If, right at this moment, you only have five minutes to read a blog.
Read Ryan Cook's.
Ryan wrote a response to our discussion on how I'm a jerk. He's my friend, and he's the kind of thinker and writer I want to grow up to be.
Peace,
Justin
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
This is a post about epicureanism, about Jesus, and about my dead fish.
I'll start with the latter.
This week, my fish died. He was a Beta, and his name was Sparky. As there was no funeral, please allow me to make my eulogy here.
When we were first married, Stacy and I attended an auction to raise money for my grade school. It was a good auction...we bought two things we couldn't afford for more than they were worth, which means the fundraiser went well. At the end of the night, the final thing to be auctioned off were the centerpieces on each table, which consisted of a rotund vase, filled with polished colored stones, with a green leafy plant poking out of the top and a Beta fish swimming around the plant's watery tendrils. I haven't owned a fish since I was five or so, and I was broke from buying whatever the heck it was we bought...so I was ready to pass. Happy and half-drunk auction attenders quickly snapped the fishy centerpieces up and, one by one, carried the large vases out with the lone fish inside of each sloshing around as its proud new owner toted it out.
As Stacy and I were leaving, a middle-aged woman with too much perfume and a very friendly smile came up to us with her own fish-in-a-jar, and begged us to take it, as her husband didn't seem to want a new pet as much as she did. Sparky had been a pet for all of five minutes, and already he was an orphan being moved into a foster home. Poor guy.
We took him. And for the last four years, he's been with us. He swam his lazy circles while we laughed, while we talked about getting pregnant, while we fought, while we tinked wine glasses to toast our first home purchase, while we celebrated my new job, while we cried over Stacy's first job (long story), and he swam while we did the thing married people do. We fed him as frequently as we remembered to, which probably averaged out to about once every week or so. Stacy changed the bowl water every month...give or take...mostly take. The plant that Sparky shared his bowl with has long since died, but Sparky pressed on. In fact, he pressed on, even when we went on vacation and forgot to feed him for a couple of weeks. He pressed on when we tried to change his water and dropped him on the floor. He pressed on when we moved the bowl to a place where we couldn't see it over the Christmas holiday, and thereby forgot to change the water for a couple of months. He even pressed on when he slipped by the sieve we use when we change his water and dropped right down into the garbage disposal...I had to fish him out with my hand, and he pressed on.
Sparky was a survivor.
And for some reason, that meant a lot to me. I'm not kidding...I really liked Sparky. I liked him more than the cats...which bothers me, because Sparky was free and required no effort at all, and the cats are expensive and loud and, let's face it, they're cats, which sucks. He pressed on, day after day, year after year, and never asked for much. I miss Sparky.
---
This ends the eulogy. And begins the other bit.
---
I had a very strange night a couple of nights ago. I was in Philadelphia working, and met up with a friend in Philly for a beer. Whilst sipping a stout dram of my favorite Scotch draught, two girls approached us and told a very long and complicated lie which I won't bother repeating but which was basically a long, stupid and highly involved pick-up line involving fake names and a greek man who doesn't really exist. As you might imagine, I opted out of the whole, "being picked up" thing. If you are wondering why right now, you haven't read enough of my blog or I haven't blogged enough of my love. I did, however, offer to play "wingman" for my very single friend, who is a bit of a ladies' man. To keep things short and tasteful, I spent the bulk of the evening talking to one girl about my marriage and her recent breakup, and he spent the bulk of the evening getting quite laid. He had a great time, she had a great time, and the girl I spoke with eventually left to meet up with some guys she met in the bar who had cocaine. And thus, the evening ended.
And I woke up the next morning and called my buddy and we had breakfast...and here's the thing...
...he was really happy.
He didn't sit down and say, "My god, man...I knew her for two hours before we had sex...what am I doing with my life?" He didn't say, "Man, I am so unfulfilled...I'm totally just living for myself...where's the bigger picture?" He sure as hell didn't say, "Justin, could you tell me about something better than this...like Jesus?"
In fact, he was really happy. He got to have sex with a pretty girl, and she was really excited about it, and they didn't have to exchange "I love you's" or digits or even learn each other's last names. And that's it. Lots of endorphins and fun and giggling and things that feel good when they touch you. And that was it.
Now don't get me wrong...I love sex. He loves sex. I do it with one person every time, he does it with different people. And that's totally cool with him.
That's what struck me...there was no gaping hole. There was no sense that, at the end of the day, he sits at the end of his bed and feels desperately alone and empty. There was no sense that he's missing a big chunk of his heart that only God could fill. He's a smart, successful, very cool guy, and he seems really generally pretty happy. And I think that's what confuses me so much.
