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  • Fast Food Fantasmagory

    I’ve read a lot of news stories this week: Democrats Seize Control of House; VA Senate Race Still Too Close To Call; ’60 Minutes’ Ed Bradley Dies; Britney, K-Fed Call It Quits. But there’s one that I read every word of, one that had the magic ingredient to keep my attention–food.

    That story appeared in the Boston Globe, detailing the latest use of call centers. These are the centers where you call for help with your Dell, and “Lance” from Delhi walks you through installing your printer, or “Mary” from Moscow helps you check the balance on your Visa.

    The newest iteration is Chuck–or “Chuck”–from New Hampshire asking if you’d like fries with that. That’s right, the next time you roll up to a Wendy’s, your order may not be taken by anyone inside the restaurant or even the same state. To improve efficiency, that position has been outsourced to another location.

    On the surface, that sounds utterly stupid and seems like another example of the downfall of the common worker. But there actually is something to it, at least according to Wendy’s, which is testing the system now in California and looking to expand the program next year.

    The company says it will actually improve both the speed and accuracy of your drive-thru experience. The person taking your order does just that, takes your order. The person making your food makes the food. The person taking your money takes your money. By simplifying everyone’s role, the opportunity for mistakes decreases.

    And I buy that. How many times have you pulled up to a drive thru window and seen a woman with a headset filling three cups with soda, grabbing stacks of napkins, handing you your change, checking your bag for fries, and asking if you’d like any sauce all while taking the order of the guy right behind you?

    I value my fast-food experience, particularly my Wendy’s fast-food experience, and anything the geniuses there think is a good idea, I’m behind.

    November 9, 2006 food technology Uncategorized

  • Next Time Deer, Next Time

    So today I almost got in a fight with a pack of deer.

    On my weekly ride through beautiful Prince George’s County, I was heading through a park just off the University of Maryland campus. As I came around a bend I noticed there was something blocking the trail ahead. Now usually this is a family with a stroller and a few kids, which I had dealt with about 27 times already at that point in the ride. They usually don’t notice you until you are right on them, and move only after you’ve passed.

    This bunch just stared at me, so I knew they were a bit different. Oh and they were also standing on four legs instead of two. And the ears were on top of their heads. Basically, it was about 6 deer.

    The look in their eyes said, “You want to go?”

    It was a fight of opportunity for them. Here I was, all one of me, already tired from 15 miles of riding. Six of them, probably not that tired from just standing there and walking through the woods.

    I stared back at them as I slowed down to a crawl. “Woah there big fella, you don’t want a piece of this,” I thought. My plan was to take off my helmet and use it with one quick throw to take out the leader. Without him, the rest would be unorganized and unable to mount a good assault. A jumpkick to one of the smaller ones, and elbow to the ribs of the mother and a primal forest scream would send the rest scampering for their lives.

    The deer didn’t know of my plan, and if they somehow did, they didn’t look phased. The leader took a look back at his group, as if to say, “You guys ready?” Just then, a pack of three or four runners came on the path behind the deer. They must have thought that was my posse, executing some kind of classic pincers movement.

    Although I didn’t know these people, they kept me from having to hurt any deer today. As they got within 20 feet of us, the deer decided they weren’t interested in a fair fight. The opportunity was gone. With that, they went skipping into the woods and I went on riding.

    As I went around the next corner I looked back to make sure they weren’t going to attack from behind. I saw one looking back at me from the woods. I gave it a nod to say “next time big fella, next time.”

    November 5, 2006 animals biking Uncategorized

  • Helga Gets Worried

    I had a fantastic day off today, spending a majority of my time in the District, one of the few times in recent memory that I’ve not had any school or work obligations while there.

    So of course I took advantage of decent weather to stroll down the mall and check out some museums after having lunch with a friend. It’s definitely much nicer getting around down there when it’s not 97 degrees, you’re not wearing business attire, and there aren’t 4000 kids in color-coordinated shirts shuffling around everywhere.

    But there are still people on the Metro, and despite it being crowded in the early afternoon when I was leaving, those people are always good for entertainment.

    Today’s subject: Helga. Or at least, that’s what I named her, since she kind of looked like a Helga.

    Helga boarded the Orange Line train headed for Vienna with her husband, whom we’ll call Tim. Being a crowded train, there were not seats available to Helga and Tim, so they stood right in front of me in the center of the car.

    Several stops later, a woman to my right gets off, freeing up a seat. Helga jumps on it like a Pilgrim on a turkey. Only one potential problem: she’s on the window side with another woman, Rosario, occupying the isle seat.

    Stops go by. People get on and off our train. Rosario remains seated, and eventually dozes off to sleep. Her cell phone rings. She doesn’t move. Helga looks worried.

    There are only a few more stops left before Helga will be getting off, albeit at the end of the line. Still, if Rosario doesn’t wake up, she’ll have to do something uncomfortable like say “excuse me,” or–GASP–perhaps even tap Rosario on the shoulder.

    We arrive at Vienna, the last stop on the Orange Line. Customers, please exit this train, this train is out of service.

