Office mate and resident genius Moshe made good on a promise to take me to lunch. Since it was his treat I decided to eschew our normal lunchtime establishments of Rubio's, et. al., instead selecting a dining experience at The Barrel Room.
We had just been served our food when a well-dressed man entered the restaurant. He wore a white fedora that matched his white shoes, a seersucker suit of vintage quality, a shirt and a tie. He carried a small, soft-sided attache case.
He had the most pleasant smile upon his face. We put his age at mid-seventies. He approached our table, the smile beaming, and asked, "Do you have a few dollars that you can spare a Norwegian veteran?"
While I didn't have to give Moshe the Heimlich Maneuver it was a rum thing. I sure that my face betrayed a similar sense of shock.
If the fellow had been in his teens or early twenties I might have ascribed this brazen request as a high school prank or college fraternity pledge ordeal gone awry. But when someone older than your dad panhandles you during lunch hour at a fairly nice restaurant...
We refused to give the Norwegian veteran any cash, hopefully with a smile as warm as the one he laid on us. Undeterred, he made his way to a half-dozen other tables until one of the waiters escorted him off the premises. No fuss, no argument, knowing the jig was up, he walked in as serenely as he entered.
For the curious, the answer is no. His accent was more Midwestern than anything, certainly no trace of the Scandinavian countries about him, no sing-song lilt of Norway.
Moshe sat dumbfounded for most of the remainder of the meal.
And that reminds me of another bizarre restaurant experience. This time I was eating breakfast with a couple of friends at the decidedly downmarket IHOP. Sitting at the table next to us was a man elegantly dressed in a suit and tie. He had an attache case at his feet, a silk tie knotted against the closed collar of a blinding-white shirt. He devoured both his breakfast and The Wall Street Journal.
The breakfast was one of those heart-clogging one-from-every-column offerings. Eggs, potatoes, three kinds of meat, pancakes, syrup, the bottomless cup of coffee and a small glass of OJ.
The man finished his breakfast, patted his lips and then bolted out of the fire door into the alley at a full sprint. By the time the waitress knew what happened he was out of sight, having skipped on the check.
So, you know what you now have to do? Use the Comments link to send me your best restaurant story.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Men's Vogue?
In today's mail I received a magazine subscription solicitation for Men's Vogue.
Now there's a fucking oxymoron if there ever was one. What kind of a man would subscribe to Vogue or Men's Vogue?
Maybe, just maybe, could it be that new untermensch, The Metrosexual.
Last year, shortly after I returned from a fly-fishing pack trip into the Eastern Sierra, I had lunch with a good friend of mine. Let's call him MB. MB is a few years older than I am, a retired business owner who built and sold a great company. Basically, he does lunch. Knowing that he is a foodie, of sorts, I introduced him to one of my favorite restaurants, La Bastide, a country French establishment.
MB leaned over, and with an air of the conspiratorial about him, admitted to a guilty pleasure. An indulgence. A pedicure. Yeah, my buddy confessed that there is nothing quite like getting a pedicure. He encouraged me to get one, suggesting further that I go on Sunday afternoon when the chances of being seen were greatly reduced.
In turn, I described our trip. We rode on horseback 12 miles into the wilderness and made camp jump below 10,000 feet. Our campground was near a small stream, a clearing surrounded by trees. In a trice we put up our tents, set up the kitchen and watched in amazement while Jon crafted a fire pit, using rocks from around the campsite. Jon also sighted in our toilet. About a quarter of a mile above camp, Jon dug a hole, placed a folding plastic toilet over it, and then hung toilet paper from a tree branch using some string.
Creating the best, most scenic shitter in the history of mankind. Sitting there in the cold morning, looking at mountains, a slow, meandering stream, listening to the noises of the animals and birds...what a place to pinch a grumpy.
That, I said to MB, was my idea of a guilty indulgence.
As for Men's Vogue, I might know a guy in Colorado who would read it...
Now there's a fucking oxymoron if there ever was one. What kind of a man would subscribe to Vogue or Men's Vogue?
Maybe, just maybe, could it be that new untermensch, The Metrosexual.
Last year, shortly after I returned from a fly-fishing pack trip into the Eastern Sierra, I had lunch with a good friend of mine. Let's call him MB. MB is a few years older than I am, a retired business owner who built and sold a great company. Basically, he does lunch. Knowing that he is a foodie, of sorts, I introduced him to one of my favorite restaurants, La Bastide, a country French establishment.
MB leaned over, and with an air of the conspiratorial about him, admitted to a guilty pleasure. An indulgence. A pedicure. Yeah, my buddy confessed that there is nothing quite like getting a pedicure. He encouraged me to get one, suggesting further that I go on Sunday afternoon when the chances of being seen were greatly reduced.
