I like whales as much as the next person, but enough is enough!
This story was even making the national news programs recently. You know, the mother whale and her calf that ventured miles up the Sacramento river delta all the way to the state capital?
For the past two and a half weeks, this has been the lead story on Sacramento television newscasts. More than that, this so-called "human interest" story dominated a good fifteen minutes of these programs. Well, apparently mom and baby leviathan made it back to the Pacific Ocean through San Francisco Bay...and now all is well in whale land.
One can only assume that the overkill coverage of this story can be attributed, in part, to slow news days. Possibly. But even after almost three weeks of continuing coverage, it dominated the top of the news on the ABC affiliate yesterday. The second story offering was the return of the remains of a Stockton resident from Iraq. What are these news directors thinking? How absurd placing the whale story ahead of the soldier's (and his family's) story.
The whales, named Delta and Dawn by the media, were indeed a story of survival and human interest. But after the better part of a month...we've had enough. If anything, especially now that they've found their way "home", this story might be used to close a newscast, ie, "By the way...those wayward whales are back where they belong...in the Pacific Ocean..."
Most often, Sacramento news is dominated by shootings and other heinous crimes. Despite being the capital of the most populous state with a budget and commerce that ranks it somewhere around seventh in the world, that's right, in the world...crime is usually the news of the day. So maybe the whales gave us a break from the police blotter stuff. Maybe the whales took our minds off all the nasty stuff in the news. Maybe the whale story gave us an excuse to be even more apathetic about what is going on in the world around us!
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Memorial Day Nostalgia - Geeze, the coffee tasted good back then!
As a child growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the 50's and 60's, some of my most fond and vivid memories came from holiday weekends like this one, Memorial Day. My father worked in the fledgling corporate computer industry and always had weekends and holidays off. So, at times like this, our family headed to one of our favorite lakes, rivers, or beaches within a few hours of driving time from Canoga Park. These three day getaways were usually turned into four or five day affairs as we would leave for our destinations on Thursday and return late Monday or sometimes Tuesday, thus avoiding the worst of the traffic escaping and returning to gotham. Leaving a day early also afforded us the opportunity to find the best camp sites. Back in those days, it was first come first served, quite different from today's computerized reservation systems. Getting there early and leaving late was always the plan.
My dad would plan our camping trips down to the smallest detail, writing a long list of groceries and supplies on graph paper. More often than not, he would pack up the trusty old family truckster fun-wagon the night before. We would be ready to hit the road early the next morning...tents, coolers, boxes of food, and fishing gear tucked away nicely on the roof rack and in the back of the wagon.
Arriving at our much anticipated campground by early afternoon, the doors of the station wagon would burst open, disgorging myself, my two sisters, and, more often not, a couple of friends we got to invite along. From that moment on, us kids were just a cloud of dust until it was time for our first camp meal...leaving mom and dad to the chore of setting up the campsite. I will say that my dad insisted I help him set up the tent, one of those square-sided, cabin units from Sears. After having assembled it a few times, the set up time was only a few minutes...unless, of course, one of the frame pieces was missing. Then, a minor amount of trauma, accompanied by some judicious swearing would ensue until the problem was solved.
So, with our bright blue Sears cabin tent erected in just the right spot under the pine trees (now filled with sleeping bags and air mattresses), the Coleman camp stove perched conveniently on the end of the big wooden picnic table, the folding chairs and chaise lounges arranged around the fire pit, and sounds of the nearby stream or lake calling me...I was off on one of my many true childhood adventures: trout fishing in the Sierras.
Our family camped a lot in the 60's. Midway through that decade, we got a boat. So, we not only fished on the lake, we learned to water ski as well. My younger sisters were much better at skiing than I was. They would bug my dad constantly for another turn around the lake, until they were so tired they couldn't stand up on the skis any longer. As for me, I skied as well...but what I really wanted to do was fish. And that is what we did early in the morning, heading out just before sunrise most of the time. It was my dad and me and sometimes one of my buddies in tow, cranking up the old Evinrude outboard and looking for a good spot on the lake. Most of the time, I remember showing my buddies how to tie a hook or lure on the monofilament line. Sometimes, I would have to show them how to cast as well. More often than not, the friends I brought along weren't from camping families. It was all new to them. But for me, I'd done it all before...I was a seasoned 15 year old fisherman and camper.
When we found find our fishing spot, usually in a cove somewhere, I would crawl out onto the bow before our boat came to a stop and drop the anchor into the deep, greenish blue water. The glaring sound of the outboard motor now silent, the smell of oil and gasoline in my nose. The only sounds were the caw-caws of a crow, or the screech of a hawk circling overhead, the lapping of the water on the side of the boat...the distant drone of another boat in the distance, cruising across the morning mist-shrouded, glass-like surface in search of its favorite fishing spot. The sun was not yet up, but there was enough light to see our fishing poles and tackle boxes. Sometimes it was cold as well, making the task of tying a hook or sticking a worm all the more difficult. But I managed. We were fishing!
My dad was usually first to get a line in the water. I can remember seeing him sitting on the bow of the boat, leaning back again the plexiglass windshield, one leg crossed over the other. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette tucked between his fingers on the same hand, fishing line with a red and white bobber in the water a few feet from the boat. This was his time to relax. The days of helping me with my fishing gear were long gone...but that was the way I wanted it at 15.
I finally managed to get mine and my buddy's lines in the water...a little split shot sinker, a hook, and a worm in place. Now it was time for coffee and a doughnut. I think this was when I developed my taste for caffein. There was nothing better than pouring a steaming cup of coffee from a thermos, already laden with plenty of cream and sugar, grabbing a sticky, glazed doughnut out of the box and taking a big old bite, washing it down with the hot coffee. My fingers smelled of worms or salmon eggs we used for bait...and glazed doughnuts. Now, we would wait for the fish to bite. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't. Sure, I always wanted to catch a fish...but it didn't seem to matter if we didn't. We were fishing!
