The attorney moved. Yes, the attorney has a name, but I think that I lived here for a year before I knew it or that we had really talked. His acquisition of a dog forced him to be more social. I have no pets.
I moved into my apartment in April of 2006. I was still engaged in an unnecessarily messy divorce, trying to sell my house in Shaker, and preparing for two weeks in Australia. Did I mention that I moved in the day before Passover? Lots and lots of stress. I didn’t have the time for anyone else’s drama.
I wasn’t mean or rude. I acknowledged people I passed in the hallway or saw on the elevator with a nod or a smile. I spoke when spoken to. I didn’t initiate any conversations. I wanted to be left alone.
I was accosted by the elderly couple from across the hall. I had lived in the Hamptons for about two months.
What’s your name?
Are you Catholic?
No, I’m Jewish.
You can’t be Jewish. You aren’t friendly enough to be Jewish!
I checked my doorpost – Mezuzah. His – none. I guess his previous Jewish neighbors had brought him cookies. I don’t know. He and his wife were gone soon enough and the unit has had three different tenants since. I’ve yet to deliver cookies to any of them.
The confrontation got me thinking. Do I have a social responsibility to befriend every tenant passing through this floor? What about the blond who hasn’t discovered the dryer’s lint filter? How about the yahoo who doesn’t take the shopping carts back to the basement? I would like to pick and choose where and when I relinquish my last bit of privacy.
The attorney was a mutual choice. We talked. We went to a couple of ballgames. We occasionally hung out. And now he is moving. He purchased a nearby condo. He is hoping for a fresh start and equity, two things a new residence could provide.
Four years here. Four buildings. Number of people living here that I know well – less than four. This is not a complaint. It is probably more of a subconscious than an intentional choice. I prefer my home to be peaceful. I feel compelled, at times, to eliminate disruptions.
Define disruptions? An infant in the whirlpool? That’s a disruption. A teenager arguing with his girlfriend? That’s a disruption. Someone leaving clothes in the washer or dryer for an hour or two? Crap, I’ve become Mr. Wilson.
Oh well. The attorney is only moving down the street. I will eventually talk to a couple more residents. Hell, I may even bake cookies.
You have welcomed us at a most auspicious time.
Your stride is long, your steps are slow.
Your arms swing, sometimes wildly, as you move.
We share your pain of Yushu.
There are no more Emperors, yet you have many dragons.
Teach them to be respected instead of feared.
You have millions to command.
China welcomed another group of American businesspeople. The price was too good to pass up. So I didn’t. They flew us on Air China. They showed us four cities, the Great Wall, palaces, and a Buddhist Temple. We saw what they wanted us to see including factories and factory stores. Jade. Pearls. Cloisonné. Silk. Silk Rugs. We were expected to Ooh and Aw and spend lots of money. We did. We were also expected to become China’s best salesmen, ready to deliver glowing generalities. I am happy to cooperate:
The Great Wall is amazing.
The gardens of Suzhou are beautifull
The food was fine, the people friendly.
Beth Bryan was ticked because they didn’t take me to the new dam project where so many people have been displaced. Well of course they didn’t. The Chinese showed us what they wanted us to see. Besides, most of my readers live in Cuyahoga County. All governments displace people.
I took close to 500 pictures. Some will be posted on this blog and some will appear on Facebook. You will have to come to my office to be bored with all of them. I brought back silk, jade, and other souvenirs. I strongly recommend this trip for everyone.
This past Sunday’s Plain Dealer included three articles that originally appeared in the Detroit Free Press while I was gone. Travel editor, Ellen Creager took a similar trip. She went to the same places and saw most of the same sites. Feel free to check out her travelogue. My focus is slightly different.
There are 9,999 rooms in the Forbidden City. The Forbidden City was a palace right in Beijing, the northern capital. 9,999. Why? 9 is a royal number. I guess 99,999 would have seemed excessive.
The Emperors had unlimited wealth, manpower, and land. The Forbidden City, a maze of spectacular architecture and huge open squares, is filled with the efforts of others, the unthanked Chinese who slaved for rulers whose greed knew no bounds. Silk. Pottery. Impressive sculptures. What did I enjoy of my couple of hours within the walled city? I loved watching the faces of the Chinese tourists and children surveying the accomplishments of their ancestors, the people who constructed these buildings and laid the bricks in those squares.
