The Tip Top Tavern on Gay Street, across the street from the firm, featured this excellent sign earlier this week. It might pose a tough choice on a Wednesday night, but it’s a no-brainer on a Saturday.
At 1:37:54 a.m. this morning, I got an email from United Airlines CEO Oscar Munoz. 1:37 a.m.? Geez, Mr. Munoz is one hardworking dude!
Mr. Munoz sent me the email to apologize for the disturbing recent incident in which a ticketed passenger was dragged from a United flight leaving O’Hare in order to allow a United employee to take his seat. Mr. Munoz says the treatment of the passenger broke United’s promise to not only “make sure you reach your destination safely and on time, but also that you will be treated with the highest level of service and the deepest sense of dignity and respect.” That’s a bit of an understatement, Mr. Munoz! Something that doesn’t square with the “deepest sense of dignity and respect” would be, say, getting wedged into a seat next to a smelly, morbidly obese guy wearing a tank top who intrudes into your personal space. Being left bloodied and semiconscious as you’re dragged from your seat doesn’t even square with the lowest level of service or the shallowest sense of dignity and respect.
But let’s not quibble about words. Mr. Munoz thinks the incident happened because United’s “corporate policies were placed ahead of our shared values” and “[o]ur procedures got in the way of our employees doing what they know is right.” He wants the incident to be a turning point for the company, so he’s changing United’s policies. So now, United will “no longer ask law enforcement to remove customers from a flight and customers will not be required to give up their seat once on board – except in matters of safety or security.” That seems like a pretty basic, but certainly appropriate, step. United also will offer up to $10,000 to entice passengers to voluntarily rebook, and will implement a “new ‘no-questions-asked’ $1,500 reimbursement policy” for “permanently lost bags.”
Finally, Mr. Munoz wants me to know that United Airlines intends to live up to “higher expectations in the way we embody social responsibility and civic leadership everywhere we operate.” The goal, he says, “should be nothing less than to make you truly proud to say, ‘I fly United.'”
I’m not sure I’ve ever said that I was “proud” to fly any airline — or for that matter to own any particular brand of car, or to engage in any commercial transaction with a large company. I found the United incident unsettling, but it wasn’t going to keep me from flying United. Let’s face it, we’ve all seen weird incidents in which overzealous people have overreacted and made really bad choices, and when the United incident occurred I figured that United employees would, if anything, overcompensate in the opposite direction and do everything they could to try to fix the company’s PR nightmare.
Mr. Munoz’s early morning email suggests that that effort is still underway.
If you didn’t know that he lived in Europe in the 19th century, you’d probably swear that Edvard Munch was a Cleveland Browns fan.
Why? Because The Scream perfectly captures, better than anything else I’ve seen, the unique combination of horror, fear, disgust, and profound dread that grips Cleveland Browns fans as they contemplate the team making another first-round pick in the NFL draft. Indeed, Munch even painted the disturbing, roiling sky behind the angst-ridden screamer in the Browns’ familiar orange colors.
If you’re a Browns fan, knowing that the NFL draft is only a few hours away and that the Cleveland franchise has the first choice to boot, you feel almost compelled to cup your face in your hands, let your eyes open wide, and howl out to the waiting world the deep anxiety and disquiet that you feel as you consider prior drafts and contemplate the likes of Gerard Warren, Tim Couch, Brady Quinn, Kellen Winslow . . . and Johnny Manziel.
In fact, any fan of another NFL team would think of the ludicrous choice of “Johnny Football” and feel a perverse sense of comfort. After all, how could this year’s pick possibly be any more wrong-headed and disastrous than that? But this is the Cleveland Browns, remember. With the Browns, all things bad are possible.
Go ahead, Browns Backers! Tip back your head and wail for all you’re worth. The NFL draft is here.
Later this week I’ll celebrate another birthday. It will be one of those “decade” birthdays, where the first digit in your age moves up a notch and the last digit in your age cycles to zero again.
Let’s face it: decade birthdays are somewhat annoying. Just because our culture long ago settled on a “base 10” number system — presumably because the ancient Egyptians realized that we’ve got ten fingers on our hands, and chose to build mathematics around the concept of ten as the path of least resistance — doesn’t mean there should be any special significance to celebrating a birthday when your new age divided by ten produces a whole number rather than a fraction. It’s just another year added to the ledger, and the turn of the calendar page doesn’t mean you should feel or act any different.
And yet, everybody treats the “decade” birthdays as if they are some hugely significant milestones. Sure, 13 and 18 and 21 have their own special elements, but the decade birthdays can actually define you as a person. Suddenly you’re “in your twenties” or “in your thirties,” and people expect you to behave in a certain way. And as those decades creep upward, the age-related expectations tend to become even more fixed.
So I’ve got another decade birthday coming up. So what? The decimal system doesn’t define me. In fact, I’m going to pretend that we’ve got a base 8 culture and ignore it.
There are some of those automatic soap dispensers in bathrooms at the firm. We’ve also got automatic faucets. Both are supposed to be triggered by waving your hand underneath. The idea is to take the messy, germy human element out of the equation, and let sensors and machines do the job neatly and cleanly.
But here’s the problem — the machines are not very precise. Sure, for the most part they dispense the dollop of soap or the stream of water when you place your hands underneath. But 9 times out of 10 another injection of soap occurs after you’ve moved on to the water side, and vice versa. So, a lot of soap and water seems to get wasted.
And it’s not just the automatic soap and water dispensers at the firm, either. How often have you found yourself at the movie theater, or the airport, or some other public place, flapping your hands like a magician having a seizure in hopes that the balky machinery will dispense soap, or water, or a tiny section of paper towel that never is sufficient to fully dry your hands? Typically, they’re not working correctly, are they?
So when I hear about the technological wonders of self-driving cars, and then read about how one of the prototypes had one mishap or another, I nod inwardly and think: “No surprise there. They’re just like those stupid soap dispensers.”
I’m probably not going to be in the market for a self-driving car anytime soon.
Don Rickles died today. The insult comedian who was a mainstay on The Tonight Show and the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts and who delighted in calling people “hockey pucks” was 90.
And this sounds terrible to say, but my first reaction to the news was: “That’s interesting. I guess I thought he was dead already.”
I feel very guilty about this reflexive response, but it happens all the time these days. Some musician, comedian, movie star, or sitcom actor from the ’50s, ’60s or ’70s kicks the bucket, and you could have sworn they’d already gone to meet their maker. I think the reason for that response is that, during their period of great fame, those celebrities are seen so frequently that they become expected, everyday sights on talk shows, in magazine articles, on game shows, and in guest roles on sitcoms. Then, when their period of fame ends, as is inevitably the case, you associate their ongoing lack of presence on the popular scene with . . . death. In fact, the only way you know for sure that they’re not in fact dead is if they suddenly get hauled out to award an Oscar or give a tribute to one of their just departed colleagues.
So, Don Rickles is officially dead. Doc Severinsen, on the other hand, is still with us.