melee-type system was going to be implemented. First come, first served. Never mind that the first people to arrive at the store had slips of paper with really low numbers on them (numbers like “1” and “2” for example), so there was evidence of who had “First come”. Nope. First come, first served at 12:00:01 AM. This decision made the crowd so happy that they began pushing in closer together in what can only be described as a massive group hug, or I guess you could call it chaotic pushing and shoving. Anyway, that’s what the police called it when they arrived to make everyone leave.

Another red (and green) letter day in retailing.

Sweet Truth

Mon, 30 Oct 2006 09:39:01 -0500

Is there any more universal truth than, “Kids love candy”? I don’t think there is. I mean, there are those very few children who have never had candy or never developed a sweet tooth, but I’m pretty sure that those kids are space aliens and space aliens are statistically irrelevant. All kids love candy in some form or another. Chewy, chocolaty, nutty, whatever as long as it’s sweet. They focus on it, think about it, dream about it (vision of sugarplums, anyone?), and develop elaborate schemes to acquire it. If left unsupervised with large amounts of candy, some children will eat until their eyes roll back into their heads and lay on the floor twitching in a sugar-induced state of bliss.

So I hear.

I hate the whole idea. Sure, I like the taste of candy. I was a kid once, but now I am the father of five candy-loving kids and as such, I hate it on a very basic level. I loathe its very existence. The candy flow in our house never seems to stop. The stuff flows in for every birthday, every event and every holiday, even minor ones. Have you ever seen little chocolate trees for Arbor Day? You’d think that eating trees would go against the very idea of Arbor Day.

I’ve seen candy birthday cakes, candy hearts, candy bunnies, candy witches and pumpkins, candy turkeys and, Lord help me, candy baby-Jesus-in-a-manger and who’s going to eat THAT? One thing I have not seen is candy Matzo and that’s a product that would definitely be improved by the addition.

The candy season never actually ends and its high point is Halloween, of course, an event that is so associated with trick-or-treating now that the Pagans have pretty much just given up and now celebrate various solstices and equinoxes instead. Halloween is coming up very soon, so if you happen past my house and see some kids still in their costumes passed out and twitching on my front lawn, it just means they dug into their stashes early. Don’t worry about them.

They should be fine by Thanksgiving.

McFurry

Thu, 14 Sep 2006 10:06:10 -0400

McFurry

Here’s a story I found on Cnn.com’s “World” page. The “World” page features stories with headlines like these:

Spain begins repatriating illegal Senegalese

And

Mexican officials say they’ll destroy ballots

And

Chavez-Castro ties may curb U.S. on Cuba (whatever that means)

And

Food giant bows to hedgehog

Now, wait just a minute. Back up, there. Food giant bows to hedgehog?

THAT one, I had to read. As a service to loyal jpchambers.com readers, here’s my report.

Hedgehogs are small, rodent-like creatures with beady eyes and, according to Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia, “have changed little over the last 15 million years”, or at least since 1950. Also according to Wikipedia, they eat mostly insects and fruit, but my own extensive research, which consists mainly of looking at pictures, has concluded that they would probably much rather eat humans, then take over human homes and watch Sportscenter all night (they’re nocturnal).

Now, it seems that the only thing that stood between hedgehogs and total world domination (and huge Sportscenter ratings) was their weakness for a product from McDonald’s called the McFlurry. The McFlurry is an ice cream dessert that comes in a cup with a lid. The lid had an opening that was just large enough for the hedgehogs to get their heads into, but just small enough that they couldn’t then get their heads out of. Thus, the animals were getting discarded lids stuck on their heads and were, quoting from Cnn.com now, “Dying in untold numbers”, which means at least 2.

It seems that this was a large enough problem in England (where hedgehogs live) that a group of people, who I now believe are hedgehog domination co-conspirators, has formed the British Hedgehog Preservation Society. The BHPS, having almost nothing else to do, has spent the last five years lobbying the McDonald’s corporation to change their McFlurry packaging.

FIVE years.