The crows continued to caw and chatter in the nearby trees. The hawk circled overhead. The water lapped at the side of our boat. Other boats droned by in the distance. Our little red and white bobbers sat motionless on the smooth surface of the water. The smoke from my dad's cigarette wafted up and into the cool morning air. There was no traffic, no music, no television, no school, and no worries. That was Memorial Day weekend...1965. Geeze, the coffee tasted good back then!
My dad would plan our camping trips down to the smallest detail, writing a long list of groceries and supplies on graph paper. More often than not, he would pack up the trusty old family truckster fun-wagon the night before. We would be ready to hit the road early the next morning...tents, coolers, boxes of food, and fishing gear tucked away nicely on the roof rack and in the back of the wagon.
Arriving at our much anticipated campground by early afternoon, the doors of the station wagon would burst open, disgorging myself, my two sisters, and, more often not, a couple of friends we got to invite along. From that moment on, us kids were just a cloud of dust until it was time for our first camp meal...leaving mom and dad to the chore of setting up the campsite. I will say that my dad insisted I help him set up the tent, one of those square-sided, cabin units from Sears. After having assembled it a few times, the set up time was only a few minutes...unless, of course, one of the frame pieces was missing. Then, a minor amount of trauma, accompanied by some judicious swearing would ensue until the problem was solved.
So, with our bright blue Sears cabin tent erected in just the right spot under the pine trees (now filled with sleeping bags and air mattresses), the Coleman camp stove perched conveniently on the end of the big wooden picnic table, the folding chairs and chaise lounges arranged around the fire pit, and sounds of the nearby stream or lake calling me...I was off on one of my many true childhood adventures: trout fishing in the Sierras.
Our family camped a lot in the 60's. Midway through that decade, we got a boat. So, we not only fished on the lake, we learned to water ski as well. My younger sisters were much better at skiing than I was. They would bug my dad constantly for another turn around the lake, until they were so tired they couldn't stand up on the skis any longer. As for me, I skied as well...but what I really wanted to do was fish. And that is what we did early in the morning, heading out just before sunrise most of the time. It was my dad and me and sometimes one of my buddies in tow, cranking up the old Evinrude outboard and looking for a good spot on the lake. Most of the time, I remember showing my buddies how to tie a hook or lure on the monofilament line. Sometimes, I would have to show them how to cast as well. More often than not, the friends I brought along weren't from camping families. It was all new to them. But for me, I'd done it all before...I was a seasoned 15 year old fisherman and camper.
When we found find our fishing spot, usually in a cove somewhere, I would crawl out onto the bow before our boat came to a stop and drop the anchor into the deep, greenish blue water. The glaring sound of the outboard motor now silent, the smell of oil and gasoline in my nose. The only sounds were the caw-caws of a crow, or the screech of a hawk circling overhead, the lapping of the water on the side of the boat...the distant drone of another boat in the distance, cruising across the morning mist-shrouded, glass-like surface in search of its favorite fishing spot. The sun was not yet up, but there was enough light to see our fishing poles and tackle boxes. Sometimes it was cold as well, making the task of tying a hook or sticking a worm all the more difficult. But I managed. We were fishing!
My dad was usually first to get a line in the water. I can remember seeing him sitting on the bow of the boat, leaning back again the plexiglass windshield, one leg crossed over the other. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette tucked between his fingers on the same hand, fishing line with a red and white bobber in the water a few feet from the boat. This was his time to relax. The days of helping me with my fishing gear were long gone...but that was the way I wanted it at 15.
I finally managed to get mine and my buddy's lines in the water...a little split shot sinker, a hook, and a worm in place. Now it was time for coffee and a doughnut. I think this was when I developed my taste for caffein. There was nothing better than pouring a steaming cup of coffee from a thermos, already laden with plenty of cream and sugar, grabbing a sticky, glazed doughnut out of the box and taking a big old bite, washing it down with the hot coffee. My fingers smelled of worms or salmon eggs we used for bait...and glazed doughnuts. Now, we would wait for the fish to bite. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn't. Sure, I always wanted to catch a fish...but it didn't seem to matter if we didn't. We were fishing!
The crows continued to caw and chatter in the nearby trees. The hawk circled overhead. The water lapped at the side of our boat. Other boats droned by in the distance. Our little red and white bobbers sat motionless on the smooth surface of the water. The smoke from my dad's cigarette wafted up and into the cool morning air. There was no traffic, no music, no television, no school, and no worries. That was Memorial Day weekend...1965. Geeze, the coffee tasted good back then!
Friday, May 25, 2007
I am Blankman!
I am Blankman! Even though I am reasonably confident there was a forgettable movie made with that title, it is how I feel blogwise right now. WTF...over!
Heck, we're heading into Memorial Day Weekend, and I'm not the least bit excited about Pirates of the Caribbean: The End of the World. Great scott, I didn't even work up enough gumption to go see Spiderman 3 a few weeks ago...I'm waiting for its release on Netlfix.
I certainly don't gauge my demeanor by my enthusiasm (or lack thereof) for recent movies, but some sort of spark would be nice.
I do have some very interesting challenges at work of late. Creative challenges. Things to get the old wheels turning so to speak. I am thankful for that. But when one of my "professional" avenues gets fired up, it tends to detract from another, ie, my photography. I just haven't been very inspired in that department of late. No biggee. It will come back.
This weekend, we have guests arriving Saturday morning, two of Loretta's sisters will be visiting from Red Bluff. They have never been here, and Loretta is anxious for them to see her home (for the first time). We'll cook some fun food, drink some fun beverages, watch some fun DVD's, and just have some...fun (the operative word this weekend). Our swimming pool is ready for swimming. Well, let's put it this way...our swimming pool is ready for someone to swim in, not necessarily yours truly. I still have extreme cold water fear, even when the water temperature is 78 degrees. That and extreme insect fear are the two worst fears and phobias I possess. You'll notice I didn't say only fears and phobias...just the worst ones.