When I was with Young Life ministry, we were told that every person needs Jesus. When I was with the Vineyard, we were told that every person has a God-shaped hole in their hearts/souls that calls out to be filled with what were offering. And those things may be true...but I don't know that I see it. And I don't know that those with the hole feel it as clearly as I assumed.
Truth is, epicureanism seems pretty great. It seems fun, and exciting, and somewhat fulfilling. Living each day as a hedonist seems like a pretty great way to live...and assuming you're not hurting other people, it's pretty hard to argue with. This presents a problem with evangelism as I know it.
How do you talk to someone about filling a hole in their hearts when they don't feel a hole? How do you tell somebody about Jesus's healing power when they don't feel sick? How do you share the story of Jesus fixed a broken you when he doesn't sense a broken him? And what happens when you don't sense a broken him?
I don't have answers. I want to know what you think. Christians speak up. Hedonists speak up. Christian hedonists, speak up. I need to think about this with other people.
Peace,
Justin
I'll start with the latter.
This week, my fish died. He was a Beta, and his name was Sparky. As there was no funeral, please allow me to make my eulogy here.
When we were first married, Stacy and I attended an auction to raise money for my grade school. It was a good auction...we bought two things we couldn't afford for more than they were worth, which means the fundraiser went well. At the end of the night, the final thing to be auctioned off were the centerpieces on each table, which consisted of a rotund vase, filled with polished colored stones, with a green leafy plant poking out of the top and a Beta fish swimming around the plant's watery tendrils. I haven't owned a fish since I was five or so, and I was broke from buying whatever the heck it was we bought...so I was ready to pass. Happy and half-drunk auction attenders quickly snapped the fishy centerpieces up and, one by one, carried the large vases out with the lone fish inside of each sloshing around as its proud new owner toted it out.
As Stacy and I were leaving, a middle-aged woman with too much perfume and a very friendly smile came up to us with her own fish-in-a-jar, and begged us to take it, as her husband didn't seem to want a new pet as much as she did. Sparky had been a pet for all of five minutes, and already he was an orphan being moved into a foster home. Poor guy.
We took him. And for the last four years, he's been with us. He swam his lazy circles while we laughed, while we talked about getting pregnant, while we fought, while we tinked wine glasses to toast our first home purchase, while we celebrated my new job, while we cried over Stacy's first job (long story), and he swam while we did the thing married people do. We fed him as frequently as we remembered to, which probably averaged out to about once every week or so. Stacy changed the bowl water every month...give or take...mostly take. The plant that Sparky shared his bowl with has long since died, but Sparky pressed on. In fact, he pressed on, even when we went on vacation and forgot to feed him for a couple of weeks. He pressed on when we tried to change his water and dropped him on the floor. He pressed on when we moved the bowl to a place where we couldn't see it over the Christmas holiday, and thereby forgot to change the water for a couple of months. He even pressed on when he slipped by the sieve we use when we change his water and dropped right down into the garbage disposal...I had to fish him out with my hand, and he pressed on.
Sparky was a survivor.
And for some reason, that meant a lot to me. I'm not kidding...I really liked Sparky. I liked him more than the cats...which bothers me, because Sparky was free and required no effort at all, and the cats are expensive and loud and, let's face it, they're cats, which sucks. He pressed on, day after day, year after year, and never asked for much. I miss Sparky.
---
This ends the eulogy. And begins the other bit.
---
I had a very strange night a couple of nights ago. I was in Philadelphia working, and met up with a friend in Philly for a beer. Whilst sipping a stout dram of my favorite Scotch draught, two girls approached us and told a very long and complicated lie which I won't bother repeating but which was basically a long, stupid and highly involved pick-up line involving fake names and a greek man who doesn't really exist. As you might imagine, I opted out of the whole, "being picked up" thing. If you are wondering why right now, you haven't read enough of my blog or I haven't blogged enough of my love. I did, however, offer to play "wingman" for my very single friend, who is a bit of a ladies' man. To keep things short and tasteful, I spent the bulk of the evening talking to one girl about my marriage and her recent breakup, and he spent the bulk of the evening getting quite laid. He had a great time, she had a great time, and the girl I spoke with eventually left to meet up with some guys she met in the bar who had cocaine. And thus, the evening ended.
And I woke up the next morning and called my buddy and we had breakfast...and here's the thing...
...he was really happy.