In turn, I described our trip. We rode on horseback 12 miles into the wilderness and made camp jump below 10,000 feet. Our campground was near a small stream, a clearing surrounded by trees. In a trice we put up our tents, set up the kitchen and watched in amazement while Jon crafted a fire pit, using rocks from around the campsite. Jon also sighted in our toilet. About a quarter of a mile above camp, Jon dug a hole, placed a folding plastic toilet over it, and then hung toilet paper from a tree branch using some string.
Creating the best, most scenic shitter in the history of mankind. Sitting there in the cold morning, looking at mountains, a slow, meandering stream, listening to the noises of the animals and birds...what a place to pinch a grumpy.
That, I said to MB, was my idea of a guilty indulgence.
As for Men's Vogue, I might know a guy in Colorado who would read it...
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
If you call yourself Michelangelo...
If you call yourself Michelangelo and the company sells paint, then shouldn't the product be great?
Not only does the paint leave much to be desired, but the company gets an "F" when it comes to customer communications as well.
Lynn and I tackled the guest bathroom over the last month. Our first step was to strip the wallpaper, and like all the other papered walls in the house, the original owner had not prepped the surface. This meant that after tearing chunks of drywall off the surface, we had to put on a skim coat of drywall mud. And we didn't do a half-bad job. The room has an Italian plaster kind of look.
Lynn selected the paint, a new product that promised a one coat faux finish. Now, we are vets of other faux finish projects, and they are expensive and time consuming, requiring a base coat, a finish coat and a glaze. But not with Michelangelo paint! One coat. Says so on the company's website, www.michelangelohome.com. There is an elaborate video posted online as well as a DVD that comes with each can of paint.
The paint is expensive, $46.00 a gallon. We also bought a sea sponge for the technique we would use.
Our next step entailed putting a primer and sealer on the wall. We learned that Michelangelo paint does not work directly on sealer, so we now had to paint the wall. Fortunately we had a nearly full gallon from another project and so painted the wall.
There was only one problem with the Michelangelo paint.
It doesn't work.
When Lynn returned the paint to Home Depot she was told that many customers had returned Michelangelo paint for the same reason. What the company doesn't tell you is that the paint doesn't work over acrylic paint. Almost every paint sold at the big box stores and specialty paint retailers is acrylic paint. Non-acrylic paint is cheap paint.
I e-mailed Michelangelo two weeks ago to make them aware of the problem and the seven hours they added to our home project.
Still waiting for a reply.
Not only does the paint leave much to be desired, but the company gets an "F" when it comes to customer communications as well.
Lynn and I tackled the guest bathroom over the last month. Our first step was to strip the wallpaper, and like all the other papered walls in the house, the original owner had not prepped the surface. This meant that after tearing chunks of drywall off the surface, we had to put on a skim coat of drywall mud. And we didn't do a half-bad job. The room has an Italian plaster kind of look.
Lynn selected the paint, a new product that promised a one coat faux finish. Now, we are vets of other faux finish projects, and they are expensive and time consuming, requiring a base coat, a finish coat and a glaze. But not with Michelangelo paint! One coat. Says so on the company's website, www.michelangelohome.com. There is an elaborate video posted online as well as a DVD that comes with each can of paint.
The paint is expensive, $46.00 a gallon. We also bought a sea sponge for the technique we would use.
Our next step entailed putting a primer and sealer on the wall. We learned that Michelangelo paint does not work directly on sealer, so we now had to paint the wall. Fortunately we had a nearly full gallon from another project and so painted the wall.
There was only one problem with the Michelangelo paint.
It doesn't work.
When Lynn returned the paint to Home Depot she was told that many customers had returned Michelangelo paint for the same reason. What the company doesn't tell you is that the paint doesn't work over acrylic paint. Almost every paint sold at the big box stores and specialty paint retailers is acrylic paint. Non-acrylic paint is cheap paint.
I e-mailed Michelangelo two weeks ago to make them aware of the problem and the seven hours they added to our home project.
Still waiting for a reply.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
A Brace of Books
In the last month I have read two outstanding business books. Most business books are pamphlets with one decent chapter surrounded by 250 pages of drivel. These two books were consistently informative, with each chapter strong and filled with valuable information.
The first is Deep Smarts: How to Cultivate and Transfer Enduring Business Wisdom. The authors are Dorothy Leonard and Walter Swap. Their premise is a simple one, in order to insure a business continuation companies need to proactively transfer knowledge from one "generation" to the next. Using the dot.com meltdown as a backdrop, Leonard and Swap demonstrate that the shortage of business coaches and mentors (as well as the suspended belief in reality that "this time it's different"--it never is in business) played a major role in promising companies failing.
The second book is A Whole New Mind: Why Right Brainers Will Rule the Future, Daniel H. Pink. Pink, who also penned Free-Agent Nation, makes a compelling argument that we are in the early days of the Conceptual Age, and that the MFA, not the MBA, may be the degree of choice. Pink suggests cultivating "The Six Senses" (Design, Story, Symphony, Empathy, Play and Meaning) and provides a useful portfolio at the end of each chapter to help you develop some of these right-brain skills.