The weather here in Northern San Joaquin Valley is expected to be in the mid-80's, just right for this time of year. Last year at this time it was kissing the century mark already...yuk! It should be a nice Memorial Day Weekend. Nice to stay home and avoid the crowds of crazies who will be invading the nearby lakes and rivers. Funny...valley dwellers head to the ocean on these holidays...coastal inhabitants head to the valley. Maybe everyone should just stay home for a change!
If we were going to the Pismo area, they have their annual Strawberry Festival in nearby Arroyo Grande. I used to manage a restaurant/saloon right downtown. What a zoo! Hundred of booths selling everything from cows carved out of wood to rubber moneys on a stick to fried bananas. My restaurant was where the true alcoholics hung out...the professional drinkers who can embide from sunrise to midnight and beyond. And some of these boozers with their glazed-over faces would become walking zombies by 10:00 at night. If you've ever seen any zombie movie, you can visualize the scene. Unfortunately, we weren't able to shoot any of them in head when they got out of hand...we just threw them out into the parking lot...sometimes head first! The next morning, they would show up for breakfast, apologizing for their behavior the night before, order a Bloody Mary, and start all over again. Ahhhh...the joys of managing a restaurant/saloon. Especially on Memorial Day Weekend.
This weekend will be much more subdued around the Skip & Loretta Estate. We'll do a little barbecue, have a few Coronas, and introduce the movie Sideways to Loretta's sisters. Times have changed.
Heck, we're heading into Memorial Day Weekend, and I'm not the least bit excited about Pirates of the Caribbean: The End of the World. Great scott, I didn't even work up enough gumption to go see Spiderman 3 a few weeks ago...I'm waiting for its release on Netlfix.
I certainly don't gauge my demeanor by my enthusiasm (or lack thereof) for recent movies, but some sort of spark would be nice.
I do have some very interesting challenges at work of late. Creative challenges. Things to get the old wheels turning so to speak. I am thankful for that. But when one of my "professional" avenues gets fired up, it tends to detract from another, ie, my photography. I just haven't been very inspired in that department of late. No biggee. It will come back.
This weekend, we have guests arriving Saturday morning, two of Loretta's sisters will be visiting from Red Bluff. They have never been here, and Loretta is anxious for them to see her home (for the first time). We'll cook some fun food, drink some fun beverages, watch some fun DVD's, and just have some...fun (the operative word this weekend). Our swimming pool is ready for swimming. Well, let's put it this way...our swimming pool is ready for someone to swim in, not necessarily yours truly. I still have extreme cold water fear, even when the water temperature is 78 degrees. That and extreme insect fear are the two worst fears and phobias I possess. You'll notice I didn't say only fears and phobias...just the worst ones.
The weather here in Northern San Joaquin Valley is expected to be in the mid-80's, just right for this time of year. Last year at this time it was kissing the century mark already...yuk! It should be a nice Memorial Day Weekend. Nice to stay home and avoid the crowds of crazies who will be invading the nearby lakes and rivers. Funny...valley dwellers head to the ocean on these holidays...coastal inhabitants head to the valley. Maybe everyone should just stay home for a change!
If we were going to the Pismo area, they have their annual Strawberry Festival in nearby Arroyo Grande. I used to manage a restaurant/saloon right downtown. What a zoo! Hundred of booths selling everything from cows carved out of wood to rubber moneys on a stick to fried bananas. My restaurant was where the true alcoholics hung out...the professional drinkers who can embide from sunrise to midnight and beyond. And some of these boozers with their glazed-over faces would become walking zombies by 10:00 at night. If you've ever seen any zombie movie, you can visualize the scene. Unfortunately, we weren't able to shoot any of them in head when they got out of hand...we just threw them out into the parking lot...sometimes head first! The next morning, they would show up for breakfast, apologizing for their behavior the night before, order a Bloody Mary, and start all over again. Ahhhh...the joys of managing a restaurant/saloon. Especially on Memorial Day Weekend.
This weekend will be much more subdued around the Skip & Loretta Estate. We'll do a little barbecue, have a few Coronas, and introduce the movie Sideways to Loretta's sisters. Times have changed.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
BeadforLife
We watched a touching story on the Saturday morning Today Show. It was about a group of American women reaching out to women in a Ugandan slum, many of whom have lost their husbands in the civil war there. It's called BeadforLife.
They make beads from scraps of paper that are then turned into necklaces, bracelets, and other jewelery. The money collected from sales goes directly back to the women in Uganda who made them.
I bought a few bracelets for Loretta...$5.00 each. You can pay with a secure credit card or through Paypal.
Just thought you may want to check it out!
They make beads from scraps of paper that are then turned into necklaces, bracelets, and other jewelery. The money collected from sales goes directly back to the women in Uganda who made them.
I bought a few bracelets for Loretta...$5.00 each. You can pay with a secure credit card or through Paypal.
Just thought you may want to check it out!
Friday, May 18, 2007
Why?
The most correct answer to that question is: Because. You get an "A".
The next most correct answer to that questions is: Why not? You get a "C".
Any answers beyond that...you get an "F".
The next most correct answer to that questions is: Why not? You get a "C".
Any answers beyond that...you get an "F".
Monday, May 14, 2007
Swine parakeet!
You know what I love? I love when the neighbor gets a new parakeet and puts the cage outside on their patio so we can hear it tweeting all morning long!
To our neighbor: Thanks so much for the new bird!
I guess it's time for us to get a cat.
To our neighbor: Thanks so much for the new bird!
I guess it's time for us to get a cat.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Jeopardy - another of my love/hate relationships
I’ve blogged *blathered* about it before, but here goes again...
Love: Vicariously answering mundane, outrageously academic questions without the embarrassment of losing large sums of money with a stupid answer.
Hate: The Elementary School Week: Discovering that most 7 years olds are smarter than I am...and the embarrassment of losing large sums of money because I don’t know the answer to the question, “What is the color of Barney?”
