Snail Mail Book – Coming in November
Was very excited to hear the news today. Snail Mail My Email book will be out in November. It’s available for pre-order today. (And yes, mine is already ordered.)
Snail Mail My Email was a fun letter-writing project created by Ivan Cash. I shared a bit about the project last summer.
An Unlikely Post
Dear FTD,
Bully for you for striving! And I’m so glad that you are in the process of making changes to improve your service. Maybe in another 100 years you’ll sort out some of the more complicated details of balloon delivery.
What a load of tepid corporate drivel. Here are my suggestions for what would have been a better response:
1. How about a refund?
2. I’m not even talking full refund. How about a refund of the service charge for the butt-scratching knuckle dragger who didn’t manage to deliver the balloons until late afternoon and did not even bother trying to locate the person they were sent to?
3. Dear “floral industry leader” — would it have killed you to send me . . . oh, I dunno, how about . . . a nice big “We’re Sorry” bouquet?
4. A small, cheap vase of carnations and baby’s breath?
5. The photograph of flowers is very nice but it just makes me feel as if I deserve pink roses. And a better apology.
6. A coupon? Even a crappy 10% off my next order? I probably wouldn’t have used it. It probably would have expired a year from now crumpled up in the bottom of my purse. But it would have been nice. (And you would have stayed off my Schmidt List.)
7. While apologizing, might I suggest you skip the request for my permission to send me more junk email?
8. Spare me the passive-aggressive self-promotion. Don’t tell me you’re sorry I’m disappointed. Tell me you’re sorry that you screwed up.
9. Nothing. Doing nothing would have been better than sending me the politically correct corporate equivalent of an “up yours!”
10. Baldassaro? Really? (tee hee)
Okay, I now need to go unsubscribe from their exclusive offers and updates.
I Love the Stuff Zombies Hate
“Zombies Hates Stuff” by Greg Stones
Had to share the latest from Greg Stones. It’s “Zombies Hate Stuff.” It’s less than $10 and it’s available from:
Same prices on each site ($9.95). Buy at least two because you’re going to want to share this one, but you’re not going to want to give away your copy. It’s a uniquely hilarious book of charming-but-twisted paintings depicting zombies and the stuff they hate (like clowns or hippies or kittens). Each page is a little masterpiece that will make you giggle—that is, as long as you have a sense of humor. Great gift for Walking Dead fans, hard-to-shop-for teens, friends, and zombies. Not a picture book for toddlers. Probably not for grandmas. Unless your grandma is wickedly cool.
Even if you don’t buy the book, treat yourself to a little Happy Friday giggling and take a peek.
p.s. I have written about Greg Stones before. I own a couple prints and am the insanely proud owner of a Greg Stones custom original called “The Observer”:
Motherly Advice
In honor of my Mom, my Aunt Mitzie, my Grandma Schmidt, my Grandma Daugherty, my Aunts Mae, Betty, Jean, Marie, Ann, Margie, Theresa, Pat, and Jo, and my other-mother Elain W., I’m taking a little break from Prepare to Make Your Home Look as if Your Mom Taught You Well Day to consider some of the things I learned from these incredible women:
- Respect your elders. Mind your manners. Brush your teeth. Get along with your siblings. Don’t horse around on the stairs.
- A bit of confidence, a touch of courage, and some common sense can conquer just about anything.
- If no one knows the spaghetti missed the colander and fell into the sink, you can still serve it.
- Clothing does not define a person, but look your best for church and special occasions.
- Men are marvelous, and True Love does indeed exist. However, when need be, a woman can kill bugs by herself.
- Don’t do stupid shit.
- Driving is a serious responsibility.
- Work hard. But make time for play.
- People are more complicated than we can ever know. Those who may seem difficult to love may be more in need of it than those who move through the world with ease.
- Backing into a fire hydrant isn’t the end of the world.
- Happiness trumps societal expectations. Company trumps chores. And hearts trump clubs.
- Try again despite failure and fear.
- If you don’t know which fork to use, select one with confidence and people will follow your lead while admiring your fine manners.
- Play by the rules. It makes occasions for breaking them that much more fun.
- Life is hard. Heartbreak happens. But it is not an excuse.
- Painkillers are over-rated.
- Don’t swear. Unless it’s really warranted.
- Home-made things and time spent are better than any gift money can buy.
- Be kind. Be generous. Be helpful. But don’t let the assholes take advantage.
