I have been lucky enough to spend the past week or so in the Gaylord Opryland Hotel and Convention Center, the biggest, fanciest (ie most expensive) hotel I’ve ever stayed in. I’ve got a few complaints.
1. Every night when I go to bed, I have to move three pillows out of the way. I throw them on the other bed, but what if I had a roommate? I guess those pillows would hit the floor.
2. Every evening when I return to my room (after working 12-15 hours) I hit the bathroom. When I wash my hands, the nice little hanger where the hand towel goes has the hand towel on it, but hanging on top of that is a washcloth. I don’t typically use a washcloth. But there’s another washcloth with the bath towels, plus one at the second sink just outside the bathroom. I have enough wash cloths. I take that off, set it on the counter and use the towel. The next day, the washcloth is still folded neatly sitting on the counter where I left it, but now, another washcloth is covering my new clean hand towel. I accumulated three washcloths this way before I wrinkled them a bit and threw them on the counter.
3. I have to walk a country mile to get from where I’m staying to where I’m working. And when I say a country mile, I am barely exaggerating. There are 9.5 acres of garden, trees, and a river inside this building. I can take a boat ride inside. My room is in the opposite end of the building from where I am working.
4. Back to towels. The rack for the bath towels hangs just outside my shower and the big, fluffy towels are literally squeezed onto the bar. I have to pull them off, which means I have to hold one and pull the other, or both will come out, which is dangerous since they’re directly above the toilet.
5. This Hotel/convention center complex has several restaurants, including one called Stax, where the signs advertise “Build your own burger.” Now if ever there was a restaurant calling my name, this place seemed to be it. I pictured Chipotle or Subway but for me. Except, it wasn’t. It was a less-than-mediocre, soaked-in-water burger, heated in a microwave served with a plastic container full of lettuce, tomato, pickle and onions that, if I wanted, I could put on myself. That’s not build your own, that’s lazy.
I’ll blog what I like about Opryland Hotel, although, I’ll need photos for that.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Do you see what I see? FIRE!
pp: Dec. 29, 2005 on Cellar Dwellers Blog-o-rama
Toys R Us caught fire on Christmas day (there’s a joke in there somewhere that I can’t come up with, about the touch of irony or some kid from the naughty list who was upset with his Christmas gifts.)
I work there, so I know what happened. I’m not allowed to reveal anything. Truth be told, it’s not that exciting.
I’ll reiterate what everyone said to me: At least no one was hurt.
That’s the line of the week. At least no one was hurt. I understand the sentiment, but if you think about it a step further, perhaps it’s not such a great sentiment. Sometimes people don’t think before they speak, and I spent the last three days standing out front of the store talking to these people. These people either live under a rock or near Boardman.
Here’s the typical conversation I had on Monday:
Me: Hi, we’re closed
Them: Closed?
Me: Ya, we had a fire on Christmas.
Them: You’re kidding. Really?
Me: Yes.
Them: Was it bad?
Me: No structural damage, but they’re still determining everything else. If you have returns or exchanges, the stores in Robinson and Cranberry are open.
Them: No one was hurt were they?
Me: No, it happened on Christmas, no one was here.
Them: I guess that’s one good thing.
By Tuesday it went like this:
Me: Hi, we’re closed. We had a fire on Christmas.
Them: You’re kidding. Really?
Me: No, I’m not kidding, I wouldn’t kid about something this serious and I resent the fact you think I would.
Them: I’m sorry. Was it bad?
Me: It’s a fire inside the toy store, it’s not good.
Them: No one was hurt were they?
Me: No, it happened on Christmas, no one was here.
Them: I guess that’s one good thing.
Me: Unless you consider if someone was here, they could have stopped it with a fire extinguisher.
By day three:
Me: You don’t read the paper do you?
Them: What?
Me: We’re closed: we had a fire on Christmas.
Them: You’re kidding.
Me: Well… you’re right! You got me! Man and I thought the 7 bright yellow vans that said Fire and water damage restoration would really sell this practical joke.
Them: [confused look] Was it bad?
Me: No, it was actually good, for a while. You know how it is… Christmas party … roasting marshmallows indoors … got out of control. Robinson and Cranberry are open.
Them: Okay.
Me: They have no idea how to party at those stores.
Them: At least no one was hurt.
Me: No, but the mule did suffer smoke inhalation.
But by far, this was the best angry customer of the week.
[car pulls in, I go towards it, woman gets out, not even glancing at me]
Me: Hi! (I’m very cheerful)
[woman feigns indifference and grabs purse, walks past me toward the boarded up front doors, with Service Master fire restoration vans – the bright yellow ones – parked all along the front and hand-made signs declaring Closed]
Me: Are you coming to shop today?
