Dave Fox's Outbursts!

Delta Airlines to Their Senior Employees: "Let Them Eat Cake"

This Blog Has Moved!

This blog post has moved to Globejotting.com, my new global storytelling website, featuring humor columns, travel tales and tips, and writing advice.

To read this entry, please visit Globejotting.com and enter its title in the search bar. If you need additional help, feel free to e-mail me. You’ll find my contact info on the new site.

Thanks for visiting!

--Dave Fox

Crazy Buffalo Tramples Saigon

This Blog Has Moved!

This blog post has moved to Globejotting.com, my new global storytelling website, featuring humor columns, travel tales and tips, and writing advice.

To read this entry, please visit Globejotting.com and enter its title in the search bar. If you need additional help, feel free to e-mail me. You’ll find my contact info on the new site.

Thanks for visiting!

--Dave Fox

Is that a chicken in your mouth or are you just happy to see me?

This Blog Has Moved!

This blog post has moved to Globejotting.com, my new global storytelling website, featuring humor columns, travel tales and tips, and writing advice.

To read this entry, please visit Globejotting.com and enter its title in the search bar. If you need additional help, feel free to e-mail me. You’ll find my contact info on the new site.

Thanks for visiting!

--Dave Fox

An Open Letter to the Stockholm Visitors' Board

This Blog Has Moved!

This blog post has moved to Globejotting.com, my new global storytelling website, featuring humor columns, travel tales and tips, and writing advice.

To read this entry, please visit Globejotting.com and enter its title in the search bar. If you need additional help, feel free to e-mail me. You’ll find my contact info on the new site.

Thanks for visiting!

--Dave Fox

Please, Somebody, Make it Stop!

It's November 7, 2006, and here in America, we all know what that means. It means whatever you do today, be sure to exercise your rights as an American by staying the hell away from your telephone.

Yes, friends, it's election day. The day when we celebrate democracy by getting phone call after phone call telling us how to think. Campaigners call us. Candidates call us. Well, actually, the candidates themselves don't call. Computers call, with messages the candidates have pre-recorded.

Yeah. Like, that's who I want to vote for. Someone whose basic message is, "[Three second pause to be absolutely sure I have answered the phone...] Hello. I'm Fred Z. Teleterror, and my time is more important than yours. That's why I'm interrupting your work day with this pre-recorded message, rather than calling you personally, to remind you to vote. Because who knows? You might be too stupid to remember to vote today, even though election day is front page news, and 583 other people have already reminded you to vote. This is an extremely important election year. Some election years... not so important. But this year, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Have you hung up yet? Is anybody still listening to me? Hellooooo????? [::click::]"

In 2004, I received eight calls -- eight calls! -- from the Democratic Party. Six of those calls occurred during a two-hour period in the evening, just as polls were getting ready to close.

Personal message to the Democratic Party: It is not necessary to call and remind me to vote... six times in one evening... after I have already voted!

I became sufficiently irritated that I sent the party headquarters a letter after election season was over, asking them why they felt it necessary to call me that many times. They never responded. I guess they didn't like me interrupting their work with petty inquiries.

This year, I am tempted not to vote at all if I get too many phone calls. It's a tough dilemma. Who would I rather see crash and burn? George W. Bush's cronies, or every telemarketer in America?

By a paper-thin margin of error, the phone call people win. I'm going to vote. Then, I'm going to hide under my desk and whimper until 8 p.m. when the polls close and my phone stops ringing.

metroidiotic

I am feeling sad today.

Seattle's Convention and Visitor's Bureau has just come up with a new slogan for the city: "metronatural."

I am feeling sad because according to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, the Visitor's bureau spent an entire year and $200,000 to "invent" this new word. I wish they would have called me first. I could have come up with something equally idiotic in half the time, and I only would have charged them a quarter the amount.

I have this image in my mind of the meeting at which the final decision was made: A bunch of self-important marketers in khaki pants and name brand shirts patting each other on the back, thinking we, the innocent taxpayers of Seattle, would actually like such a slogan.

"It sounds kind of like 'metrosexual,'" one self-important marketer would announce smugly to the other self-important marketers, with the same pride one would expect from a two-year-old who has just picked his nose and run to show mommy his new-found treasure.

But wait! It gets better! Now that they've blown 200 K on the dumbest new word to hit the dictionary since... since... I think since the invention of the English language... now they are going to spend another $300,000 on an ad campaign to market the word.

Half a million dollars?!?! For "metronatural?!?!" I want my tax money back!