The Summer Palace is only a few miles away. Located on Kumming Lake, the Summer Palace was esthetically more pleasing with its ornate Long Corridor and traditional gardens. We were treated to stories of handmaidens collecting dew, eunuchs, and all of the other trappings of uncontrolled wealth and greed. It was raining that day. The sea of Chinese with their brightly colored umbrellas overwhelmed us. We saw pretty buildings. They saw their history. What was simply ornate and colorful to us had a deep meaning and purpose to them. Did they see the results of centuries of exploitation or the skill of their ancestors who toiled in hardship? My guess is both.
I mention the Chinese because they made the trip worthwhile. About twelve years ago I visited the ancient city of Tulum just south of Cancun. There were cool buildings that reflected an advanced culture. I marveled at their construction. We could only guess as to what life had been like 800, 900 years ago in the place we were standing. But we were visitors. We had no ownership. Our guides could only guess. My trip to China was completely different and that much more special.
My friend Donna Miller, the woman responsible for the excellent blog Read Any Good Books Lately, was concerned. She thought that I might be getting bored. Beth Bryan felt that mentioning her birthday, April 12th, would improve both this blog and my disposition. My guess is that I am simply frustrated and disillusioned.
I would like to think the best of people. Yes, Ambrose Bierce is one of my favorite authors and I always have two of his books in my briefcase, but I really am, at my core, optimistic. Damn near Pollyannaish. That is proving to be more difficult. No matter how many times I lower my expectations, our leaders still fail to deliver. I am not Catholic, so I am only aware, but unaffected, by all of those issues. I am thinking about our political leaders and that seems to be all that I can handle.
My frustration has been building for thirteen years. It began with the bloodless coup d’état the Republicans staged in 1998. I can’t tell you which bothered me more, the incredible hypocrisy or the naked power grab.
The Clinton impeachment gave us the Bush presidency. Eight years of George Bush and Dick Cheney did nothing to restore my faith and confidence in our government. We are still learning the full extent of their incompetence, their avarice, and their total disregard for the rule of law.
The last year or so have not been much better. Different, but not better. Democrats. Republicans. Not much to choose from. Certainly no heroes. I have been involved in politics and government, on the local, state and federal level, since 1972. I’ve met and talked with senators, presidents, and world leaders. Our current group doesn’t measure up. And I am frustrated.
I was at Moxie’s yesterday evening for the annual Shoes and Clothes for Kids fundraiser, Fool’s Frolic. My friend Seth Briskin of Meyers Roman is on the host committee of this terrific event. Of course, how hard is it to throw a great party when you’ve got wonderful food, an open bar, and some of this area’s most interesting people in the room. I was having a good time even before I met Mamie and Mark.
Mamie J. Mitchell is the Councilwoman for Cleveland’s Ward 6. Mark A. Schneider is the State Representative for District 63 which includes Mentor and the surrounding communities. My conversations with the two of them left me with the feeling that all is not lost. Do me a favor, if you are aware of any information that would prove that these two people are no better intentioned than all of the other politicians I’ve encountered lately, keep it to yourself for a couple of days. I don’t need to be disappointed today.
Mamie Mitchell is deeply connected to Ward 6. She speaks as positively about the new Juvenile Justice Center at 93rd and Quincy as she does about the trendy shops and restaurants of Larchmere. She was a manager for BP before she went to law school. I appreciate how she has managed her life and has sought to control her own destiny. It is that toughness that she brings to her current job. We agreed on some issues affecting her community. We agreed on some political issues. But not all, and I was happy to listen to her views on all of these subjects.
Mark Schneider has a real sense of what works and what doesn’t. Ten minutes with him convinced me that there are practical, realistic people in our government. We spent most of the time discussing a topic of mutual interest, business incubators and the point where private and public interests intersect. He has been a Cuyahoga County prosecutor and is now affiliated with a Lake County firm where he practices probate and estate planning law. I think he has a terrific future.
No, I don’t think either of these people are our next president or even senator. That isn’t the point. We need a government. We need qualified leaders, people with both the moral and intellectual capacity to lead effectively. We should celebrate those moments when we encounter those politicians. It is the rarity of the moment that makes it so unusual. It is our need for more such moments that makes this so important.
I was three pages into this blog (long hand!) when I realized how much I hated this post. I was writing for my other blog, Health Insurance Issues With Dave, but I was tired of facts and statistics. No one wanted to read one more well researched lecture that poked holes in the preconceived notions of Congressmen from both sides of the aisle. It didn’t matter. And the truth is that I found the whole exercise depressing. I tore it up.