[ignores me, totally, still]
Me: Because we’re closed.
[She stops dead in her tracks, swings around quickly, stares me down. I could swear her eyes were yellow, perhaps just reflections of the cleaning vans. There was spittle (or foam) dangling on the edges of her mouth and I’m thinking she stops un-dead in her tracks would have been a more apropos phrase. Then in a deep menacing voice she growls]
Her: Why!?
[Now a man has two choices when faced with such situations. Fight or flight. And being a man, I had to make a choice. I chose flight.]
My actual response: [take two steps back, and meekly squeak out]: F-f-fire.
(My response when I retell the story to co-workers: We were warned you were coming. We got a call from Dorothy and Toto.)
She spins around again and heads toward the store anyway. I contemplate tackling her, but remember the yellow eyes.
Me: Why be a hero?
Me: She could be a terrorist!
Me: She could just not believe you.
Me: Dude. Look at the vans.
Me: You’re right, and there’s that risk of rabies.
Me: There must be a better way to deal with this.
[And then it comes to me, in a bright flash of retail wage slave brilliance]
Me: Let management deal with it.
Me: You’re brilliant
Me: I know.
Epilogue
The woman with the yellow eyes was merely throwing her empty McDonalds bag away at the garbage can near the front door. And I thought Supersize Me scared me away from fast food. She turned and left and I made a wide circle back to my post near the front door, and couldn’t help mumbling to myself, ‘At least no one was hurt.’
Toys R Us caught fire on Christmas day (there’s a joke in there somewhere that I can’t come up with, about the touch of irony or some kid from the naughty list who was upset with his Christmas gifts.)
I work there, so I know what happened. I’m not allowed to reveal anything. Truth be told, it’s not that exciting.
I’ll reiterate what everyone said to me: At least no one was hurt.
That’s the line of the week. At least no one was hurt. I understand the sentiment, but if you think about it a step further, perhaps it’s not such a great sentiment. Sometimes people don’t think before they speak, and I spent the last three days standing out front of the store talking to these people. These people either live under a rock or near Boardman.
Here’s the typical conversation I had on Monday:
Me: Hi, we’re closed
Them: Closed?
Me: Ya, we had a fire on Christmas.
Them: You’re kidding. Really?
Me: Yes.
Them: Was it bad?
Me: No structural damage, but they’re still determining everything else. If you have returns or exchanges, the stores in Robinson and Cranberry are open.
Them: No one was hurt were they?
Me: No, it happened on Christmas, no one was here.
Them: I guess that’s one good thing.
By Tuesday it went like this:
Me: Hi, we’re closed. We had a fire on Christmas.
Them: You’re kidding. Really?
Me: No, I’m not kidding, I wouldn’t kid about something this serious and I resent the fact you think I would.
Them: I’m sorry. Was it bad?
Me: It’s a fire inside the toy store, it’s not good.
Them: No one was hurt were they?
Me: No, it happened on Christmas, no one was here.
Them: I guess that’s one good thing.
Me: Unless you consider if someone was here, they could have stopped it with a fire extinguisher.
By day three:
Me: You don’t read the paper do you?
Them: What?
Me: We’re closed: we had a fire on Christmas.
Them: You’re kidding.
Me: Well… you’re right! You got me! Man and I thought the 7 bright yellow vans that said Fire and water damage restoration would really sell this practical joke.
Them: [confused look] Was it bad?
Me: No, it was actually good, for a while. You know how it is… Christmas party … roasting marshmallows indoors … got out of control. Robinson and Cranberry are open.
Them: Okay.
Me: They have no idea how to party at those stores.
Them: At least no one was hurt.
Me: No, but the mule did suffer smoke inhalation.
But by far, this was the best angry customer of the week.
[car pulls in, I go towards it, woman gets out, not even glancing at me]
Me: Hi! (I’m very cheerful)
[woman feigns indifference and grabs purse, walks past me toward the boarded up front doors, with Service Master fire restoration vans – the bright yellow ones – parked all along the front and hand-made signs declaring Closed]
Me: Are you coming to shop today?
[ignores me, totally, still]
Me: Because we’re closed.
[She stops dead in her tracks, swings around quickly, stares me down. I could swear her eyes were yellow, perhaps just reflections of the cleaning vans. There was spittle (or foam) dangling on the edges of her mouth and I’m thinking she stops un-dead in her tracks would have been a more apropos phrase. Then in a deep menacing voice she growls]
Her: Why!?
[Now a man has two choices when faced with such situations. Fight or flight. And being a man, I had to make a choice. I chose flight.]
My actual response: [take two steps back, and meekly squeak out]: F-f-fire.
(My response when I retell the story to co-workers: We were warned you were coming. We got a call from Dorothy and Toto.)