    Rosario doesn’t budge. She’s zonked out. Helga looks really worried, like she may never get off this train. She looks to Tim for answers. Tim is in the aisle already, waiting only for Helga to get up so he can move on with his life. Helga looks like she’s on the brink of tears. Must she touch this woman?!

    Tim whispers to her from seven feet away: “Say excuse me.” He whispers as if Rosario is going to stab him if she hears the instructions, or I’m going to think he’s weird if I hear.

    Helga says “excuse me” in the quietest voice I’ve ever heard. It’s like a small child whose mother is forcing him to say thank you to a relative for a gift of socks. They only do it because that’s what they’re supposed to do in the situation, there’s no feeling there and they’re really hoping someone else’s actions will bail them out.

    Rosario still doesn’t move. We’ve been stopped for 15 seconds. Helga looks as if someone is burning down her house right in front of her, only they’re taking individual items from the house and slowly burning each one with a match just to torture her.

    Tim becomes more assertive, saying louder this time that Helga should tap the woman on the shoulder. Helga gives the tap just as enthusiastically as the “excuse me.” Rosario doesn’t move.

    Summoning the strength of a mother lifting a car off her child, Helga finally touches Rosario with enough force to wake her up. There is joy in Vienna, for mighty Helga can now finally get out.

    November 2, 2006 metro Uncategorized

  • Let the Wedding Planning Begin!

    There’s something you haven’t seen at AreYouErt.com. You can thank me later.

    Also, enjoy this.

    Ok and this too.

    November 2, 2006 Uncategorized

  • Clinton Prepares for Return to White House…YES!

    Last summer I wrote about the prospects of President Bush nominating himself to serve on the Supreme Court. There’s a limited time left for his governing term, and with a lifetime appointment, it seems like a pretty good gig.

    In today’s Washington Post, there’s an article about a former president skirting around normal Constitutional thinking and getting back into the White House. That president is William Jefferson Clinton. You might know him as Bill.

    The plan works out like this: Bill runs as vice president on someone’s ticket (Post had him naturally with Hillary, though I think Gore/Clinton would be far more interesting). The 12th Amendment says you can’t be vice president if you aren’t eligible to be president. The 22nd Amendment says you can’t be elected president more than twice.

    But as the Post points out through interviews with former White House lawyers, Clinton wouldn’t be elected president. He would ascend to the presidency, thus making a third term for him legal, even though a fourth would be out of the question because of the necessity for reelection.

    I was totally with them at this point and ready to start printing campaign flyers for Candidate X/Clinton ’08.

    Until I ran into my old buddy Richard Posner. Judge Posner sits on the U.S. Court of Appeals and was the subject of a research paper when I was in grad school.

    He’s also the man responsible for crushing my dreams. He says in the Post, “Electing a vice president means electing a vice president and contingently electing him as president,” which would prohibit Clinton from making such a run.

    Maybe Clinton is getting bored these days and will try to stir things up. After all, if he can get a Gore/Clinton ticket going and manage to get elected, the Supreme Court would once again be asked to make a huge ruling involving the presidency. Imagine the legal arguments raining down from both sides as former justices, White House lawyers, Ally McBeal and someone with a powdered wig weigh in on cable news shows. University classes will grind to a halt as students debate the merits of each side…and then have to write a 20-page paper defending their position.

    Did I mention I have the Constitution on my iPod?

    October 20, 2006 Supreme Court Uncategorized

  • It’s the End of Handwriting as We Know it

    The Washington Post recently reported that handwriting is declining. The quality of people’s penmanship is no longer what it used to be and schools are to blame.

    You see, when teachers are forced to prepare kids for standardized state tests there is not enough time left for a lesson in the curliness of the q, or the stately rise of the capital A.

    And I’m OK with that.

    The worse everyone else’s handwriting gets, the better mine looks. Just like if you have one of 10 limited-edition cars, and eight of them are destroyed, yours goes up in value. So I applaud any efforts to make me look better, especially since my handwriting is so atrocious that at an early age my teachers recognized there was little hope for improvement.

    No seriously. The day I read the Post article my mother, who has seen my handwriting all my life, had to ask me about something I had written. It was the word “apples.” After I explained that, she told me about my first grade teacher, Mrs. Omberg, who said of my penmanship, “It’s OK, that’s why they invented typewriters.”

    Thank you, Mrs. Omberg.

    Today it doesn’t really matter how eloquently you can compose script letters on paper. Not a bit. The majority of things that I write down are notes to myself. If I can read them, that’s all that matters.

    There are times, however, that I have been in such a rush to get something down that even I couldn’t decipher what I wrote.

    My last two years of undergrad I had a piece of paper in a desk drawer that I would pull out from time to time. On it was a list of things that I had to do over a few week period, with all of them crossed out, except one word in the bottom corner that was some sort of message to myself.

    I kept the paper hoping that one day I could figure out what I had written. It was not at all important by that point since any event or deadline associated with the word had long since passed, but for my own edification I wanted to know what it said.