It was 10:26 PM, moments before the big vote. Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi was still talking. Minority Leader John Boehner was the next to the last to speak. As an act of both patriotism and masochism, I had listened to and watched much of the last 10 hours of process and debate. I was on overload.
The Republicans, who adamantly refused to participate, bemoaned the fact that the bill wasn’t a bipartisan effort. The Democrats trotted out a collection of fairy tales and hyperbole that surprised and sickened me. It wasn’t frustrating to be a Democrat. It was frustrating to be an American. It had been that kind of day.
My day began with coffee at the Panera in Solon with two Republicans. Phil is in the army reserve. His issues tend to be centered around military defense and taxation. My friend David, a borderline Libertarian, delights in noting the foibles and failures of every Democrat. If you had overheard our conversation, you might have thought that I was Nancy Pelosi’s neighbor and Eric Massa’s oldest friend. I, in turn, asked David about his good buddy John Ensign. It was all good natured fun until we got to the health care bill.
It isn’t an act. There are a lot of people who really fear President Obama and Speaker Pelosi. They are afraid that our country is going down an irreversible path to ruin. Don’t ridicule them. It isn’t right. How many of us felt the same way about the last administration?
It was easy to mock George W. Bush. I still have my copy of Shrub. It was easy, but it wasn’t productive, unless you consider feeding the base your goal. It was hard to fear W. Dick Chaney? That was a different story. But W, with his broken English and aw shucks mannerisms, was too easy to dismiss. Obama is an entirely different story. Where many of us may have underestimated Bush, the Republicans have overestimated his influence. They built him up so high that he actually succeeded just by showing up. Think about this. After months of benign neglect, Obama got his bill passed this week with a minimum of arm-twisting and an executive order on abortion funding that is more about good faith than law. He couldn’t have done this without the Republicans unwitting help.
My Republican friends, sensing my frustration, have sent engraved invitations to join their party. I can’t. The other side doesn’t look any better.
My problem is that I really do appreciate facts. Any semblance between the vast savings this new health care bill will yield and the WMD in Iraq is strictly coincidental. I’m tired of 1 + 1 = 7. I’m tired of the disingenuous stories told to motivate us to move in directions we, as a country, should not go. I’m tired of the lies. And I’m frustrated with myself that I keep hoping for better from people who can not, and will not, deliver.
This isn’t a Democrat issue or a Republican issue. It is an American issue. We were sold two wars on the cheap. We are being told that we can increase the number of people covered and the type of health care coverage we are all getting, and that it will save us money. NO IT WON’T. And I don’t care, at least not about the money. I care about the lies.
Tell us the truth. We can handle it. At the very least, we can learn to handle the truth. We are going to have to. The US is becoming the confused bank customer, facing a barrage of bounced checks, dumbfounded because there are still checks in our checkbook. How can we be out of money? We still have checks. We refuse to grow up. We have expressed little interest in becoming adults, responsible for our spending.
And so I find myself lost again in the middle, a political orphan, homeless and alone. I am certainly not well represented by my current Congressional delegation. Our state budget, though nowhere near as bad as some, is less than a year away from a major shortfall. I would be hard pressed to name ten politicians I truly admire and respect.
So my question is, “am I truly alone, or are you, too, spitting in the wind?”
We have had intermittent power outages since noon. Seconds with no power, just long enough to close all of the computers. Jeff and I had electricity for the last several hours, the support staff and printers did not. We have been evacuated once. The alarms have sounded twice. At four we were advised that the building would go dark in a half an hour.
C.E.I. may have been unable to fix the problem in four hours, but they didn’t need thirty minutes to shut us down. No lights. No phones. No computer. 4:15.
The frustration and futility of a power outage is not limited to any particular generation. My daughter in her late twenties is as negatively impacted as my mother (who is still 22, just ask her).
Not all frustrations are equally shared or even understood. Take the telephone. Everyone has a cell phone. Everyone is accessible 24/7. In a meeting? In church? No problem. There is always texting. I grew up in a different era, a time when powerless and frustrated was the way we felt as we tried to reach someone by phone.
Hello. How are you?
Have you been alright, through all those lonely nights?
That’s what I’d say. I’d tell you everything,
If you’d pick up that telephone.