Happy Mother’s Day to the beautiful, witty, brilliant Life Preservers who raised me up, who led by example, who taught me right from wrong, who liked me despite my faults, who loved me and delighted me as a child, who gladly, sweetly, humorously, gracefully welcomed me into the club of adulthood.
I thank you. I love you.
Happy Mother’s Day!
Hey Now
Running multiple errands on my lunch hour, I found myself backing out of a parking space in a mall parking lot designed by a schizophrenic whose every personality is a sadist, from in-between two SUVs that hadn’t been there when I first parked, into a thruway of moderately heavy car and pedestrian traffic. I was going slowly, inching out, and finally got a break.
Let me note here that there was a crosswalk about 6 spaces down, i.e., nowhere near my car but not so very far for a healthy adult to walk to. Let me also note that I had already paused for about 12 cars and at least as many J-walking (J is for jagoff) pedestrians during my inching out until one kind motorist (who may or may not have been more focused on the space I was vacating than on a random act of kindness but still) stopped and waved me out. I checked all angles, sides, etc., and eased back. As I stopped, still a bit more vertical than horizontal due to the length of the SUVs blocking my turning radius, to put the car into drive, some lady steps blatantly off the sidewalk at my rear-right fender (i.e., nowhere near aforementioned crosswalk) and walks directly toward the back of my car without varying her steps an inch, without hurrying, without pausing, without glancing in any direction. She did not veer from her path. She walked slowly. She walked haughtily. She did not even glance at me or perform any nod or wave or twitch that could maybe-possibly be interpreted as a thank-you or pardon me sort of gesture. She sauntered (Sauntered!) past my passenger window with about 3 millimeters to spare.
She was young enough to move faster. I’d say 30s. Heavy, overdone makeup. Overly styled hair. Clothes that screamed “the latest fashion” too loudly to be fashionable.
She was obviously someone VERY important.
The kindly driver had remained amazingly patient, along with about 10 other cars lined up behind him at this point and another 5 or 6 now coming in the other direction, and I was able to complete my back-up and drive on to my next stop, to pick up lunch at the Giant Eagle at the far end of the same mall.
As I drove, I marveled at the adult-sized morons bursting out of doorways, right off sidewalks, into traffic, talking on cell phones or blue tooth gadgets, texting, trailing children, and waddling like blind ducks with vertigo and I marveled that the news reports so few pedestrian injuries
I parked again and made my way to a crosswalk. I stopped. A car was coming and it did not appear to be slowing down for the cross-walk. I made one of those mostly shoulder, fake steps, to make sure she saw me there, in the crosswalk. And she did, a bit suddenly, come to a stop. She saw me.
And, oh, I saw her.
It was the Sauntering Lady of Great Importance!
Nice.
I. me. thod. i. call. y. stepped. for.ward. mov. ing. through. the. cross. walk. step. by. step. star. ing. at. the. ground. and. mov. ing. so. slow. ly. that. it. was. hard. so. hard. to. keep. a. straight. face. step. by. step. try. ing. not. to. look. up. or. gig. gle.
And you know how it is when you’re trying not to smile. As soon as I stepped out of the crosswalk and through the doors of Giant Eagle, my oh-sweet-goody bit o’ secret revenge popped out into an eye-sparkling grin just as I lifted up my eyes into a direct line of sight with a good-looking delivery man who stopped his cart, took a Kramerly pose, smiled broadly back, and said, “Hey now! How are you doin’ today?”
Indeed. I’m doin’ fine.
Commuter’s Life Preserver
My commute is about an hour on a good day. After a few years of that type of commute, you get tired of every type of music (even your own mix tapes) and every variation of morning show antics. You get tired of people arguing, whether it’s know-it-all sports talk or 2 minutes of politics followed by 58 minutes of commercials. Twice a day, day after day, whatever button you push, radio gets redundant.
About 6 months ago, I switched to audiobooks. I never thought I’d like audiobooks much; it felt like cheating. But, it’s not like reading Cliff’s Notes. It’s not like seeing the movie instead. It’s like grown-up story time. It’s an engrossing time passer. It’s the complete opposite of road-rage. It’s delightful. There are even mornings when I look forward to getting in the car to go to work. (And those who know me well just fainted.)
Should you be interested, here are a few things I’ve learned about audiobooks:
1. Audiobooks are not just for old people. Really. They’re not.
2. Like real books, audiobooks can create goosebumps, cause you to tear up, make you laugh out loud. They can entertain. They can teach. They can inspire.