Love: Discovering that I know so much about so much worthless shit.
Hate: College Week Tournament: I assume they have to come up with questions even Jeopardy writers have no idea what the answer is.
Love: Watching a scholarly geek attempt to answer question after question about the Beatles White Album...and getting every answer wrong.
Hate: Watching a 42 year old professional student who lives with his mother go into Final Jeopardy with $27,000...the closest competitor: $872.
Love: Watching Alex Trebek trying to elicit some sort of semblance of personality from the contestants during the interview section. To a 28 year old law student living at home: “It says here that you once stayed out way past midnight...and your mother called the police to find where you were...tell us about that."
Hate: I still miss Art Flemming and the mechanical question squares.
Love: When the Jeopardy production and audition staff makes a really bad choice of contestants...and they end up with minus $6700 and cannot participate in Final Jeopardy. I would pay money to see the production assistants reactions.
Hate: That Wheel of Fortune comes on right after Jeopardy...and has survived for 20 years because of that. The contestants on Wheel of Fortune probably couldn’t pass a “color” test, let alone make it on Jeopardy!
God, I love/hate Jeopardy!
Love: Vicariously answering mundane, outrageously academic questions without the embarrassment of losing large sums of money with a stupid answer.
Hate: The Elementary School Week: Discovering that most 7 years olds are smarter than I am...and the embarrassment of losing large sums of money because I don’t know the answer to the question, “What is the color of Barney?”
Love: Discovering that I know so much about so much worthless shit.
Hate: College Week Tournament: I assume they have to come up with questions even Jeopardy writers have no idea what the answer is.
Love: Watching a scholarly geek attempt to answer question after question about the Beatles White Album...and getting every answer wrong.
Hate: Watching a 42 year old professional student who lives with his mother go into Final Jeopardy with $27,000...the closest competitor: $872.
Love: Watching Alex Trebek trying to elicit some sort of semblance of personality from the contestants during the interview section. To a 28 year old law student living at home: “It says here that you once stayed out way past midnight...and your mother called the police to find where you were...tell us about that."
Hate: I still miss Art Flemming and the mechanical question squares.
Love: When the Jeopardy production and audition staff makes a really bad choice of contestants...and they end up with minus $6700 and cannot participate in Final Jeopardy. I would pay money to see the production assistants reactions.
Hate: That Wheel of Fortune comes on right after Jeopardy...and has survived for 20 years because of that. The contestants on Wheel of Fortune probably couldn’t pass a “color” test, let alone make it on Jeopardy!
God, I love/hate Jeopardy!
Monday, May 7, 2007
My cable T.V. bill should be $.97 a month!
The National Geographic Channel, The Discovery Channel, and Food TV Network...that’s all I need. Oh, and an occasional HBO and Showtime original series. I’ve removed the Travel Channel from my favorites list because of all that poker crap they're running now. Shouldn’t that be on Spike TV or some other testosterone-based network? Beyond that, television, for me, is truly the vast wasteland it was professed to be back in the fifties. This is especially evident when it comes to so-called network television...the original Big Three (CBS, ABC, NBC). I suppose we should include FOX as well now.
The complete and utter fragmentation of television today is astounding compared to just thirty years ago. With so many choices now, who the heck is watching what? Other than a Super Bowl, the Oscars, or other special event where millions of people tune in...how do they determine what to charge for a commercial these days? Soon, there will be a channel for every person in the U.S. Is anyone really watching those terrible WB comedies stacked up during the dinner hours? Does anyone really tune in to American’s Funniest Home Videos any more? Even my daughter Jenifer (formerly the world’s most dedicated fan) doesn’t watch Grey’s Anatomy any more. Are we finally sick and tired of Seinfeld, or King of Queens, or Everybody Loves Raymond reruns?
And how about this...why shouldn’t we be able to pay for our cable and satellite services based on what channels we watch? For instance, let’s say a basic cable plus HBO package with 200+ channels costs $65 a month. If I choose only three of those channels, my fee should be 97 cents a month. If a sports nut (which I am not) needs 15 different sports channels to make it through the week...then he (or she) should pay $4.87 a month, and so on. Why should I (we) have to pay for all those other crappy cable channels, the ones we will never, ever watch?
This pay per view debate has raged for decades. It’s nothing new. But, c’mon...give us a break!
And here’s another complaint. Why do the broadcast networks waste their time running popular moves and cable programs from the not-too-distant past after editing and chopping them up beyond recognition? When they ran Fargo, the hundred or so times the “F” word was used turned into the word “freezing”. Sex in the City on TBS? The dialogue is barely recognizable from when it ran on HBO. Dirty Harry movies without graphic head shots from his 44 magnum? Give me a break! If someone is too gentile for that sort of thing, they shouldn’t be watching it in the first place. Stick to the Cartoon Network, or TV Land. Heck, Rob and Laura Petrie were not allowed to sleep in the same bed back then...they had twin beds! Stick with this stuff!
The Discovery Channel and The National Geographic Channels have certainly changed in the past 20 years or so. Gone are the days of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Today’s nature shows are state of the art, High Definition masterpieces of photography and production. And not only are they technically far superior to their predecessors, they all now have an environmental focus. They have something more to offer than simple footage of chimps munching on vegetation in the Borneo rain forest or macro shots of dung beetles rolling a ball of doo-doo around. Relatives of those same chimps are now “thinking” about what has happened to their habitat...and what they are going to do about it! I’m no tree-hugger, but these programs make us think more now.
Tabling the cable charge rate piece of this complaint session, I suppose I should remind myself of the old radio adage when people complain about what is broadcast: use the “ON/OFF” button if you don’t like it. Or, simply change the channel, ie, don’t watch it.
And that leads me back to my opening paragraph. My cable box favorites list is very small! But, I am a very dedicated, discerning viewer. I actually WATCH what is on the screen. Gone are the days when my television is simply on in the background. Part of that reasoning is due to the limited amount of hours a plasma T.V. has in its life span!