High School early 70’s
Some of us were lucky. We had a telephone in our bedroom. The richest or most spoiled had their own phone line. Not having to fight your mom for the phone was a big deal. There were no answering machines, just the parents and siblings of the girl you were trying to reach. Message delivery was spotty, at best.
And yes, it was a girl you were trying to call. In the early 70’s, girls didn’t call boys, at least not for dates. We called. And the phone rang. Sometimes the girl answered. Sometimes no one answered. The phone rang and rang. How long should I wait? Ten rings was deemed appropriate. Sometimes someone else answered the telephone. Was she home? What if she was home, but didn’t want to talk to me?
But mostly it just rang.
Operator, let’s forget about this call
You see there’s no one there I really wanted to talk to
Thank you for your time, ah, you’ve been so much more than kind
And you can keep the dime.
The power is on at home. Leaving work early isn’t the end of the world. I think I’ll just sit in my recliner and call a couple of friends.
March 4, 2010 – Airport – Cancun
Our plane is delayed. We were scheduled to board at 1:10 or so for our 2:10 direct flight to Cleveland. It is now ten of two, we have been moved to a different gate, and our plane has not yet landed. I wouldn’t be concerned, except the gate worker just told me that the flight originated in Cleveland. The Cleveland to Cancun flight normally lands at 8:30 AM. Six hours behind schedule is an issue, even in Mexico.
We are ending a near-perfect vacation in Cancun. I have been to Mexico a half a dozen times. Each trip was better than the last. The tourist areas provided wonderful food and service. The Mexican people have always been welcoming and friendly, happy to share their land and their culture with those of us who choose to visit for a week or so.
My last trip to Cancun was in 1998. Developers and hurricanes have both struck since then. But my life and even the way I vacation have undergone more changes than Cancun. Thankfully for both the city and me, we all appear to have weathered our storms.
This is my fifth annual trip with Sally, AKA the girlfriend. She is a terrific travel companion. No airport line is too long. No snafu is the end of her world. Where others (or one other in particular) viewed any minor problem as a personal attack that required my immediate attention in some futile attempt to avenge her honor and restore her smile, Sally is simply happy to be on an adventure. The glitches, the mistakes, help to make the trip more memorable.
Last night was just that type of adventure.
We stayed at an all-inclusive adult resort. No screaming babies! No eight year olds in the adult pool while we are trying to play water volleyball. The fact that most of the women were topless at the pool and on the beach was just a happy bonus. The food, service, and facilities were all significant upgrades over last year’s trip to Punta Cana, and we loved the Dominican. Last year’s vacation was nice. This was that much better.
The resort had six restaurants serving dinner each evening. Two, the Asian and the Italian, required reservations. Two were buffets. The other two served Tex-Mex and seafood. We never ate in the Tex-Mex. We hit the buffets for breakfast and lunch. The made-to-order omelets were incredible. Monday evening’s dinner was in the Asian restaurant. Tuesday’s, Italian. Blessed as we are in Cleveland with large active Asian and Italian communities, we know these cuisines. Hell, we ate at Tuscany the night before we left. What the resort restaurants may have lacked in authenticity was more than compensated by their excellent service and tasty, fresh ingredients. We enjoyed these dinners almost as much as the meals in the seafood spot.
The restaurants were filled with round tables suitable for up to four diners. We arrived yesterday evening at the Bellavista, the seafood restaurant, promptly at 7. There were five of us, two Finnish girls celebrating their 50th birthdays, a guy from Utah who was playing slap and tickle with one of the twins, Sally and I. Every table was taken and we were only the Maitre d’s second problem. Ahead of us was a party of eight that had been promised a table the night before. This restaurant didn’t take reservations, but this guy had blown a lot of money to be a member of the resort. The most basic of his privileges was a table for his guests. He was a big guy from upper state New York and he was doing a slow burn. The Maitre d ran next door to the Italian restaurant to find some open tables.
“I told him we would be here at 7. Eight of us. I dropped 50k on this. I don’t think I’m asking for too much.”
Since he was talking in my general direction, I figured it would be rude to ignore him. “I totally agree. You gave him plenty of time to be prepared.”
I had a new friend.
The Maitre d returned a few minutes later. After intense negotiations it was resolved that my buddy and his guests would retreat to the poolside bar, 20 feet away, and be seated by 8 PM. We would be next, also by 8. More trusting, I led us to a quieter place to have a glass of wine.