3. It may take a book or two before your brain adjusts to the experience. For example, without pages shifting from right to left in your hands, you won’t have indications of progress that your subconscious expects. After a book or two, the pacing of stories will reassert via the number of CDs and/or tracks.
4. Next to whatever makes a great book great for you, the most important thing about an audiobook is the narrator.
- Any author reading his/her own work is going to be great.
- Most well-known actors, actresses, or voiceover artists are going to be good, and some will be spectacular.
- A very proper enunciator is not the same as a good storyteller.
- Some male readers will try to do voices, including for the female characters. (Imagine someone from the cast of Monty Python or Kids in the Hall when they do voices for ladies. Now imagine one of them as a lady’s voice in a Dashiell Hammett novel. It ain’t right. Oh it can be funny, sure. But it ain’t right.)
5. You might want to look up a book before purchasing the audio format. Audiobook packaging doesn’t always include the same level of description as a physical book. And you might wind up, for example, tolerating 20 CDs read by some annoying, grating very proper enunciator before realizing it was book 1 of a trilogy.
Yeah, some cliffhangers I can live with.
6. Speaking of the angst of buying a bad audiobook, you can avoid this issue completely by joining a library and borrowing their audiobooks.
7. Keep in mind that it appears to be library policy to put all audiobooks on the shelves nearest the floor, with labels pasted alternately North-to-South and South-to-North, so you’ll squat there, tilting your head left to read one title, then right to read the next title. Squatting, head moving—chicken-like—left, right, left, right, pecking at row upon row of miniature books sorted only by author, not genre.
Still, it’s free, and if you get a bad book (or an enunciator), you can just take it right back and try another.
8. When you go to the library, don’t ask for “books on tape.” (They’re on CD now of course, and librarians, who are, apparently, rather literal people, will tell you they don’t have any.)
9. When you go to another library—because the first one you went to (near where you work, where your hours of being able to look at books best matches up to their hours of operation) can’t give you a library card unless you first get one from the neighborhood in which you reside (even though it’s all computerized and you have a valid driver’s license, and even though, once you get the card from your home library and go back again to the first library, they give you the option to use the exact same card)—don’t call them “books on tape.”
10. I am now looking into ways to download audiobooks from the web. I’ve looked at amazon’s audible.com ($14.95/month seems a bit high to me) or iBooks via the itunes store where, it appears, you pay per book, but I haven’t yet tried either.
I’m sure there must be other similar sites or apps. If you know of one that you enjoy, that seems reasonable, and is user-friendly, please share some details in the comments. Thanks!
Musical Life Preserver
After a debilitating four-day, 50-plus-hour week and a yet another teeth-grinding commute from North to South, my week ended on a high note.
After a pit stop at home, I took a relatively breezy drive into Oakland to get to the classy-comfy, ushered, delightfully step-back-in-time Carnegie Music Hall (where parking in the lot behind the museum is just 5 bucks!) to see the River City Brass Band.
Tickets to the show can be had for as low as $21. For just a bit more, you can get one of the best seats in the house, like second row, first balcony, center, where I eased into my red-velvet seat between two of my favorite people in the world, Mom and Dad, and felt the lasso that binds me to the Rodeo de Ridiculousness unknot and slip away.
Lights dimmed and the band came on stage and the Best Loved Marches-themed show began. For each number, the band’s Conductor, Scotland-born James Gourlay, provides interesting, entertaining information about the song, its composer, or other historical trivia.
And they play. Lord do they play.
A brass band—a great brass band—live. It is an experience. Trumpets, cornets, trombones, tubas, a lively group of percussionists. It is so American. (And, I think, so Pittburghian.) It is music that reverberates through your ears and down into your gut before slipping out through fingertips and toes that, even among the most unmusically inclined, move throughout the show in easy, involuntary accompaniment.
The music itself would be enough. It moves you to audible ooh and ahhs, a primal appreciation, an ancient-feeling of wonderment that such sounds could come from the brassy metal implements before you, and at times, like while hearing “to dream the impossible dream” (The Quest, Mitch Leigh), sung last night by flugelhorn player Drew Fennell, tears.
Yes, the music would be enough. But there is more. This group of incredibly talented musicians also has a delightful sense of humor.
The Imperial March (John Williams), which most would recognize immediately (dum dum da dum dum da dum) from Star Wars included an appearance by Darth Vader, who used The Force to take over and conduct with his light saber.
During a medley of Scottish tunes, Gourlay conducted in a kilt. After which, he asked the audience if they were wondering what people wonder about Scotmen and kilts. And then he removed the kilt to show . . . rolled up tuxedo pant legs, from the pocket of which he swished out and twirled a Terrible Towel.