Instead of blowing all that cash on "metronatural," how about spending half a million dollars on this slogan instead:

"Seattle: Come be a tourist in our city, but don't move here if you have kids because our public school system doesn't have enough money to keep all of its schools open."

A Tip to Avoid Rip-Offs

Split, Croatia

My bill arrives after dinner, and included on it are two coffees I did not order. I'm not sure if it's an honest mistake or not, but I'm suspicious.

I flash back to another trip, when I sat at an outdoor cafe in Lagos, Portugal, and watched as neary every person in the restaurant was finding a few "extras" on their bill. The waiters were all very cordial, and removed the charges right away.

Then there was the time I was working in Venice, Italy, and at the end of a big lunch of salad, pasta, wine, coffee, and tiramisu, my bill arrived, charging me for everything I had eaten, plus four gargantuan six-scoop ice creams with a price tag of roughly six US dollars each.

"Excuse me," I said to the waiter. "I hate to be a bother, but could you take a look at my bill? I did not order 24 scoops of ice cream to wash down my tiramisu."

"Are you sure?" the waiter replied.

"We would both know if I ate 24 scoops of ice cream," I said. "It wouldn't be pretty. I'm lactose intolerant."

The waiter shrugged and fixed my bill.

So the two coffees here in Split -- have they been added intentionally? I'm not sure, but the waiter apologizes and tells me he'll correct the bill.

"You'll probably want to," I tell him, handing him some cash for my meal. "Your tip's included here. It's your money."

Swedish Capitalism

Stockholm, Sweden

Dear Stockholm Tourist Information Office,

I love your city. Even as a Norwegiophile, whose deepest love will always be with your neighbor to the west, I think Stockholm rocks.

I have just one question:

Are you people on crack, or what?

Seriously, Stockholm Tourist Information Office, you used to have a really cool logo for your city. It was a whimsical, child-like drawing of the Stockholm skyline with a happy sun shining down upon it. Along with that drawing was your well-deserved slogan, "Stockholm: Beauty On Water."

I used to feel cool walking through town with one of your nifty "Beauty On Water" plastic bags.

I don't feel proud with your new plastic bags. I am ashamed to be seen with your new plastic bags. They are evil.

They say, "Stockholm: The Capital of Scandinavia."

Huh?!?!

Have you consulted with the Norwegians on this? Have you sent a memo to the Danes? And what about Iceland? Sure, Iceland is a small country, but I wouldn't tangle with them. Unlike Sweden, Iceland is in NATO, which means they have the backing of a madman farther west.

The irony of your new "Capital of Scandinavia" slogan is you guys got all cranky back in the 16th century when a certain Danish king started acting like Copenhagen was the capital of Scandinavia. Remember the Stockholm Bloodbath? The king of Denmark was taxing you for stuff you weren't benefiting from. So you tried to break free from your alliance with Denmark, and then the king of Denmark came to Stockholm and chopped off the heads of a bunch of your nobility.

Yep. That's what happens when one country tries to declare its capital the capital of other countries. It doesn't work. Wars get started. Heads get chopped. The whole thing just gets messy. Kind of like Washington and Baghdad.

I know, Stockholm Tourist Information Office. I get how this happened. I know you guys aren't really war-mongering freaks. It's not like you got together and had a formal meeting about your new slogan, and decided, "Yes! We shall now call ourselves 'The Capital of Scandinavia!'" I understand that what really happened is a couple of you went out for a few beers one night, got a little bit tipsy, and at 3 a.m., someone went home, got online, ordered up 50,000 plastic bags with this new, idiotic slogan. Now, you're stuck with all of those bags. You guys are far too nice to come up with a slogan like this while sober. And we've all done dumb things after consuming a few too many adult beverages.

But seriously, Stockholm Information Office, sometimes in life, we do stupid things when we are tipsy, and the right thing is to undo them. So I would like to humbly propose that you cut your losses, do away with your new slogan, and donate your surplus of plastic bags to some faraway country that does not understand English as well as most Scandinavians do.

By the way, why do you print that slogan in English? Oh. Yes. I suppose Norwegian would not be a popular choice.

Customer Service has Gone Too Far! ~ Part 2

[Continued from yesterday...]

After they bag my groceries at my local supermarket, they ask if I need help carrying them out. This is a nice gesture. I appreciate it. But sometimes it gets ridiculous. Like the time I bought a six-pack of beer. Nothing else. Just one six-pack of Alaskan Amber ale.

"Would you like any help out with that?" the cashier asked.

"It's a six-pack of beer!" I was about to sputter. "One measely six-pack! I am an able-bodied 30-something dude who -- seriously, I swear -- can lug this entire six-pack of beer across the street and into my home... all... by... myself!