When we returned at 8, the Maitre d was gone. My buddy and his guests were seated. Most of the tables were still occupied and there was a line of hungry people waiting to be seated. Proceeding to the front of the line didn’t enhance my popularity. Crowded at the door, the line was getting restless. The servers seemed to be moving in slow motion. The entire vibe of the restaurant was off kilter. Minutes went by, and except for a couple finishing their meal and leaving, nothing changed. No one remembered when they had last seen the Maitre d.
Two tables had been open for awhile. I walked up to one of the waiters and advised him that we were next on the list, a party of five.
“Senor, these tables are for 4. Five is too many.”
These guys were lost. Their manager was MIA and they didn’t know what to do.
“Not a problem. Let’s put those two tables together and we’ll get my party seated. I’ll be at the desk.”
He started to move the tables and I took my pen out of my pocket and checked the list. “OK, who is Woods, party of 2?” My Finnish friends were scandalized. Sally was smiling. The crowd at the door didn’t know what to think. One by one I verified the list, joked with the patrons, and put a couple of the single diners together, cruise ship style, to get us all seated. I grabbed the menus and sat my group and promised to return in a few minutes.
“Schmidlap, party of 4.” By now everyone was totally into the moment. One guy tried to slip me a 20 peso note, which is about a buck and a half and way more than I was worth. The wait staff, sensing that everything was back to normal, picked up their pace. Everyone was seated and I was back with my group before the drink order was taken.
We had a lovely dinner. I was really proud of my three waiters and our one busboy for rising to the occasion. So if you are ever in Temptations Resort in Cancun, make sure you try the shrimp and scallop brochette. And tell my guys I said “Hola”.
I was standing amongst the terminally single. Not asexual. Not gay. These men and women are simply oblivious to the opportunities that surround them. Some are emotionally deaf and blind. Others may have been so badly hurt, sometime in their past, that they have subconsciously turned off their receptors. They don’t want to be alone, but they have no idea how to change their lives. Two such individuals caught my attention.
Calling them a couple would have been an exaggeration. They were on a pre-date. There was an innocence about them that was both pure and painful. I watched her face, her eyes, when he talked. There was that glow of admiration that the wives of politicians are so often forced to fake. And even when she was, ostensibly, speaking with someone else, he was paying close attention to everything she said. She didn’t know what that meant. And he was totally unaware of how long those eyes had stayed focused to the side of his face.
Don’t let the setting, a bar, or the beers they were holding, fool you. Katie and Robert were still stuck in Mr. Morgan’s seventh grade home room.
Quietly, separately, I took each of their temperatures. And then I gave them both a gentle push..
The young parents had their arms full. Standing in line at the Beachwood Winterfest, our chamber of commerce’s annual community pancake breakfast, they were trying to keep three small children close while holding five Styrofoam plates. The parents were talking with Mark Nolan of WKYC. Local politicians, several of whom had their nominating petitions conveniently available, were kvelling over the little boys. The kids just wanted to eat pancakes with blueberries. They didn’t care about the festivities or the celebrities, but no one was asking for their opinion. It took awhile, but eventually we all knew what the children wanted.
My friend Marc lives in Israel. His mom lives in Menorah Park. I visit every other Sunday. This week I brought chocolate.
Menorah Park is the most beautiful, best staffed, nicest nursing home I have ever seen. If I wasn’t Jewish, I would schedule a meeting with a rabbi just to make sure I could move in there when I get older. But, it is still a nursing home. Fantastic facilities and wonderful, dedicated caregivers can’t hide that fact.
The elderly men and women in the area I visit never forget that they are in a nursing home. They are constantly reminded of their physical limitations. They are painfully aware of how dependent they are on the staff for their most basic needs, things we take for granted. One example is going to the restroom.
Many of the residents are incapable of transporting themselves from their rooms to the dining area, from the dining area back to their rooms, from the comfort of their chairs to the restroom. They all can’t be moved at once. Invariably, many wait while someone is being assisted. Every moment of waiting reinforces their helplessness. Every unanswered call reminds them that they no longer have any independence. And every moment spent alone waiting for the aides makes them feel even less significant and more invisible.
I think, sometimes, that our job is to search for the invisible and let them know that we can see them and that they are not alone.
Love. There are people who love their computers. They proudly carry their little MacBooks and Netbooks wherever they go. There were over a half-a-dozen at last night’s meeting of the Lake Erie Moose Society, our blogger group. I do not share their affection for all things high tech in general, or for computers in particular.