So, kudos to the Discovery Channel and their Planet Earth series...what a monumental, elegant collection of HD images of our delicate (and changing) planet. How can anyone not be fascinated by this compared to today’s collection of mundane, unfunny, and un-entertaining sitcoms?
And yes, I am even burned out on Seinfeld! Poppy was sloppy. But now, he has simply been sloppy in reruns for far too long. Give me “Living with the Kumbai” in HD any day!
The complete and utter fragmentation of television today is astounding compared to just thirty years ago. With so many choices now, who the heck is watching what? Other than a Super Bowl, the Oscars, or other special event where millions of people tune in...how do they determine what to charge for a commercial these days? Soon, there will be a channel for every person in the U.S. Is anyone really watching those terrible WB comedies stacked up during the dinner hours? Does anyone really tune in to American’s Funniest Home Videos any more? Even my daughter Jenifer (formerly the world’s most dedicated fan) doesn’t watch Grey’s Anatomy any more. Are we finally sick and tired of Seinfeld, or King of Queens, or Everybody Loves Raymond reruns?
And how about this...why shouldn’t we be able to pay for our cable and satellite services based on what channels we watch? For instance, let’s say a basic cable plus HBO package with 200+ channels costs $65 a month. If I choose only three of those channels, my fee should be 97 cents a month. If a sports nut (which I am not) needs 15 different sports channels to make it through the week...then he (or she) should pay $4.87 a month, and so on. Why should I (we) have to pay for all those other crappy cable channels, the ones we will never, ever watch?
This pay per view debate has raged for decades. It’s nothing new. But, c’mon...give us a break!
And here’s another complaint. Why do the broadcast networks waste their time running popular moves and cable programs from the not-too-distant past after editing and chopping them up beyond recognition? When they ran Fargo, the hundred or so times the “F” word was used turned into the word “freezing”. Sex in the City on TBS? The dialogue is barely recognizable from when it ran on HBO. Dirty Harry movies without graphic head shots from his 44 magnum? Give me a break! If someone is too gentile for that sort of thing, they shouldn’t be watching it in the first place. Stick to the Cartoon Network, or TV Land. Heck, Rob and Laura Petrie were not allowed to sleep in the same bed back then...they had twin beds! Stick with this stuff!
The Discovery Channel and The National Geographic Channels have certainly changed in the past 20 years or so. Gone are the days of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Today’s nature shows are state of the art, High Definition masterpieces of photography and production. And not only are they technically far superior to their predecessors, they all now have an environmental focus. They have something more to offer than simple footage of chimps munching on vegetation in the Borneo rain forest or macro shots of dung beetles rolling a ball of doo-doo around. Relatives of those same chimps are now “thinking” about what has happened to their habitat...and what they are going to do about it! I’m no tree-hugger, but these programs make us think more now.
Tabling the cable charge rate piece of this complaint session, I suppose I should remind myself of the old radio adage when people complain about what is broadcast: use the “ON/OFF” button if you don’t like it. Or, simply change the channel, ie, don’t watch it.
And that leads me back to my opening paragraph. My cable box favorites list is very small! But, I am a very dedicated, discerning viewer. I actually WATCH what is on the screen. Gone are the days when my television is simply on in the background. Part of that reasoning is due to the limited amount of hours a plasma T.V. has in its life span!
So, kudos to the Discovery Channel and their Planet Earth series...what a monumental, elegant collection of HD images of our delicate (and changing) planet. How can anyone not be fascinated by this compared to today’s collection of mundane, unfunny, and un-entertaining sitcoms?
And yes, I am even burned out on Seinfeld! Poppy was sloppy. But now, he has simply been sloppy in reruns for far too long. Give me “Living with the Kumbai” in HD any day!
Friday, May 4, 2007
Red Robin - Strike One!
With our self-imposed Three Strike Rule for restaurants in mind, Red Robin has two strikes left.
I visited the Red Robin in Turlock, California last Saturday (April 28th). Having never been there before, I thought it was time to try one of my daughter’s favorite casual dining places. Simply put: “Great burgers - Bad everything else!”
Yours truly wandered into this Seattle-based national chain restaurant with high hopes of grabbing a quick burger. It was a solo experience, I was in the middle of some Saturday afternoon errands for my job. At 2:00, Red Robin was not particularly busy, it was less than half full and business was steady. This particular RR is located right off Highway 99 and is part of a huge, relatively new, outside shopping complex with hundreds of major brand stores nearby. I was hungry and had only 30 minutes or so to spare.
Red Robin is big...bigger than an Applebees or Chilis. The setup in very open and airy with a long showcase style kitchen area on one side. Upon entering, I was overwhelmed by the noise. Just inside the entry are several video games. A flock of about 7 or 8 kids (10 year olds) were playing the games, screaming out loud, and bolting back and forth through the lobby and bar to get more money from their parents seated somewhere in the bowels of the dining room. The smiling hostess greeted me immediately. I asked for a table (not in the middle) somewhere “quiet”. She kind of chuckled about the request for a quiet table. I then suggested the nearby bar area, gesturing to the first booth near the lobby. The bar is a small island thing with a few tables and a bar top.
She sat me at the requested table, handed me a menu, then asked me if I wanted some french fries. “Well, thanks...but not right away”. Apparently, one of Red Robin’s gimmicks is the “bottomless french fry basket”...they push fries on you from the gitgo! From this point on, things fell apart.
A few minutes later, I was approached by a sour-faced young female server. Her facial expression wreaked of “I hate being here on a Saturday afternoon. I’d rather be at the mall with my friends. In fact, I hate working here period!” She didn’t say that, but she did say (in her best corporate restaurant training monotone), “Hi, welcome to Red Robin. Can I get you a beverage and some french fries?” I answered, “No fries yet, but I will take a Diet Coke and this Whiskey River BBQ Burger. I’m kind of in a hurray.” “How would you like that cooked”, she blurted back, “pink or no pink inside?” “No pink, please”, I responded. “I’ll get that going for you”, she assured me. Then, she sidled away for a few minutes, returned with my Diet Coke, and left without saying anything. The video game kids continued to scream and run back and forth for more money, through the bar and right by my table. The time was 2:03 pm.