Then I noticed the cashier was very cute... with soft, brown eyes and a smile that sent tingles through me.

"Well, I guess I could use a little help. You see that building across the street? That's where I live. If you could deliver it to me in about 20 minutes, I'll be in my bathtub."

I was about to say that when I came to my senses. She was way too young for me. People get arrested for saying things like that. So I smiled and told her I could manage on my own, thanks.

"Okay, well thank you Mr. Fox," she said.

They always call me Mr. Fox when I go through the check-out line. Except for one time a few weeks ago. On that occasion the girl who was bagging my groceries did not say, "Thank you Mr. Fox." Instead she asked me, "How do you pronounce your last name?"

How do I pronounce my last name?! How many ways are there to pronounce F-O-X?!

I answered her question, enunciating the word more clearly than I ever have before.

Apparently she had neglected to sneak a peek at my credit card to see my name, as she had been trained to do. Her "How do you pronounce that?" trick would have worked if my last name had been something like Foxithrynovietsovicz, but I'm one of those annoying guys with a short last name.

"Oh," the girl said, blushing. "Well thank you Mr. ... Fox. Have a nice day."

"You have a nice day too," I said. I tried hard to sound sincere.

Customer Service has Gone Too Far!

I've been having a problem at my local supermarket lately.

They're trying. They're really, really trying to provide friendly customer service.

That's the problem.

I hate to sound like a curmudgeon, but sometimes I do not like super-friendly customer service, in the same way that I sometimes do not like over-excited poodles attempting to do super-friendly things to my leg.

"How are you doing today?" they ask me. And I shouldn't be so cynical. Maybe they really do care how I'm doing. Maybe they would listen sympathetically if I said, "Well, not so good. Work is stressing me out, I stubbed my toe really hard yesterday, and my neighbor's cat hates me for reasons I just don't understand."

But I don't tell them that. I mumble that I'm fine and move on to the produce section.

In the produce section, another friendly employee spots me. "Hey!" he says with a poodle'esque grin. "How are you doing today? Finding everything okay?"

That second question -- Are you finding everything okay? -- puts me on my guard.

Sometimes when I go grocery shopping, I go with only a vague idea of what I want to buy. I'm a rebel that way. I linger. I browse. I check out the sales in the bread department. I run my fingers through the lettuce to test for crispness. You know. Normal "guy stuff."

In other stores -- electronics stores, clothing stores -- I would answer, "I'm just browsing, thanks." But you can't say that in a grocery store, can you?

The questions wouldn't be so bad if they happened maybe once per visit, but they don't. Every time I go to my local supermarket, I am forced to run the gauntlet of at least 23 employees, and every single one of them attempts to ask how I'm doing. They want to ask me so badly, they barrel through the store at breakneck speed, wagging their tails, panting for breath with their tongues hanging out of their mouths, just to ask me, "How are you doing today?"

By employee 19 or so, my friendly "oh, fine, thanks" has morphed into a hostile grumble. Do all 19 of those people care so much about me that they must sprint through several aisles, knocking over potato chip stands, just to ask how I am doing? Because seriously, if they do care that much, that's downright neurotic.

But I don't think that's the case. I suspect most of these employees are happy, well-adjusted people who don't care how I'm doing -- at least not that much -- who have been taken captive by their managers and told that if they don't ask at least 53 customers per hour how we are doing, they will be strung up by their toes in the back room and force-fed expired food.

Last week in the meat department, I was perusing the steaks when grinning employee number six literally threw herself between me and the meat counter to ask how I was doing.

"Fine," I said.

The butcher looked up in horror from across the counter. He had been neglecting me.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine," I said. "Kind of like how I was doing four seconds ago when you overheard that other nice lady ask me how I was doing."

He looked worried. I had stood in front of his meat counter for 23 whole seconds before he had acknowledged my presence. This called for dire concessions. He needed to make more small talk.

"Looks like you got some sun today," he said.

"Damn it! I am trying to choose a steak and you people keep interrupting my thought process! Will you please leave me to shop in peace!"

I wanted to say that, but I couldn't get the words out. Instead, I just said. "Nope," and tried to resume my shopping. The butcher persisted.

"Yep!" he argued. "You got some sun! Your face is looking a little pink!"

My face looks a little pink sometimes. It's not the sun. It's a skin condition called rosacea. Thanks for pointing out the flare-up.

I would have gone to the pharmacy at that point to get something for it, but I was afraid to talk to anybody else. I decided it was time to leave.

[Tomorrow: Part 2: Challenges in the Check-Out Line]