She spins around again and heads toward the store anyway. I contemplate tackling her, but remember the yellow eyes.
Me: Why be a hero?
Me: She could be a terrorist!
Me: She could just not believe you.
Me: Dude. Look at the vans.
Me: You’re right, and there’s that risk of rabies.
Me: There must be a better way to deal with this.
[And then it comes to me, in a bright flash of retail wage slave brilliance]
Me: Let management deal with it.
Me: You’re brilliant
Me: I know.
Epilogue
The woman with the yellow eyes was merely throwing her empty McDonalds bag away at the garbage can near the front door. And I thought Supersize Me scared me away from fast food. She turned and left and I made a wide circle back to my post near the front door, and couldn’t help mumbling to myself, ‘At least no one was hurt.’
Monday, January 14, 2008
An open letter to open letters:
Dear Open Letters:
What do you want?
Do you really expect me to answer such a public cry for attention?
I won’t.
I can’t.
I’ve changed, however, you have stayed exactly the same, which is why I want to tell you this: it’s over.
Over the years, you’ve come to me unexpectedly, but you came to everyone else too. And I mean everyone. Sometimes I’d see you in a full page ad in the Post Gazette. THat's a lot of readers. Sometimes I’d find you at McSweeney’s, where anyone with an internet connection could find you. Recently, you’ve even crept into my emails and text messages.
Or, perhaps that wasn’t you leaving all those cryptic messages about special deals I could get switching my cell plan. Or forwarding me the stories about soldiers and huge corporations that have done something wrong, which I then have to research on Snopes.com before taking action, because frankly, Open, you’ve become untrustworthy.
The free $500 gift card on MySpace? I fell for it once, but never again.
I know you're just trying to help. You know I want to hate big corporations, get a better cell plan, and who couldn't use $500?
But you need to stop with the forwarded emails with touching sentiments about love and friendship tagged with an admonition for me to send it to 10 other people including the person who sent it to me so they know I care.
It’s desperate, Open. But I guess desperation is what you do. You're a last resort, and I'm done with that.
Don’t be upset. Hell, a part of me still cares. but what we had is over, Open. I’m more focused now.
I need a relationship to be more personal, and you’re too open, Open.
I know that’s who you are, and I don’t want you to ever change, because you’re good at what you do, being the best you can be.
Just, please, leave me out of it.
Sincerely ,
Personal Letter Writer
What do you want?
Do you really expect me to answer such a public cry for attention?
I won’t.
I can’t.
I’ve changed, however, you have stayed exactly the same, which is why I want to tell you this: it’s over.
Over the years, you’ve come to me unexpectedly, but you came to everyone else too. And I mean everyone. Sometimes I’d see you in a full page ad in the Post Gazette. THat's a lot of readers. Sometimes I’d find you at McSweeney’s, where anyone with an internet connection could find you. Recently, you’ve even crept into my emails and text messages.
Or, perhaps that wasn’t you leaving all those cryptic messages about special deals I could get switching my cell plan. Or forwarding me the stories about soldiers and huge corporations that have done something wrong, which I then have to research on Snopes.com before taking action, because frankly, Open, you’ve become untrustworthy.
The free $500 gift card on MySpace? I fell for it once, but never again.
I know you're just trying to help. You know I want to hate big corporations, get a better cell plan, and who couldn't use $500?
But you need to stop with the forwarded emails with touching sentiments about love and friendship tagged with an admonition for me to send it to 10 other people including the person who sent it to me so they know I care.
It’s desperate, Open. But I guess desperation is what you do. You're a last resort, and I'm done with that.
Don’t be upset. Hell, a part of me still cares. but what we had is over, Open. I’m more focused now.
I need a relationship to be more personal, and you’re too open, Open.
I know that’s who you are, and I don’t want you to ever change, because you’re good at what you do, being the best you can be.
Just, please, leave me out of it.
Sincerely ,
Personal Letter Writer
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The Asterisks List
Is Roger Clemens guilty of using steroids, HGH (Human Growth Hormones) and other performance enhancing drugs?
Better question: Who cares?
Whoa! I guess a lot of people, baseball and sports fans, because it dominates the sports page and news shows. Evidently the US Congress cares enough to stop worrying about a war, the deficit, or the downward spiraling economy, so they can hear The Rocket’s testimony.
Some fans believe Clemens and Barry Bonds, et al, should go into record books with an asterisks next to their accomplishments?
Should they? Who knows?
The bigger question: (no, not who cares? (although, seriously, really, who does?)) Why don’t other professions mark ‘enhanced’ performances with asterisks?
Should we keep Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises off the top 100 books of all time just because Ernest drank? Should we remove Slaughterhouse Five from the list because Vonnegut smoked tobacco, which calmed his nerves, a performance enhancer if ever there was one?