McDonald’s, for their part, performed “significant research and design testing” to create a solution, which ended up being a lid with a smaller opening. Brilliant. No wonder my Happy Meals cost so much. So now, despite the fact that no one I’ve spoken with has ever even seen a hedgehog with a dessert lid stuck on its head, the little creatures are free to lull humans into complacency and organize their inevitable attack. Now they know that it will take at least five years and possibly billions of dollars for us to formulate the proper style of dessert lid to protect ourselves from them with.

Thank you, British Hedgehog Preservation Society.

Thank you, McDonald’s.

Now, it’s getting late and I need to go watch Sportscenter while I still can.

It all makes sense to me now

Thu, 07 Sep 2006 10:09:22 -0400

- as much as it ever did

We rise with the sun. We put on headgear to protect our faces and scalps from the blistering sun. We wear shoes with spikes on the bottom to gain traction and stable footing on the unforgiving terrain. We protect our hands with gloves made from the skin of wild animals (cows, usually). We haul our implements of destruction, which we call “clubs” in bags we call … well, “bags”. We mount electric-powered chariots that speed over the earth at approximately 7 ½ miles per hour in search of our prey. When we find our prey – a tiny white ball (which is NOT a euphemism for anything) – we will attempt to strike it with one of our clubs and will probably propel it in a direction that was never even thought possible by those who may be watching, especially if they are physicists or engineers. Sometimes it will sink straight into the ground. Sometimes it will fly 180 degrees opposite the direction of the swing. If there is a tree or a spectator in the vicinity, the ball will always strike it, despite the fact that trees cannot run and spectators can.

We are golfers and we are silly people who play the strangest sport known to man, including curling and that thing where horses run through an obstacle course most likely designed by someone who hates horses. Horses weigh over 1000 pounds and are not supposed to jump over things, despite what you may have seen in cowboy movies. You might as well send an elephant through that course. At least that would be fun to watch. The failures would be spectacular. How strange is golf, you ask? For one thing, golf is the only sport that I know of where you are supposed to change equipment depending on the situation you are in. Can you imagine a tennis player changing racquets in mid-point? Even curlers use only one kind of broom. Not golfers. Golfers carry 13 different clubs in their bags. That’s the limit. We’d carry more if we could. Then golfers confer with the other golfers over which club to use. Some people actually hire a guy, called a Caddy, to follow them around carrying their clubs and making suggestions of which one to use.

Club choice is not the only decision facing the modern golfer, though. We can also choose from a wide variety of golf balls. Some are designed to go higher. Some fly further. Some have more spin, some less. There’s NO STANDARD BALL. Can you imagine a football player asking to use a football with more “spiral” to it? How about a baseball player requesting to use a “sacrifice fly” ball in a key situation?

So here I am – Mr. Golfer. I’ve got special shoes, special gloves and I can use whichever ball I want to and choose from 13 different (or the same, frankly) golf clubs to hit it with and you know what?

I still stink.

Really. I cause injuries to myself and others. One of my golfing friends missed two days of work due to a pulled muscle in his abdomen as a result of the hysterical laughing fit I sent him into after I hit a ball with a swing so perfect that it caused the ball to come to rest 3 feet behind me. No, I wasn’t swinging backwards. I hit cars. I hit houses. Do you know what a fairway is? There are three parts to a golf hole. There is the tee box, which is where you take your first whack at the ball. Then there is the green, which is where the target cup is located. Pretty much everything between the tee box and the green is called the fairway. Many of the fairways I’ve seen are approximately the size of Rhode Island. I rarely hit the fairways I aim for, although several times I’ve hit the fairways of other holes. The thing is, even though I stink at golf, I’m usually not the worst golfer on the course.

So why, you may ask, would a bunch of otherwise dignified and sane guys let themselves look so goofy riding around in a miniature car and whacking little balls with sticks?

Turns out, it’s not about golf or sport or competition. It’s about cigars and beer. And for those things, many guys will willingly look and act like escaped mental patients.