And there was a Spike-Jonesian solo on a xylophone that included notes played on a block of wood, a pot lid, and squeaky toys.
So, yes, it’s a band concert, but it’s not quite like any band concert you’ve been to before.
Offer me tickets to anything in this amazingly big small Pittsburgh town—city, pavilion, or arena—and I will choose the River City Brass Band. They are talented. They bring goosebumps, cheers, tears, guffaws, and giggles. And they bring the music. They are an affordable marvel. They create moments of purest happiness. They infuse joy.
This is an experience that reminds you that the soul you had as a child still exists. The River City Brass Band is a musical life preserver.
The band’s season runs from fall to spring, with the last show of the current season coming next month: May 10 at the Carnegie Music Hall and May 3-13 at other local high school venues, which can be found on their website, www.rivercitybrass.org.
YUMMY
The restaurant is called BRGR, and until today, I couldn’t decide if the name was clever or stupid.
It was on the menu with the unassuming name of “fried chicken appetizer.” You could have easily overlooked it. But the description, once read, intrigued. A rather interesting mix of flavors. Comfort food with a daring twist. Absolutely unique. And absolutely “YUMMY.”
And I mean the kind of meal where you are liable to actually, involuntarily blurt out a loud, boisterous, overly theatrical, gleefully playful “YUMMY!” (with a tone of South Park’s “Timmy!” being greeted by a drunk but happy Janis Joplin) after every single bite AND again, here and there, should the indescribable Morsel of Weirdest Goodness cross your mind while staring into an empty pantry cupboard, skirting the mall food court, approaching the Communion alter, etc.
{“YUMMY!”}
It’s a small bowl of penne pasta mac n’ cheese {“YUMMY!”} topped with kimchi coleslaw {“YUMMY!”} topped with a couple of pieces of the tenderest, moistest, boneless, breaded chicken ever. {“YUMMY!”}
It was my go-to lunch on days when I am in desperate need of a better-than-usual, not-at-my-desk, life-preserving lunch, days when the desire to escape the round-peg-in-a-square-hole cube life overwhelms, days when the Inner Child has plopped to the floor, red-faced, lip pulling in toward a grand screaming rebellion of No.
Tired, stressed, sans umbrella on a rainy day, the clock nearing 3:00 before I’d had a moment to consider lunch, and The Marvelous Yummy crossed my mind. {The Inner Child’s lip relaxed, Yum-mm-mmm-my?} {C’mon sweetie. It’ll be okay. We’ll go to BRGR and read vacation guide books, k?}
But.
They have secretly replaced the strangely, wonderfully schizophrenic fried chicken appetizer with a kind-of-nasty, boring fried chicken appetizer. I asked, “Is this the one with the kimchi and penne pasta?” and was told, No but it is “The Best Fried Chicken I Have Ever Tasted.”
Not. Even. Close. Not the best fried chicken ever. (This waiter has obviously never attended a Pittsburgh wedding, graduation, or family reunion. Pretty sure he’s never even been to Giant Eagle’s cafe.) And, obviously, not even close to the original dish.
Why? Why did you take this uniquely wonderful dish off the menu? What’s next, replace Christmas with a Tuesday? Put lima beans in a Cracker Jack’s box? Pave paradise and put up a parking lot?
Not clever, BRGR.
Post Office Puts the FU in Fun
So. I had a package (item valued at about $100) coming in (on a Friday) that I then needed to ship from East Coast to West Coast overnight for Saturday delivery. To use Fed Ex or UPS, the cost of shipping would be more than the package’s value. A lot more. So I thought I’d double-check at the Post Office.
I didn’t have the package in-hand yet but wanted to be prepared in case it came in last-minute, so I drove over to the Post Office in the morning. I stood in the line. And I made it up to the counter with my questions. It went something like this:
Q: Do you have overnight service? I’m looking into what my options are.
A: Yes. It would get there tomorrow at Noon for about $20.
Q: Really?!
A: Yep!
Q: Saturday delivery?
A: Yep!
Q: Great. What time do I need to have it here?
A: 7:00 p.m.
Q: Really?
A: Yep. You probably want to be here by 10 til 7:00 to make sure we process it by 7:00.
And I strolled out of Thee Wonderful Amazing U.S. Post Office feeling happy. Bounce in my step. Easy-peasy-pie! What nice people! What an amazing difference in price! What an incredibly quick service! Oh what a beautiful day!