He didn't sit down and say, "My god, man...I knew her for two hours before we had sex...what am I doing with my life?" He didn't say, "Man, I am so unfulfilled...I'm totally just living for myself...where's the bigger picture?" He sure as hell didn't say, "Justin, could you tell me about something better than this...like Jesus?"
In fact, he was really happy. He got to have sex with a pretty girl, and she was really excited about it, and they didn't have to exchange "I love you's" or digits or even learn each other's last names. And that's it. Lots of endorphins and fun and giggling and things that feel good when they touch you. And that was it.
Now don't get me wrong...I love sex. He loves sex. I do it with one person every time, he does it with different people. And that's totally cool with him.
That's what struck me...there was no gaping hole. There was no sense that, at the end of the day, he sits at the end of his bed and feels desperately alone and empty. There was no sense that he's missing a big chunk of his heart that only God could fill. He's a smart, successful, very cool guy, and he seems really generally pretty happy. And I think that's what confuses me so much.
When I was with Young Life ministry, we were told that every person needs Jesus. When I was with the Vineyard, we were told that every person has a God-shaped hole in their hearts/souls that calls out to be filled with what were offering. And those things may be true...but I don't know that I see it. And I don't know that those with the hole feel it as clearly as I assumed.
Truth is, epicureanism seems pretty great. It seems fun, and exciting, and somewhat fulfilling. Living each day as a hedonist seems like a pretty great way to live...and assuming you're not hurting other people, it's pretty hard to argue with. This presents a problem with evangelism as I know it.
How do you talk to someone about filling a hole in their hearts when they don't feel a hole? How do you tell somebody about Jesus's healing power when they don't feel sick? How do you share the story of Jesus fixed a broken you when he doesn't sense a broken him? And what happens when you don't sense a broken him?
I don't have answers. I want to know what you think. Christians speak up. Hedonists speak up. Christian hedonists, speak up. I need to think about this with other people.
Peace,
Justin
Friday, February 10, 2006
On a plane back from Baltimore…
I tell that you that only because I’m still in that stage where I feel cool saying on I’m on a plane back from anywhere. Even someplace silly, like Baltimore.
Here’s what I learned about Baltimore while I was there: 1) Crab Cakes are tasty when they’re made from crabs who were swimming just the day before, 2) even cities you don’t think about much can have big traffic problems, and 3) Cal Ripken Jr. was apparently quite popular for doing whatever it is that he did.
It’s a very pretty city…the harbor is beautiful, and there are lots of fun places to go. I was pretty busy, but I may return sometime to try out some of the neat-o stuff I drove by on my way to less neat-o stuff.
This ends the section about Baltimore.
This begins a section about how I’m not that great.
A guy who logged in anonymously but left me the name “Tito” had something to say in a comment to my post about Verizon Wireless and Capitalism (see previous post). If I’m reading his comment right, he basically said, “hey, you’re a funny guy. Not much of a Christian, but a funny guy.” Am I reading that right, Tito?
Man, I completely agree. Seriously, please don’t read this as sarcastic or cutting or facetious…I mean it. I’m really not a great Christian. And, I think it was really cool that you had the guts to point that out. I think the way you said it was, “you’re not much like what Jesus called us to” or something like that (can’t look it up, on a plane)…and I think you’re exactly right. I’m really not.
It’s not something I’m proud of. As much as I like giving the middle-finger to things and saying “I’m not following your rules, man!” [or insert some other suburban-white-kid-raging-against-the-world comment here], living as God wants me to live isn’t one of those things. In fact, that’s probably the only set of guiding rules and regulations that really matter in the loooooooooooong run [read:eternity], and I’m screwing many of them up.
Let me give you a laundry-list. It’s by no means complete, but at least it’s somewhat deplorable:
1. I’m very self-centered. I think of myself nearly all of the time, and I rarely do anything that makes me even remotely uncomfortable, regardless of how it might help other people
2. I swear like a sailor. And not just righteous swearing, like when I’m bowling or when I really mean something…I swear around kids sometimes on accident, and I swear at my wife when I’m angry. I picked it up as a little shingle of rebellion, and I haven’t learned how to put it down when it’s not going to be helpful. Swearing is great in some circumstances…lord knows I’m a proponent at times…but you’ve got to be able to hold your tongue when your tongue bears holding.
3. I’m a pervert. My mind is constantly darting in directions I don’t want it to, and while I don’t let my wang follow it in those directions, I can’t even claim that as righteousness because thinking and doing are so freaking married that it’s like I’m three-quarters-doing whatever it is I’m patting myself on the back for not doing. Nuff said on that topic, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.
