The Great Escape

So there I was, fighting this zombie horde, summoning my allies and rallying my troops to my Japanese Samurai (see Samurai vs. Zombies) when suddenly, I heard the microwave go 'ding!' I paused my war on the undead and jogged into the kitchen to chastise one of my sons for prepping some hot cheesy snack product so close to dinner. Is he nuts? That's like, a billion extra carbs and stuff, not to mention that there are other predatory teenage consumers in my humble palace who are likely to try the same thing. One must be firm and clear when speaking with teenagers. One must be cautious. 

I then notice one of the other boys was in the living room, controller in hand, laying waste to a whole mob of bad guys in his video game–complete with graphically intense head-shots and stealth kills. Is this happening because all chores have also been conquered? Clearly, homework is done, dishes are spotless and the laundry I'm sure has NEVER smelt better (sniiiiffffff—ahhhh). Nope. 

It is then that I transform from fun Gamer-Dad to the world-destroying Darth Vader in like .0078 seconds (yes I counted).  Like Lucas' infamous intergalactic tyrant, I'm wind-sprinting through the narrow halls of my apartment, force-choking* insolent, lazy teens in every nook and cranny of my home-base as I utter in my best James Earl Jones impersonation "I have you now".

I soon gain the upper hand and the tattered remnants of this little rebel alliance that sprung up in my living room are vanquished. Demoralized. Defeated. 

Crushed.

I smile victoriously, deviously. "Today will be a day long remembered," I say coyly to a room full of sobbing teens, "it has seen the end of cheesy snacking, it will soon see the end of your defiant little alliance." Finally, with the routing of the rebels, I can return to my dark pursuits. Namely the beheading of countless Japanese Zombies and undead warriors. 

Then, just for a moment, I think to myself, 'what are you doing dude?' This gaming... this is greasy kids stuff. Grow the f**k up already and do something constructive and hammer or paint something, go buy some mundane stuff like soap, batteries or Brussel sprouts. Go wash your car or make sure the porch is swept or… something.

Then I come to my senses.  

I work all week long–I help kids do homework, cook, clean, make sure everyone has the food, money, resources and all the help and support they need to succeed. What the hell do I want to do any of that other crap for? Those things will get done. They ALWAYS get done. I then remind myself of all those people who spend their weekends–and their lives–doing stuff even THEY don't want to do. I just can't be that guy. I work hard so I can PLAY hard. Life is hard enough without having an outlet. 

So, satisfied that  an appropriate dinner is on the stove, chores are done and the rebel uprising has been crushed, I again hit the pause button and I return to my game–reassured I am doing EXACTLY what I should be doing. Here comes the next horde. Better bring my 'A' game, too. After all, those Zombies aren't going to kill themselves. 

*This is a dramatization. No children were ACTUALLY harmed during the writing of these events. Though a couple of them did come dangerously close a well-deserved swat. 

Zombies Walk Among Us

When the Zombie Apocalypse comes,
I know who'll go first.

Let's face it, the Zombie Apocalypse is coming. It can't be denied. Not just because really creepy (and terrific!) TV shows like AMC's The Walking Dead, movies like Night of The Living Dead, 28 Days Later or I am Legend show us what's to come but because it has already started.

You've even seen it.

Zombies are brainless, mindless beasts with no cognitive function to some 90% of their brain (see where this is going?) and can only drool, snarl and attack on a VERY primal level. They have no dreams, ambitions, no sense of civilization or damn bit of common sense. They shuffle through their sorry life, flagrantly consuming everything in their path, leaving destruction in their wake as they move on edging closer to their inevitable demise or for someone to put them out of their misery.

Sound like anyone you know?

Maybe because I am now in my forties, I see things bit differently than just a decade ago. What I see is disengaged, listless, mindless husks, shuffling about from place to place, consuming everything–like locusts–offering nothing for the betterment of the world around them.

Case in point. I recently caught a Sunday-morning matinee at a local mega-movieplex in downtown Phoenix and I was appalled by the overall state of well-being of my fellow human beings.

The man next to me–easily tipping the scales at about 350 lbs–kept falling asleep and then snoring himself awake and coughing loudly through every quite moment during the film. He slouched in his chair and was so wide he had to raise the armrests to fit in more than one seat. The family behind me kept talking at regular volume, to their two and three year olds who themselves kept kicking the back of my seat non-stop. I observed numerous undead drones carrying ever-larger BUCKETS of buttered popcorn, hot-dogs loaded with condiments and brimming soda cups so large they could bring drought relief to the Serengheti.