    Maybe I should be a doctor.

    October 18, 2006 handwriting Uncategorized

  • Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Mercerdes-Benz?

    My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends.

    Actually I’m fine with my car, but if I did have a Mercedes Benz I would have found the one place I would not take it for service today.

    Sitting at a light on Route 7, this hatchback pulls up next to me. It has stickers on the back window and sides of the car advertising some German Auto shop. It says they specialize in BMWs, VWS and Mercerdes. Yes that’s an extra R on purpose.

    Now I’m the first to admit that at times I’m behind the 8-ball on some things and it very much occurred to me at that point that I may not have known how to spell Mercedes. But after a few minutes of thinking–thank you stop-and-go traffic–I did convince myself that I was not an idiot, and that the person who owns this business in fact is.

    And yes I did a Google search immediately after I got home, just to make sure.

    October 13, 2006 not smart Uncategorized

  • Perhaps the Greatest Use of the Interweb

    Your life is not complete without iiiiiiiii. Turn up the sound.

    October 11, 2006 Uncategorized

  • Where Have All the Baby Squirrels Gone?

    Ahh, squirrel season. It’s the time of year where the furry little rodents are running around more than usual, dodging more cars and frantically searching for the last morsels of food they can store away for the upcoming winter season.

    We have several in our yard that spend all day hopping around the grass, picking stuff up, putting it down, picking up some more and burying it in the ground. But they’re all big squirrels.

    Where are the baby squirrels?

    Apparently, they exist in some form. Google has 2.87 million results for “baby squirrels,” though most of the sites are guides for how to care for a baby squirrel should you find one in desperate need of medical attention.

    So someone is seeing them, just not me or really anyone I’ve ever had a squirrel-related conversation with. And after attending four years at a rural educational institution overrun with the darn things, it’s not like I’m just looking in the wrong place.

    The only logical conclusion is that baby squirrels are kept in some kind of commune. If a baby squirrel is found—a la the 2.87 million Google findings—it is only because they A) got lost on the way to the commune or B) violated the laws of the commune and were evicted.

    Getting lost is easy. After all, have you ever been to a commune? Know where one is? Exactly. They are highly secretive and are designed not to be found, especially those created by and for animals with big bushy tails.

    What you certainly don’t hear about is all the drinking and general carousing that goes on in these places. Believe it or not, the United States does not have a minimum drinking age for squirrels. That’s right, no drinking age. They start getting hammered at 2-3 weeks old, long before their body is ready to handle the sweet nectar physically, and certainly before they can handle the responsibility.

    We all know that underage drinking leads to many problems, not the least of which include fighting, urinating in your friend’s bedroom, getting written on with a Sharpie and Communism. The same things happen in the squirrel world, though the Sharpie writings are harder to see on the fur. All of these offenses are grounds for dismissal from the baby squirrel commune.

    Then there’s the other ways to get kicked out: Theft, assault, illegal downloading, dying another’s tail fur, dying your own tail fur, headstands, attempted flying, eating the last of the Cheerios, not mopping behind the refrigerator, not flossing after eating and last but not least, double-dipping acorns in the salsa.

    With all of those rules, it’s a wonder any of the squirrels can live happy lives there. Probably explains the high roadway-suicide rate.

    October 9, 2006 animals Uncategorized

  • Hold Up One Second There Papi

    So today’s classes were interesting. By interesting I obviously mean that there was something awry with them…well most of them.

    In online journalism I felt like I was suddenly in the fourth grade. I really like this class and so far have left each time feeling very good and excited about what was going on. Today was not one of those days.

    We were learning how to do tables in html, and the following took place: Professor: “So the grad students have four pages, and thus have four boxes in their table. Now for you undergrads, you only have three pages. So how many boxes will be in your table?” An eternity of silence. Another eternity of silence. For the love of Pete people, if 4=4, then 3=3. I feel like I should bring apples next time.

    In my broadcast journalism seminar, rudeness smeared an otherwise quality class. There are I think 6 people in the class, the professor is retiring after the semester, and we have basically told that we can show up…or not…So the atmosphere is pretty laid back and conducive to having good discussions and having a good time. Today one girl shows up 20 minutes late–to a class that has had its starting time pushed back a half hour already.

    Perhaps next time you should just not come if your time is worth so much more than the rest of ours.

    Halfway through the class she whips out her tupperware and starts eating. Class is from 5-6:30. There are other times you can eat. Then during a discussion of media profitability, she interrupts the professor to tell him that the 600 page book he has published on the topic is wrong. When he begins to explain the details of his point to show that she is not exactly correct, she interrupts again. When he asks her questions to try to get her to actually think about what she’s saying instead of just “I know you are wrong,” she interrupts again.

    I’m all for open and free discussion and challenging someone’s points. Another girl in the class managed to question the same points, without being rude. Let the man finish what he has to say, speak when your time comes.

    Oh…that’s right…her time is more important than ours. She can’t wait.

    October 3, 2006 Uncategorized
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