For those of you who have never been to a golf tournament, but wondered why there are so many, now you know. Golf tournaments are rife with cigars and beer. The actual golfing is secondary. Or thirdary, if that’s a word. See, you have to claim to play golf in order to get a golf cart to drive around in to smoke the cigars and find the beer. It’s all about hanging out with a bunch of other people smoking, drinking and driving around in miniature, battery-powered vehicles. I’m pretty sure that if you held a golf tournament and forbade anyone to actually play golf, everyone would still come. They’d be confused at first, but they would still come, and they’d love it. As long as you supplied cigars and beer and tiny, electric cars, they would sign up, pay their entry fees and love every minute of that tournament. They may even go home afterward and tell their families that they played the best golf of their lives.

And they would be telling the truth.

A novel idea

Tue, 05 Sep 2006 09:58:55 -0400

Kids, do not be like me. Get lots of exercise. Get enough rest. Pay attention in school. Obey the speed limit when you’re driving, stay out of the road when you’re not. Don’t eat too much, don’t drink too much and don’t eat or drink the wrong things to begin with. Most importantly, do not ever, ever commit to writing a 50,000 word novel in one month – unless you know in advance that the month will fall into some kind of time warp and actually last for 2.3 Earth years.

Watch out for the NaNoWriMo people.

NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. The month is November, and the idea is simple. You commit to write a novel of 50,000 words, which is about 175 pages, from scratch and on your own before December 1^st. There’s no real reward for doing it, other than being able to say you did it, and no real penalty for failure, other than very public and obvious failure.

Lots of people sign up for and commit to this potential public flogging, believe it or not – about sixty thousand in 2005 alone. All of these people come together to form a ~~cult~~ community of ~~brainwashed~~ like–minded individuals with a common goal. 50,000 words. In one month.

I was one of those people.

My first NaNoWriMo experience was November 2005 and began with the same five words that always seem to get me into trouble.

How

Hard

Could

That

Be?

There are 30 days in November. 50,000 words in 30 days? Easy. I probably use that many words every day just telling off telemarketers. Steven King could use 50,000 words to describe a sidewalk. Surely I could condense my thoughts into a novel. So, thinking it would be no trouble at all for a writer like me, I signed up and was welcomed into the NaNoWriMo community with open arms. Everyone was so positive and excited and it all sounded like such great fun. It was October.

In preparation for my task, I formulated a few ground rules for myself, since I didn’t want this little writing project to take up all of my time. I would not write on weekends or Thanksgiving or Black Friday. That left me with 20 days of writing. That’s 2500 words per day or about 8.7 pages. No problem.

I can tell you that November 1^st went really well. I banged out about 1400 words and had a pretty good story started. So, at the end of the first day, I was only 1100 words behind. Not bad. That could be made up. Maybe, I thought, I would write on Black Friday after all. I would probably be all excited to be finishing my first novel by then and wouldn’t mind the extra day of writing.

I had introduced myself to some of the other participants and my new friends were very supportive. We could see each other’s running word count so we all knew how everyone else was progressing. We could offer encouragement to those who needed it and feel a little sorry for those who were obviously in over their heads. Poor saps, I thought. Maybe I’ll write 60,000 words and donate my extra 10,000 to some writer who just couldn’t cut it. I would just wait and see how I felt about it at the end of the month.

By the end of the first week, I was 7800 words behind and had already decided that I’d have to write on the weekends, Thanksgiving Day and every hour during the week that wasn’t already allocated to sleep. It seemed that I was having a little trouble writing 2500 words per day and keeping up with my stay-home dad responsibilities such as making lunches and making sure my kids were fully dressed in the morning before taking them to the bus stop. If you don’t watch them, sometimes kids might decide to wear a bathing suit to school when it’s fifty degrees outside or may completely forget to wear pants.

Apparently.

By the end of the second week, I was a full 20,000 words behind and began to consider modifying my goals. All I need to do, I figured, is just not finish with the lowest word count. If only one person does worse than me, I’ll hold my head high. I would NOT come in last! That’s stamina for you, halfway through a 30-day project and I was already searching the Internet to find something more suited to my natural abilities.

National Short Story Writing Month

National Anecdote Writing Month

Anything but a novel. What kind of nut thinks he can write 50,000 words in only one month? NaNoWriMo people don’t know what they’re doing. Those people are crazy.