The package in question arrived about two hours later, and I drove back to the Post Office. I packed it up in the appropriate packaging, I filled out the form, and I waited in the (longer than before) line.
A different clerk waited on me this time. He checked boxes and pushed buttons and slapped the label on and turned to me and said, “Okay. That’ll be there by 3:00 p.m. on Monday.”
Very aware of the long line of people behind me, their breath hot on my neck as they slid glinting letter openers from breast coat pockets . . . I explained that I needed it there tomorrow and that I had come over earlier in the day and was told it would get there by Noon on Saturday, not Monday afternoon. He looked at me like I was a little nuts, smiled, and shook his head. I took the package and drove away, imagining how Post Office employees might answer other questions.
Q: I see you now sell greeting cards. How do they compare to Hallmark?
A: They are BETTER! You simply buy one of these extra-special 2 cent stamps and the mail carrier will deliver it and sing a stunning Birthday operetta while giving your gramma a foot rub.
Q: I need to ship this animal. Can you help?
A: Yep! Grab one of those small-size flat-rates, and for $5.35 we’ll have that baby elephant romping round the Serengeti before you get back to your car.
Q: Would my teenage niece like this?
A: Absolutely! Our research shows that stamp collecting is now more popular than American Idol, Dance Dance Revolution, and talking about boys among the 13-18-year-old female demographic.
Q: Can I get a passport here?
A: Yep! Go through that door, turn around 3 times and click your heels, and then leave. The next time you go through Customs, your Passport will be there waiting for you.
Q: How does the future look for a government-run postal service?
A: Never better! The average letter carrier makes over $50,000 a year—with 11 holidays, 13 sick days, and 5 weeks of vacation after just 3 years of service!
(psst . . . one of the answers above is true.)
Life Preservers 
My Recommendations for NBC
NBC’s coverage of the 2012 Olympics continues to get very low marks among social media, water cooler conversation, and people yelling at TV sets. They’ve even earned their own hashtag, #NBCFail, on Twitter.
NBC’s Vivian Schiller, fancy pants Chief Digital Officer, shrugs and calls it whining and points to good ratings. Which is kind of like saying people love rush hour traffic because they sit in it every day. Yep, we’re stuck with NBC’s coverage, so I’m watching it. But I have some recommendations:
1. Smaller blocks of programming more conducive to DVRing limits, provide an accurate guide to event coverage, and wrap-up the day before midnight.
2. All sportscasters should be forced to watch the events live and report on what they see happening. It should be illegal to dub in new (scripted) commentary post-event/pre-broadcast.
3. Sport is drama. Just let it unfold. Even if the Americans aren’t the winners.
4. All swimmers of every Nation outfitted with NERF Super Soaker Hydro Cannons; allowed to blast Andrea Kremer at will every time she tries to ask an answer instead of a question.
5. Can we go back to amateur status athletes?
6. Well, all right. Can we at least send basketball back to the NBA?
7. Vault replaced with Elfi Schlegel; pommel horse replaced with Tim Daggett.
8. Back the heck up. I don’t need to glimpse a person’s optic nerve to imagine what he or she might be feeling during a National Anthem.
9. Ban the phrase “I’ve been working for this my whole life” for anyone under the age of 30.
10. Move all features and promos to Entertainment Tonight or Hallmark Channel. But please do show live coverage of Bob Costas being removed from set to be kept from Olympic coverage until he:
– Studies Geography.
– Cultivates good manners.
– Stops using Botox.
– Agrees to send Matt Lauer to Madagascar.
As I end my broadcast day, for your listening pleasure, some pre-recorded audio (that I have rescripted) from the Aquatic Centre:
“Hey Michael Phelps, will you predict for us that you’re going to win everything? No? Well, hmph, I guess you don’t care about swimming anymore! Hey everybody, Michael sucks! He’s old. He’s done. heehee! Hey, let’s follow this Lochte guy cause ‘it’s his time!’and he made a lot of money doing a commercial for NBC that claims winning at the Olympics can’t be bought. Oh dang, he’s proved it. (And he’s kind of a knuckle dragger in an interview.) Crap! Michael is doing well again! Quick, let’s all run back and see if he will let us lick his feet and purr in his ear and do a retrospective on his most eminent greatness-of-all-time-ness. ‘Hey Michael Phelps, over here! I’m the one who said you’d be the greatest ever while broadcasting your first swimming competition as a sperm.’”
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August 6, 2012 at 5:57 am 1 comment