The whole experience was as depressing as it was sobering. As a species, the North American human is on a violent collision course with destiny. We are so... yucky, that we have forgotten all the trappings of manners, common courtesy and community.

That's why, when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, these lesser strands of humanity will be the first to go.

And to them I say, good riddance.

Why even bother?

You want to help me? Stop asking me if you can help me!

"Can I help you sir?" Why do people who work in large department and electronic store chains waste my time with this question? If you frequent any major store chain, you'll be faced with this question anywhere from :0.03 seconds to :30 seconds upon entering the store. From the Red-shirted pseudo-friendly drones at Target to the mindless-blue shirt zombies of Best Buy, chain store employees everywhere seem to be in a hurry to be helpful. You really want to help me out? Stop asking me if you can help me out.

You see, these lost souls don't actually KNOW any more than we do (if they did they would be in management or corporate), no they are just doing what their manager tells them to do to collect their paycheck. I understand, heck we've all had THAT job. I also know this job from the other end, which supports my general belief that a person is reasonably bright, people are dopes.

Here's a few of my favorite examples:

Scenario 1
 
Mutant Drone: Can I help you find anything today sir?
Me: Yes can you tell where I can find a 12-inch DVI cable?
Mutant Drone: Yes sir, those are right over there, Aisle Six (points to a sign above him that says "Aisle Six: Cables") Really?

You do realize the only way you were able to "help" me was because you ran across the store to ask me a question we both already knew the answer to. You asked me something I was able to fundamentally answer on my own. That's not helping me, that's patronizing me. Knock it off!

Now to be fair, I am sure some fancy market research firm charged your company millions of dollars and gave your corporate officers a big stack of papers that said stuff like "... customer satisfaction is increased 13.4% when you say 'please' and 'thank you'." or "Your brain-dead customers don't know jack about the crap they're looking for, so if you chase them down as soon as they walk in the door, you'll show you are an authority on all things cables. They will then worship you as DVI cable Gods and offer their endless loyalty by paying obscene prices for a cable that is probably in their kitchen drawer."

"What's more, your employees can revel in the brightly colored shirts you force them to wear while also taking pride in the fact they know where the cables are by having thoroughly studied the store signage before your customers. This in turn gives the illusion of knowledge." These in-store 'heroes' were probably the same kids in 10th grade Geometry that were excited about getting 2 points on the exam for writing their name down. 
Ready for a fun exercise? Try this:

Mutant Drone: Can I help you find anything today sir?
Me: Yes can you tell why the supply-chain dynamics of your store are so poorly conceived that–along with your insultingly rancid, salt-of-the-Earth advertising–you are forced to charge me $49.99 for a $3 cable?
Mutant Drone: "[SQUAK!] Errr! Zapp!! Cannot_com_pute... must... get, store.. manager. Answer [Beeep!] above pay grade!"

Works every time.

Scenario 2

Mindless Robotron: Yes sir, can I help you?
Me: Do you have anymore of these sweaters? You have six left but they're all Extra-small and I'm 6' 2"… Mindless Robotron: Sorry sir, everything we have is out on the rack (returns to chatting with co-worker)
Me: Anyway to check in back just to make sure?
Mindless Robotron: (Rolling eyes, voice dripping in sarcasm) Sorry sir, everything we have is out on the rack (returns to chatting with co-worker)

I'm now made to feel as though I am an intrusion into the all-important conversation between two minimum-wage "go-getters" discussing the latest reality TV show developments. 
Really? I kind of thought that helping a customer find what they were looking for and insuring a satisfactory experience was–I don't know–good business? 

Apparently, I am stupid and bothersome and should feel honored you acknowledged my presence because I don't have a super nifty name badge with the company logo on it. Sorry, next time, I will try and force my worthless pea-brain to remember NOT to ask you for assistance. I can see you are clearly too busy for me while you're discussing important world-changing events and altering the course of nations.

Time for another fun exercise! Try this:

Mindless Robotron: Yes sir, can I help you?
Me: Yes, please share why you hold the people who pay for your job in such utter contempt?
Mindless Robotron: Excuse me sir?
 
Me: You heard me! Also, are you and your co-workers hoarding all of the XLs, XXLs and XLTs?
Mindless Robotron: Uhh… Me: Oh, and by the way, I am with corporate to review the toxic levels of contempt and disdain our employees have for our customers–you will be getting a detailed report from your manager this afternoon he will provide you with a host of mandatory customer appreciation classes. Have a good day!