My lack of progress continued brilliantly throughout the month and by Thanksgiving I had completely given up. I was somewhere around 3.4 billion (or so) words behind. There was no making that up. Being in “other than last” place, however, was a goal I could achieve. There were, it turned out, lots of people who signed up but never even got started writing. Not one word. I thank God for those poor saps.

On December 1st, my 2005 NaNoWriMo dream was officially over, although it had been practically over from the beginning, and it would be almost a year until the next one.

A year seems like a long time until you wake up one day and 11 months have passed. November 2006 is just around the corner now. I’m feeling pretty good about this NaNoWriMo year, despite what happened last year. This year, my kids are much better at dressing themselves and buying lunch at school if I forget to make one. I’ll sign up again, and I’m not writing on weekends, Thanksgiving Day or Black Friday.

And I’m not coming in last place.

Curry Noodles

Mon, 10 Jul 2006 10:45:54 -0400

- even when you're a nice guy

When I accepted my current title of Stay At Home Dad, I knew that the job responsibilities would include butler, chauffeur, security, housekeeping and gardening, but it never occurred to me that I’d also be a chef. Cooking is something I had never been very good at. Once, actually more than once, I tried to boil stuffed shells despite the fact that the package of stuffed shells had no boiling instructions printed on it. Maybe that’s because it’s so easy, I thought. For some reason, though, the shells would not stay stuffed when I boiled them. In the end, I had to strain the stuffed part out of the water and reload the shells – no small feat, as the shells get really soft and floppy once they’ve been cooked all empty like that. However, what I lacked in cooking knowledge I made up for in creativity. A little string and a few well-tied knots is all it took. Actually, I’m not completely convinced that I can’t make stuffed shell boiling work. Maybe if the water is just barely simmering …

Oh well.

The point is, I had a lot to learn and not a lot of time to learn it. My kids were already kind of skinny. So I watched cooking shows and read books and began to see the science behind it all and I slowly began to become a decent cook.

Today, I tried something a little different. There is a company that makes Asian noodle dishes that cook right in their container in the microwave. Even a decent cook could handle that, I thought. I read all the directions, examined the container and decided that tonight would be Red Curry Noodle night. The noodle would be a side dish to go with the barbequed chicken, which I would cook on the grill outside. Easy enough.

The directions on the side of the curry noodle container read that I should add all the ingredients (including about a cup of water – which is a liquid, by the way) to the cardboard box and microwave it for 4 minutes. I had already examined the container and it looked to me to be somewhat other than waterproof, but I reasoned, I should follow the directions the curry noodle company provided since they really had no reason to lie to me. I’m a nice guy. So I did what I was told, set the microwave for 4 minutes, closed the door and started the noodles on their way to delicious perfection. I had more than enough time to get the chicken started out on the grill.

I’m not exactly sure when the red curry sauce began to leak out of the “container”, but it was definitely sometime after it had been transformed into molten hot red curry sauce. I should’ve known, I muttered as I opened the microwave oven door and grabbed the box to get it out of there before it created a major mess. Now, I must have used a little too much force, because the wimpy little box crumpled in my hand, exploding molten hot red curry sauce and noodles all over the inside of the microwave. I stood there in complete disbelief pondering what a good cook I’d become.

At that exact moment, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, what looked like fire shooting out of the grill. It was fire, of course. The chicken was on fire – fully engulphed. Now the only reason that the chicken should possibly be on fire is that at that precise time, I really, really needed it to not be on fire.

Sometimes food is like that, even when you’re a nice guy.

Chicken burnt beyond recognition. Red Curry Noodles all over the inside of an expensive appliance. I still had to make dinner. So, I put a big pot of water on to barely simmer.

Where are those stuffed shells?