During the next 30 minutes, I had the opportunity to look over the menu, observe what was going on, and wonder where in the hell was my food? Yes, I said 30 minutes! Somewhere around the 20 minute mark, my sour-faced server approached within 10 feet of my table, extended a puzzled look in my direction, then shuffled her way to the open kitchen area. I watched her speak to the line cooks for a few seconds, then run down to the nearest computer terminal and punch something into the touch screen menu. She returned to my table and said, “Sorry, your order will be right out. Would you like some french fries in the meantime?” I politely refused the offer (again).
I sat there for another 10 minutes or so watching the gum-chewing hostesses chat amongst themselves, greet and seat the occasional customer, check their cell phones every 5 minutes, lean on the hostess stand, and look bored. Then, at 2:33...my long-awaited food arrived, placed in front of me by the sour-faced server, “Would you like some more Diet Coke?” Since my glass was still full to the brim, I politely refused and dove into the burger basket. Yes, I said basket. Here is this huge, well constructed wax paper-wrapped burger sitting in a tiny, red, plastic basket. The burger was so big, and the basket was so small, it appeared that I hadn’t received any french fries. Upon further observation, I found the fries under the burger. Pardon me, but if I am going to pay $8.99 for a burger and $2.50 for a Coke, I would like my food on a frickin’ plate! And, where in the heck is the Ranch dressing I requested? I flagged a gum-chewing hostess and reminded her I asked for the Ranch. The sour-faced server returned with said condiment a minute or so later.
At this point in time, I needed to be on my way...I only had 30 minutes or so between appointments. This gave me time for a couple of bites of my Red Robin Whiskey River BBQ Burger, which, by the way, had too much BBQ sauce on it. I had requested “please go easy on the BBQ sauce”. It was a nice burger. Big, juicy, neatly compiled, and tasty...what I had of it.
Just then, a young, little, male, manager-looking person sidled up to my table. And with a smile said, “How is everything today? Can I get you some more fries?” “Well”, I began, “this is a great burger. Are you the manager?” “Yes, I am”, he responded. Then, I began my dog and pony show, very deliberately and respectfully...
Me: This is my first visit to a Red Robin. Good burger! But, is it the “norm” for it to take 30 minutes to get my food?
Manager: Why, no! (a look of shock and concern on his face) It should only take maybe 9 to 12 minutes.
Me: Well, it took 30 minutes.
Manager: I’m so sorry, that’s not normal. Would you like some more fries?
Me: No, thanks. I am out of time. I need to go. Red Robin is one of my daughter’s favorite places in Seattle. I thought I should give it a try.
Manager: Oh, that’s where we started Red Robin.
Me: That’s great. But, I really need my check...gotta get going.
Manager: I’ll get it for you.
(A couple of minutes went by and he returned with my check in a plastic check presenter. He had taken off the price of the burger, leaving the cost of the Coke plus tax...$2.67.)
Me: You didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t looking for free food.
Manager: Not a problem. My pleasure. Again, I’m sorry for the wait. Are you sure you don’t want more french fries?
Me: No, thanks. I’ll be back with my wife sometime. She has never been here either.
Manager: Thanks again.
I sat there at my little booth in the bar for another 5 minutes or so waiting to pay my check. I asked the hostess if she could take care of it. She responded, “No, your server will do that”. Nice!
My sour-faced server (Meghan was her name btw) was behind the bar at the register. I walked up to the bar and asked the bartender standing next to her if he could cash this out for me. “No, but I’ll have Meghan take care of it”. He tapped Meghan on the shoulder and pointed to my check. She grabbed it off the bar, cashed it out, and placed my change inside the check presenter, “Thanks a lot!”. Then, turned back around to finish whatever she as doing at the register before I walked up to the bar.
For some odd reason, I left her a “buck” tip. What was I thinking? This was totally an appropriate time to stiff someone. But, I never do that. On a $2.67 check (after the manager promo) she got $1.00...37%...for a lousy server! You see, when Meghan talked to the kitchen 20 minutes after taking my order, it appeared she discovered that she had forgotten to ring it into the system. That’s when she ran down to the nearest computer screen and rang it in. She frickin’ forgot to ring in my order! Then, as most uninspired, ill-trained, unhappy corporate servers will do...she ignored me, for fear of what I might say for waiting so long. Typical...and sad. The sad state of affairs the customer service industry is in.
I suppose I will give Red Robin another try, probably the other location near us (a new one in Oakdale). But, maybe not. The Three Strike Rule is a “benefit of the doubt” option. We may never be back. Plus, I’m sure I will tell at least 10 people about my “sour” experience (that’s the average negative referral rate). But large, corporate chains don’t seem very concerned about individual guests any longer, they survive on volume and national advertising methods. If one certain location “takes a dump”, they are not concerned. They’ll open another and another somewhere else...until they reach the point of diminishing returns. Then, dump the company on some mega-wealthy foreign conglomerate...the top dogs enjoying their retirements on day cruisers or at sunny resorts far from the maddening restaurant crowds.
The Red Robin concept is (and has been) a good idea. But like most corporate chains, franchise or otherwise, the execution is where failure occurs. It’s the on-going training, setting of expectations, and managerial accountability that is not followed through on. The Turlock Red Robin (and 100’s of others) are a million miles away from the first prototype. We, as consumers, can only hope that their founding fathers cared about the customer. The store employees, store management, and even district and regional type managers don’t seem to have that kind of concern. It’s just a job to them. It's painfully obvious this is the case at Red Robin.
I visited the Red Robin in Turlock, California last Saturday (April 28th). Having never been there before, I thought it was time to try one of my daughter’s favorite casual dining places. Simply put: “Great burgers - Bad everything else!”