The real kudo, though, goes to my friend and colleague Tony Hutti. Although he is a staunch Notre Dame fan, I forgive him that sin in thanks for his timely reading list suggestions. Tony recommended both of the above.
The first is Deep Smarts: How to Cultivate and Transfer Enduring Business Wisdom. The authors are Dorothy Leonard and Walter Swap. Their premise is a simple one, in order to insure a business continuation companies need to proactively transfer knowledge from one "generation" to the next. Using the dot.com meltdown as a backdrop, Leonard and Swap demonstrate that the shortage of business coaches and mentors (as well as the suspended belief in reality that "this time it's different"--it never is in business) played a major role in promising companies failing.
The second book is A Whole New Mind: Why Right Brainers Will Rule the Future, Daniel H. Pink. Pink, who also penned Free-Agent Nation, makes a compelling argument that we are in the early days of the Conceptual Age, and that the MFA, not the MBA, may be the degree of choice. Pink suggests cultivating "The Six Senses" (Design, Story, Symphony, Empathy, Play and Meaning) and provides a useful portfolio at the end of each chapter to help you develop some of these right-brain skills.
The real kudo, though, goes to my friend and colleague Tony Hutti. Although he is a staunch Notre Dame fan, I forgive him that sin in thanks for his timely reading list suggestions. Tony recommended both of the above.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Proof of Age
This evening I was being my old anal-retentive self, soaking the humidifiers for my cigar humidor in distilled water. I noticed that the Thompson Cigar Company logo was attached to the twin humidifiers.
I no longer do business with the Thompson Cigar Company. This followed my last order, placed in 2005. I ordered, waited patiently, the impatiently, and then called Customer Service to inquire about my errant cigars.
The customer service representative informed me that they couldn't ship the order without a proof of age. I had to prove that I was over 18 years of age. The company's solution, FAX a copy of my driver's license.
Maybe the Thompson Cigar Company has missed the whole identity theft thing. I politely informed them that faxing my driver's license was not going to happen. I then used logic, reminding the representative that I had been ordering cigars since 1992. So, unless I was 5 years old when I placed my first order, it was a good bet that I was over 18. I even suggested that she check my website, certainly the gray-haired dude fishing in the river was well to the north of the legal age.
Alas, logic and company policy rarely meet. No proof of age, no order.
I opted for no order.
Why, in an age of unprecedented competition and consumer choice, would a company make it so hard to do business with them? (I also have requested, on three occasions, that they take me off their mailing list...but the catalog still come and I garner a wee bit of perverse pleasure in tossing them out unopened...but in the recycle bin.)
My two Internet connections for this guilty pleasure are Holt's Cigars, http://www.holts.com/ and Cigars International, http://www.cigarsinternational.com/. I was introduced to the latter by Reas Pearce, the Michelangelo of house painters.
But most of my custom goes to Liberty Tobacco, http://www.libertytobacco.com/, a San Diego cigar store run by the irrepressible Charlie Hennigan. Totally politically incorrect, the store boasts a killer walk-in humidor, and incredible selection, a living-room type lounging area with a big screen TV and a cast of regulars.
And Charlie has never asked to see my driver's license.
I no longer do business with the Thompson Cigar Company. This followed my last order, placed in 2005. I ordered, waited patiently, the impatiently, and then called Customer Service to inquire about my errant cigars.
The customer service representative informed me that they couldn't ship the order without a proof of age. I had to prove that I was over 18 years of age. The company's solution, FAX a copy of my driver's license.
Maybe the Thompson Cigar Company has missed the whole identity theft thing. I politely informed them that faxing my driver's license was not going to happen. I then used logic, reminding the representative that I had been ordering cigars since 1992. So, unless I was 5 years old when I placed my first order, it was a good bet that I was over 18. I even suggested that she check my website, certainly the gray-haired dude fishing in the river was well to the north of the legal age.
Alas, logic and company policy rarely meet. No proof of age, no order.
I opted for no order.
Why, in an age of unprecedented competition and consumer choice, would a company make it so hard to do business with them? (I also have requested, on three occasions, that they take me off their mailing list...but the catalog still come and I garner a wee bit of perverse pleasure in tossing them out unopened...but in the recycle bin.)
My two Internet connections for this guilty pleasure are Holt's Cigars, http://www.holts.com/ and Cigars International, http://www.cigarsinternational.com/. I was introduced to the latter by Reas Pearce, the Michelangelo of house painters.
But most of my custom goes to Liberty Tobacco, http://www.libertytobacco.com/, a San Diego cigar store run by the irrepressible Charlie Hennigan. Totally politically incorrect, the store boasts a killer walk-in humidor, and incredible selection, a living-room type lounging area with a big screen TV and a cast of regulars.
And Charlie has never asked to see my driver's license.
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