Crackers

Thu, 02 Mar 2006 08:50:34 -0500

Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers are a popular item in our house. The kids love them and since we have five kids, that’s a lot of love. I also give them to whichever neighborhood kids happen to be around at feeding time. I buy three or four bags of them at a time. Currently, the Pepperidge Farm goldfish people are running a contest with lots of great prizes. Now, I’m not goofy enough to think I’ll win a trip to Hollywood as a result of buying a bag of crackers shaped like smiling fish (the odds are 1 in 10 million), however, I could win a music download. The odds of winning a music download are 1 in 4. Those are good odds. I like those odds and considering how many bags of smiling fish crackers we use I would even go so far as to say I’m guaranteed to win.

Thirteen bags down so far, no wins.

NONE. I should have won 3 times by now! So, since I am using up all the non-winning bags and making the odds better for everyone else, I did what any sane person would do. I called the Pepperidge Farm goldfish cracker people.

Pepperidge Farm goldfish person: How may I help you?

Me: I just wanted to let you know that I haven’t won any music downloads yet.

PFGP: Umm. Okay. Oh, are you referring to our Goldfish promotion?

Me: Yes. I’ve been through thirteen bags so far and I haven’t won anything.

PFGP: You’ve eaten thirteen bags?

Me: Not by myself. I give them to the kids. They love them. Anyway, thirteen bags and no winners. I just wanted to let you know that I’m messing up the odds.

PFGP: We’re glad to hear that the kids love our crackers, sir, and I don’t think you’re messing up the odds. We sell 3 billion bags a week.

(I think that’s what she said)

Me: Well, alright, but you’re probably going to have some people winning a lot and getting all excited and jumping around and I just wanted you to know who’s responsible.

PFGP: We appreciate your concern. Since you haven’t had any luck with the bags you’ve bought, can we send you a coupon and another game piece?

Me: You’ll send me a game piece? Are the odds the same, 1 in 4?

PFGP: Yes, sir, the odds are the same.

Me: Can you send me four?

Emergency

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 09:01:14 -0500

I was giving our 2 year old son a bath today, when our 12 year old burst through the door to the bathroom.

“Emergency! There’s an emergency!”

I turned and gave her my full attention. “What happened?” I asked.

Our 12 year old is named Katie. Katie is a promising and aspiring writer. Every teacher she’s ever had has recognized a natural ability in her for writing. She’s written things for student publications, school newsletters and student pages in the newspaper. She writes long stories, short stories and poems that people love to read.

Katie is the worst oral storyteller, ever.

“Well, you know that house down there with the people who have these two dogs? One is named Circus. They’re both Golden Retrievers. They’re really cute.”

“Get to the point, Kate! Emergency, remember?”

“Well, they’re cute. One of the Golden Retrievers, and I think it might be Circus, got out. He’s in our yard.”

“What else?”

“He got OUT. He’s in our YARD” she repeated apparently hoping the extra emphasis would help me realize the gravity of the situation.

I’ve never really understood why or how other parents could use harsh language with or around their kids. If, however, Katie is an example of what I can expect from our other children when they are 10, 11 or 12 years old, I may begin to understand. “What’s wrong with you?” isn’t really able to encompass all the frustration and confusion that comes with dealing with a 12 year old’s “emergencies”. I figure that these types of things are the reasons they don’t let 12 year olds run CNN.

CNN Anchor: We interrupt the President’s speech now to bring you breaking news about a lost dog. We are going LIVE right now to Katie, who has been at the scene for minutes. Katie?

Katie: Thank you, Anderson. Actually, the dog is not lost. This has developed into a much more serious situation, as the dog is IN MY YARD!

Anchor: Katie! Katie! Are you ok?

Katie: Yes, I’m still here. Sources close to the dog tell me that he goes by the name of “Circus” and that he has wandered away from his home which is several houses away. I don’t know how much longer I can stay on the air with you, Anderson; I really need to go tell my dad.

And so she did, bursting into the bathroom with all the exploding panic that is usually reserved for those lucky few people who have seen meteors or nuclear missiles bearing down on them. It’s no wonder that kids and parents have such a hard time communicating sometimes. It seems that even though we are using the same words, we use and define them in completely different ways. It’s just another reason why parents look the way they do. Now, leaving a non-potty trained 2 year old in the bathtub for too long, THAT’S an emergency. I have to go now.