Yours truly wandered into this Seattle-based national chain restaurant with high hopes of grabbing a quick burger. It was a solo experience, I was in the middle of some Saturday afternoon errands for my job. At 2:00, Red Robin was not particularly busy, it was less than half full and business was steady. This particular RR is located right off Highway 99 and is part of a huge, relatively new, outside shopping complex with hundreds of major brand stores nearby. I was hungry and had only 30 minutes or so to spare.
Red Robin is big...bigger than an Applebees or Chilis. The setup in very open and airy with a long showcase style kitchen area on one side. Upon entering, I was overwhelmed by the noise. Just inside the entry are several video games. A flock of about 7 or 8 kids (10 year olds) were playing the games, screaming out loud, and bolting back and forth through the lobby and bar to get more money from their parents seated somewhere in the bowels of the dining room. The smiling hostess greeted me immediately. I asked for a table (not in the middle) somewhere “quiet”. She kind of chuckled about the request for a quiet table. I then suggested the nearby bar area, gesturing to the first booth near the lobby. The bar is a small island thing with a few tables and a bar top.
She sat me at the requested table, handed me a menu, then asked me if I wanted some french fries. “Well, thanks...but not right away”. Apparently, one of Red Robin’s gimmicks is the “bottomless french fry basket”...they push fries on you from the gitgo! From this point on, things fell apart.
A few minutes later, I was approached by a sour-faced young female server. Her facial expression wreaked of “I hate being here on a Saturday afternoon. I’d rather be at the mall with my friends. In fact, I hate working here period!” She didn’t say that, but she did say (in her best corporate restaurant training monotone), “Hi, welcome to Red Robin. Can I get you a beverage and some french fries?” I answered, “No fries yet, but I will take a Diet Coke and this Whiskey River BBQ Burger. I’m kind of in a hurray.” “How would you like that cooked”, she blurted back, “pink or no pink inside?” “No pink, please”, I responded. “I’ll get that going for you”, she assured me. Then, she sidled away for a few minutes, returned with my Diet Coke, and left without saying anything. The video game kids continued to scream and run back and forth for more money, through the bar and right by my table. The time was 2:03 pm.
During the next 30 minutes, I had the opportunity to look over the menu, observe what was going on, and wonder where in the hell was my food? Yes, I said 30 minutes! Somewhere around the 20 minute mark, my sour-faced server approached within 10 feet of my table, extended a puzzled look in my direction, then shuffled her way to the open kitchen area. I watched her speak to the line cooks for a few seconds, then run down to the nearest computer terminal and punch something into the touch screen menu. She returned to my table and said, “Sorry, your order will be right out. Would you like some french fries in the meantime?” I politely refused the offer (again).
I sat there for another 10 minutes or so watching the gum-chewing hostesses chat amongst themselves, greet and seat the occasional customer, check their cell phones every 5 minutes, lean on the hostess stand, and look bored. Then, at 2:33...my long-awaited food arrived, placed in front of me by the sour-faced server, “Would you like some more Diet Coke?” Since my glass was still full to the brim, I politely refused and dove into the burger basket. Yes, I said basket. Here is this huge, well constructed wax paper-wrapped burger sitting in a tiny, red, plastic basket. The burger was so big, and the basket was so small, it appeared that I hadn’t received any french fries. Upon further observation, I found the fries under the burger. Pardon me, but if I am going to pay $8.99 for a burger and $2.50 for a Coke, I would like my food on a frickin’ plate! And, where in the heck is the Ranch dressing I requested? I flagged a gum-chewing hostess and reminded her I asked for the Ranch. The sour-faced server returned with said condiment a minute or so later.
At this point in time, I needed to be on my way...I only had 30 minutes or so between appointments. This gave me time for a couple of bites of my Red Robin Whiskey River BBQ Burger, which, by the way, had too much BBQ sauce on it. I had requested “please go easy on the BBQ sauce”. It was a nice burger. Big, juicy, neatly compiled, and tasty...what I had of it.
Just then, a young, little, male, manager-looking person sidled up to my table. And with a smile said, “How is everything today? Can I get you some more fries?” “Well”, I began, “this is a great burger. Are you the manager?” “Yes, I am”, he responded. Then, I began my dog and pony show, very deliberately and respectfully...
Me: This is my first visit to a Red Robin. Good burger! But, is it the “norm” for it to take 30 minutes to get my food?
Manager: Why, no! (a look of shock and concern on his face) It should only take maybe 9 to 12 minutes.
Me: Well, it took 30 minutes.
Manager: I’m so sorry, that’s not normal. Would you like some more fries?
Me: No, thanks. I am out of time. I need to go. Red Robin is one of my daughter’s favorite places in Seattle. I thought I should give it a try.
Manager: Oh, that’s where we started Red Robin.
Me: That’s great. But, I really need my check...gotta get going.
Manager: I’ll get it for you.
(A couple of minutes went by and he returned with my check in a plastic check presenter. He had taken off the price of the burger, leaving the cost of the Coke plus tax...$2.67.)
Me: You didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t looking for free food.
Manager: Not a problem. My pleasure. Again, I’m sorry for the wait. Are you sure you don’t want more french fries?
Me: No, thanks. I’ll be back with my wife sometime. She has never been here either.
Manager: Thanks again.
I sat there at my little booth in the bar for another 5 minutes or so waiting to pay my check. I asked the hostess if she could take care of it. She responded, “No, your server will do that”. Nice!
My sour-faced server (Meghan was her name btw) was behind the bar at the register. I walked up to the bar and asked the bartender standing next to her if he could cash this out for me. “No, but I’ll have Meghan take care of it”. He tapped Meghan on the shoulder and pointed to my check. She grabbed it off the bar, cashed it out, and placed my change inside the check presenter, “Thanks a lot!”. Then, turned back around to finish whatever she as doing at the register before I walked up to the bar.