I don’t have a love/hate relationship with computers. I’m closer to tolerate/hate. I view the computer, that black box on my desk, the dusty keyboard, and the lovely flat screen as a tool. I expect it to function, like a hammer or a screwdriver, every time I use it. True, computers are more like automobiles than hand tools, but I can’t help myself. I just expect the damn thing to work every time.
You know that’s not going to happen.
I was switched from Outlook Express to Outlook three secretaries ago. I did not move without a fight and the transition was less than smooth. I confess that the participants were a large part of the problem. It took awhile, but I adjusted. Until today.
My Outlook is totally screwed up. I’ve got an email with a large attachment stuck in my Outbox. Microsoft’s online trouble-shooter had four ways to solve this rare problem. I tried options 1 and 2. My secretary’s attempt at option 3 has made all of my extra folders disappear. We can’t get rid of the email and its attachment breeched in my Outbox, but we were able to eliminate several hundred emails that encapsulated my two terms as president of the Beachwood Chamber of Commerce and my last, and most interesting, divorce of 2005-2006.
Agitated? You betcha.
Looking for a distraction, needing a way to clear my head, I escaped to Facebook. That didn’t help. Today was my day to get switched to the newest, least useful, version of Facebook. Goodbye LiveFeed. So long friends who disappear for hours at a time. It got to be so frustrating I went back to retackle Outlook.
This is, of course, no time to discuss impenetrable insurance company websites. Outlook to Facebook to Anthem. Repeat. My blood pressure was spiking.
I hope to have someone in tomorrow to make this ferchackta machine work. I have become painfully aware of how often I scan and email documents both for my insurance business and for the chamber. I’m currently dead in the water. Worse, I just can’t grasp the cause of the problem or what can be done to resolve the issue.
I can’t imagine ever loving my computer. It seems like I would just be setting myself up for disappointment. That, and it would make my pen jealous.
One more thought – A nice dinner, a trip to the whirlpool, and a CAVS win have all contributed to the relative calm of this post. Right now I’m watching Jon Stewart spar with Newt Gingrich on the Daily Show. For those of you who might be tempted, Mr. Gingrich will be in Akron next Wednesday as part of his “No Innuendo Left Unspoken Tour”.
My child has excellent attendance at Charles Dickens
I was stuck behind an ancient Dodge Caravan at a traffic light on Cedar Road. Bored, and positive that I was going to be here for at least one more cycle, I stared at the bumper sticker in front of me. There had to be a reason to put this message on that minivan. It wasn’t placed there to hide a dent or scratch. It would have taken a lot more than one bumper sticker to do that. The plainly worded unadorned vinyl wasn’t attached to the vehicle to enhance its appearance.
It must have been the message. The owner of this vehicle was proud that his/her child had excellent attendance at, presumably, an elementary school.
We have all seen the clear window stickers proclaiming a child’s attendance at a particular university. An elementary school aged child making the honor roll may generate the need for a parent to share his/her pride with the world via a bumper sticker. I can even imagine announcing perfect attendance.
This isn’t perfection. This is simply very good. Have we really given up? Are we really willing to be mired in good enough?
There was an award for perfect attendance at my elementary school. It was a prize beyond my grasp. I knew that I would miss a couple of days each school year for Jewish holidays. I also knew that a sick day or two was very possible. I didn’t ask that the rules be changed for me. I didn’t think that I, or my classmates, should receive an award if we got close. Perfection was rewarded.
Today we reward effort. We have convinced ourselves that our subjective judgments of other’s efforts can be as exactly measured as their actual achievement.
This silliness began in the late 60’s or early 70’s. I remember coming home with a report card replete with A’s, but only 2’s for effort. I was admonished for not giving my all. At one point I remarked that the report card was inaccurate. One teacher was so ineffectual that I really should have had my A for the course work and a 3 for effort in her class.
This culture of rewarding mediocrity, of applauding those who merely show up, has invaded the job-site. I just visited a longtime client. His office manager has the flu, possibly strep throat. He is wondering how many days she will miss due to this illness. His guess is three to five.
The owner of the van finally turned left, as did I. I hope to be behind the proud parents of honor roll students form Charles Dickens. I hope to see a Kent State sticker on that same car. I hope that the children of Charles Dickens Elementary aspire to more than just showing up most of the time.