Scenario 3
 
Me: Excuse me, green bean soup toasties are on sale this week, could you tell me where those are?
Headdless Zombie: Oh, that's in aisle 11, halfway down, right next to the plaster-flavored snack balls. (I get to isle 11 and the product I am searching for is nowhere in sight)...

What is it about Grocery stores that fill me with dread? Is it the three year old who saw a box of chocolate frosted sugar bombs he was told he couldn't have and is now auditioning for the opera? Is it the yuppie with a cart parked right in the middle of the aisle who then looks at me with utter disgust as I try to edge by? No, it's the apron-wearing food custodians that do only a mediocre job of hiding their repulsion of me as I approach them to ask a question. How does sending me on a wild goose chase help either of us? I am only going to come back and ask you again.

Gang, this ain't the place for elitism. For reals. No need to take out your frustrations on me. The rest of us just assume that if you work in a supermarket you just might have some idea where things are. You know, the same way I expect a judge to know the law or that Doctor might know about the human body. And while we're on the topic, why are you wearing an apron while stocking the food? Are you whipping up some bar-b-que behind those giant swinging doors in the meat department? I like my ribs well done, please.

Fun exercise time!

Me: Excuse me, could you point me to the green bean soup toasties?
Headless Zombie: Oh, that's in aisle 11, halfway down, right next to the plaster-flavored snack balls.
Me: No they aren't, you and I both know they aren't there. Why can't you just tell me you don't know…?

Look, I know firsthand that having to deal with the public gets annoying–we've all had to be kind to people we loathe. But that's the job. And here's the golden nugget–if you continue to accept the money for the position, then you need to do the job to the best of your competency. And while you're at it, let management know that people don't like to be descended on the moment they walk in the store. Isn't it implied that you know something about the store if you work there? I'll come for you if I need you, okay? So put the smile on and be a courteous representative of your organization. 
That's how you can help me.

Going postal for the holidays!

I still find relevance in the purpose and the dedication in our postal service – but who the heck are these people that are in line?!

We've all been there. At some point in our lives, we end up standing on line in the post office, waiting to mail some random package to a family member or friend or to mail back some unwanted parcel from a company or purchase we can't wait to get rid of. The passive and patient folks in the light blue shirts take this albatross off our hands and release it into the wilds of the postal delivery universe.

So why do I loathe the post office experience? It's the people.

Not the workers, they are just folks committed to helping us get our stuff from point A to point B. Sure, some are better than others but let's face it dear reader, we can find that anywhere. I mean, some barbers are better than others, some sales reps are better than others and definitely, some government workers are light years beyond their piers when it comes to even being human beings.

No, I mean the random cross-sections of humanity that seem to converge on the post office ONLY when I need to get something mailed. And maybe it's my 21st century on-the-go lifestyle talking here, but why does it seem like two back-to-back eternitys every time I am in line at the P.O.? PLEASE don't tell me I am the only one wanting scream bloody murder when I'm in line behind the little old hearing-impaired lady who needs to mail a package return back to a country no one can even pronounce and wants to pay with a fourth party check converted from Euros from South Uzbekistan. Oh, and this endeavor always requires a minimum participation of no less than 43 on-site postal staff with several having to jog to back area every 30-40 seconds.

Then there's the chatter box. Often a middle-aged woman who, while buying a book of collector's stamps, wants to ask about the logistical delivery dynamics of the postal air fleet along with an accompanying powerpoint and interactive synopsis of the ins and outs of why that particular postal worker choose a career in the parcel delivery industry.

And then, there's the stumper. He's the guy (always a guy) who has a question no one can answer, a package no one has ever seen and has no idea how to deliver and/or asks questions no one this side of mensa has any hope of answering. Commonly, after more than 40 minutes, his solution is often a .12¢ supplemental stamp.

Finally, there are the Post Office Patron Zombies. These once-human, undead lifeforms emerge from their crypt and actually buy coffee to hang out at the post office and use it as a meeting place! AGH!! For crying out loud, isn't that why they have Starbucks?!? Go away! The rest of us have somewhere to be and have no interest in being in this building a second longer than necessary. I know I need to set a good example of patience and restraint as an example to my children but really, people – stop it!

As a final thought, I must admit how much I delight in the modernization in many Post Offices that now have the postal Debit card postage machines. You Take your package, weigh it, and a few touch-screen later, you buy your postage, pop it in the big metal can and your out. Done. I hate to sound elitist, but thank you God!

The need for a postal service is evident but now, as the holidays approach, keeping me from going Postal while at the Post Office well, that's a good thing. We all have enough lines to have to stand in, one less is just fine with me.