For some odd reason, I left her a “buck” tip. What was I thinking? This was totally an appropriate time to stiff someone. But, I never do that. On a $2.67 check (after the manager promo) she got $1.00...37%...for a lousy server! You see, when Meghan talked to the kitchen 20 minutes after taking my order, it appeared she discovered that she had forgotten to ring it into the system. That’s when she ran down to the nearest computer screen and rang it in. She frickin’ forgot to ring in my order! Then, as most uninspired, ill-trained, unhappy corporate servers will do...she ignored me, for fear of what I might say for waiting so long. Typical...and sad. The sad state of affairs the customer service industry is in.
I suppose I will give Red Robin another try, probably the other location near us (a new one in Oakdale). But, maybe not. The Three Strike Rule is a “benefit of the doubt” option. We may never be back. Plus, I’m sure I will tell at least 10 people about my “sour” experience (that’s the average negative referral rate). But large, corporate chains don’t seem very concerned about individual guests any longer, they survive on volume and national advertising methods. If one certain location “takes a dump”, they are not concerned. They’ll open another and another somewhere else...until they reach the point of diminishing returns. Then, dump the company on some mega-wealthy foreign conglomerate...the top dogs enjoying their retirements on day cruisers or at sunny resorts far from the maddening restaurant crowds.
The Red Robin concept is (and has been) a good idea. But like most corporate chains, franchise or otherwise, the execution is where failure occurs. It’s the on-going training, setting of expectations, and managerial accountability that is not followed through on. The Turlock Red Robin (and 100’s of others) are a million miles away from the first prototype. We, as consumers, can only hope that their founding fathers cared about the customer. The store employees, store management, and even district and regional type managers don’t seem to have that kind of concern. It’s just a job to them. It's painfully obvious this is the case at Red Robin.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
"I don't get it!"
I've always considered myself somewhat preceptive and open-minded...cognitive, creative, logical, analytical. But I just don't get...
That TV commercial for a sleep aid called Rozarem. Here is a guy, at work and at home, chatting with Abraham Lincoln, a deep sea diver, and a talking (smart-ass) beaver. What am I missing? Are those players in his dreams (that he is not having because he can't sleep)? I actually had to force myself to take note of what product this disjointed ad campaign was referring to. I've never made the connection. Another example of millions of dollars being made by an advertising agency with the best salesmen in the world! But my personal choice for a sleep aid is still Mr. Daniels elixir...or simple fatigue.
That TV commercial for a sleep aid called Rozarem. Here is a guy, at work and at home, chatting with Abraham Lincoln, a deep sea diver, and a talking (smart-ass) beaver. What am I missing? Are those players in his dreams (that he is not having because he can't sleep)? I actually had to force myself to take note of what product this disjointed ad campaign was referring to. I've never made the connection. Another example of millions of dollars being made by an advertising agency with the best salesmen in the world! But my personal choice for a sleep aid is still Mr. Daniels elixir...or simple fatigue.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
I spent a week there one night.
It was one of our strangely familiar 24 hour turn-arounds to and from Pismo Beach. Or is that turns-around? No matter. We blasted over to the Central Coast early Sunday morning, then found ourselves back in Modesto on Monday afternoon...tired, forelorn (not enough time there), but happy all went as planned.
Loretta and I were able to spend some quality time with my Mom and my Son. We stayed in one of our favorite rooms in one of our favorite motels in Pismo (The Seacrest). The weather was great. From our motel room third floor patio, we watched the sun set, had a couple of drinks, ate some snacks, ordered a pizza from Del's, had a few laughs, and all went well. Our drive home the next day completed the 24-hour Pismo turn-around, leaving us a bit spent but happy.
The Central Coast was relatively quiet Sunday, still lacking the throngs that will begin their invasion of our old stomping ground come Memorial Day. The craziness will last through Labor Day, weekdays as well as weekends. They descend upon this seaside attraction from all over the world...from everywhere. A large portion are from the valley where we reside now. They bring their campers, their people trailers, their toy trailers, their RV's, and their money. This upcoming time of the year is what keeps Pismo in business.
It's the Call of the Sea I suspect. The desire to stick your toes in the wet sand and smell the ocean is what brings most of them. That was the last thing we did before checking out of the Seacrest. From the edge of the cliff, we gazed at the waves breaking below and took in a few deep breaths of fresh, foggy sea air. Got one last glance of the pier in the distance, the gulls circling overhead, the few remaining pelicans cruising in formation up and down the coast...loaded up...and drove away.
No biggee. We always come back, either Pismo or Monterey. And until California falls into the sea...they will always be there.
Loretta and I were able to spend some quality time with my Mom and my Son. We stayed in one of our favorite rooms in one of our favorite motels in Pismo (The Seacrest). The weather was great. From our motel room third floor patio, we watched the sun set, had a couple of drinks, ate some snacks, ordered a pizza from Del's, had a few laughs, and all went well. Our drive home the next day completed the 24-hour Pismo turn-around, leaving us a bit spent but happy.
The Central Coast was relatively quiet Sunday, still lacking the throngs that will begin their invasion of our old stomping ground come Memorial Day. The craziness will last through Labor Day, weekdays as well as weekends. They descend upon this seaside attraction from all over the world...from everywhere. A large portion are from the valley where we reside now. They bring their campers, their people trailers, their toy trailers, their RV's, and their money. This upcoming time of the year is what keeps Pismo in business.
It's the Call of the Sea I suspect. The desire to stick your toes in the wet sand and smell the ocean is what brings most of them. That was the last thing we did before checking out of the Seacrest. From the edge of the cliff, we gazed at the waves breaking below and took in a few deep breaths of fresh, foggy sea air. Got one last glance of the pier in the distance, the gulls circling overhead, the few remaining pelicans cruising in formation up and down the coast...loaded up...and drove away.No biggee. We always come back, either Pismo or Monterey. And until California falls into the sea...they will always be there.
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Yours truly
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