Should the Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Elvis, Janis Joplin, Ozzy, Guns and Roses … aww, hell … should every rock band ever, be left out of the record books?
Does it matter? Perhaps it does. To someone. To fans, reporters and possibly, congress, so to start the process of purging the record books of cheaters I present:
A few great professionals whose careers were affected by performance enhancing drugs:
Aaron Sorkin: Playwright/screenwriter. A Few Good Men, The American President, and West Wing. Plus, Sports Night, and Studio 60, the two greatest shows ever canceled. Poetry in prose. A dance of words … Performance enhancing drug of choice: cocaine.
Kate Moss: Supermodel and super thin.. Performance enhancing drug of choice: Heroine (chic) and syrup-of-ipecac. (aka HSH – Human Shrinking Hormone) People don’t get that thin naturally. Have you seen the perceived size of her head in relation to her body?
Sherlock Holmes: The greatest criminal investigator ever (before Monk.) He could see things nobody else could. Performance enhancing drug of choice: Opium.
Hunter S. Thomson: gonzo journalist extroidinaire. Performance enhancing drug of choice: everything and everything. He openly admits it in writing, like the Jose Conseco of journalism.
Marion Barry: Mayor of Washington DC. (not related to Marion Jones – gold medal cheater) Performance enhancing drug of choice: crack. Set up or not, that man did things in his office.
Con Phillis: World’s Greatest Dad (at least according to a coffee cup presented to him by his third child). Performance enhancing drug of choice: Caffeine in the form of coffee. How effective is this? He’s still a great dad, even in his 80s. In his 80s!
Sylvia Plath: poet, writer, visionary. Performance enhancing drug of choice: Huffing gas. No way she gets to the end of her career without it.
I’m sure there’s more. Congress should subpoena editors, photographers, managers, etc. and get to the bottom of every profession. Let’s name names before it’s too late.
And by too late, I mean before everyone figures out it’s stupid.
Really, who cares?
Better question: Who cares?
Whoa! I guess a lot of people, baseball and sports fans, because it dominates the sports page and news shows. Evidently the US Congress cares enough to stop worrying about a war, the deficit, or the downward spiraling economy, so they can hear The Rocket’s testimony.
Some fans believe Clemens and Barry Bonds, et al, should go into record books with an asterisks next to their accomplishments?
Should they? Who knows?
The bigger question: (no, not who cares? (although, seriously, really, who does?)) Why don’t other professions mark ‘enhanced’ performances with asterisks?
Should we keep Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises off the top 100 books of all time just because Ernest drank? Should we remove Slaughterhouse Five from the list because Vonnegut smoked tobacco, which calmed his nerves, a performance enhancer if ever there was one?
Should the Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Elvis, Janis Joplin, Ozzy, Guns and Roses … aww, hell … should every rock band ever, be left out of the record books?
Does it matter? Perhaps it does. To someone. To fans, reporters and possibly, congress, so to start the process of purging the record books of cheaters I present:
A few great professionals whose careers were affected by performance enhancing drugs:
Aaron Sorkin: Playwright/screenwriter. A Few Good Men, The American President, and West Wing. Plus, Sports Night, and Studio 60, the two greatest shows ever canceled. Poetry in prose. A dance of words … Performance enhancing drug of choice: cocaine.
Kate Moss: Supermodel and super thin.. Performance enhancing drug of choice: Heroine (chic) and syrup-of-ipecac. (aka HSH – Human Shrinking Hormone) People don’t get that thin naturally. Have you seen the perceived size of her head in relation to her body?
Sherlock Holmes: The greatest criminal investigator ever (before Monk.) He could see things nobody else could. Performance enhancing drug of choice: Opium.
Hunter S. Thomson: gonzo journalist extroidinaire. Performance enhancing drug of choice: everything and everything. He openly admits it in writing, like the Jose Conseco of journalism.
Marion Barry: Mayor of Washington DC. (not related to Marion Jones – gold medal cheater) Performance enhancing drug of choice: crack. Set up or not, that man did things in his office.
Con Phillis: World’s Greatest Dad (at least according to a coffee cup presented to him by his third child). Performance enhancing drug of choice: Caffeine in the form of coffee. How effective is this? He’s still a great dad, even in his 80s. In his 80s!
Sylvia Plath: poet, writer, visionary. Performance enhancing drug of choice: Huffing gas. No way she gets to the end of her career without it.
I’m sure there’s more. Congress should subpoena editors, photographers, managers, etc. and get to the bottom of every profession. Let’s name names before it’s too late.
And by too late, I mean before everyone figures out it’s stupid.
Really, who cares?
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