4. I’m extremely critical and judgmental. I pick these niggly little human flaws and bitch about them to total strangers. Why? Probably just to make myself feel better about my own failings. Which, by the way, makes me a
5. Total hypocrite. As cute as it is to sit here and play humble by listing stuff I do wrong, the reality is that I really live this stuff. I criticize others, and I continue to live a life which begs criticism.
You know what? I was going to keep listing but my plane is landing and I’m starting to get depressed. I just picked the first five things I can think of…there are, no doubt, hundreds more. So, you’ll have to figure them out as you go, just like I am.
Sometimes, I’m a great guy. Sometimes I do great things for people and, every great once in a while, I do it for the right reasons. And sometimes…most of the time…I’m a pretty mediocre guy. I do and think things that are neither good nor bad but just are…I choose to live in lukewarm grays and browns for long periods of time without being outstanding in either direction. And sometimes I am a terrible guy, for a thousand reasons and in a thousand flavors.
I’m not great. I’m OK…I’d like to think I may get to be a better guy…but right now I’m just OK. Tito, man, the truth is you’re right…bottom line.
Peace,
Justin
I tell that you that only because I’m still in that stage where I feel cool saying on I’m on a plane back from anywhere. Even someplace silly, like Baltimore.
Here’s what I learned about Baltimore while I was there: 1) Crab Cakes are tasty when they’re made from crabs who were swimming just the day before, 2) even cities you don’t think about much can have big traffic problems, and 3) Cal Ripken Jr. was apparently quite popular for doing whatever it is that he did.
It’s a very pretty city…the harbor is beautiful, and there are lots of fun places to go. I was pretty busy, but I may return sometime to try out some of the neat-o stuff I drove by on my way to less neat-o stuff.
This ends the section about Baltimore.
This begins a section about how I’m not that great.
A guy who logged in anonymously but left me the name “Tito” had something to say in a comment to my post about Verizon Wireless and Capitalism (see previous post). If I’m reading his comment right, he basically said, “hey, you’re a funny guy. Not much of a Christian, but a funny guy.” Am I reading that right, Tito?
Man, I completely agree. Seriously, please don’t read this as sarcastic or cutting or facetious…I mean it. I’m really not a great Christian. And, I think it was really cool that you had the guts to point that out. I think the way you said it was, “you’re not much like what Jesus called us to” or something like that (can’t look it up, on a plane)…and I think you’re exactly right. I’m really not.
It’s not something I’m proud of. As much as I like giving the middle-finger to things and saying “I’m not following your rules, man!” [or insert some other suburban-white-kid-raging-against-the-world comment here], living as God wants me to live isn’t one of those things. In fact, that’s probably the only set of guiding rules and regulations that really matter in the loooooooooooong run [read:eternity], and I’m screwing many of them up.
Let me give you a laundry-list. It’s by no means complete, but at least it’s somewhat deplorable:
1. I’m very self-centered. I think of myself nearly all of the time, and I rarely do anything that makes me even remotely uncomfortable, regardless of how it might help other people
2. I swear like a sailor. And not just righteous swearing, like when I’m bowling or when I really mean something…I swear around kids sometimes on accident, and I swear at my wife when I’m angry. I picked it up as a little shingle of rebellion, and I haven’t learned how to put it down when it’s not going to be helpful. Swearing is great in some circumstances…lord knows I’m a proponent at times…but you’ve got to be able to hold your tongue when your tongue bears holding.
3. I’m a pervert. My mind is constantly darting in directions I don’t want it to, and while I don’t let my wang follow it in those directions, I can’t even claim that as righteousness because thinking and doing are so freaking married that it’s like I’m three-quarters-doing whatever it is I’m patting myself on the back for not doing. Nuff said on that topic, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.
4. I’m extremely critical and judgmental. I pick these niggly little human flaws and bitch about them to total strangers. Why? Probably just to make myself feel better about my own failings. Which, by the way, makes me a
5. Total hypocrite. As cute as it is to sit here and play humble by listing stuff I do wrong, the reality is that I really live this stuff. I criticize others, and I continue to live a life which begs criticism.
You know what? I was going to keep listing but my plane is landing and I’m starting to get depressed. I just picked the first five things I can think of…there are, no doubt, hundreds more. So, you’ll have to figure them out as you go, just like I am.
Sometimes, I’m a great guy. Sometimes I do great things for people and, every great once in a while, I do it for the right reasons. And sometimes…most of the time…I’m a pretty mediocre guy. I do and think things that are neither good nor bad but just are…I choose to live in lukewarm grays and browns for long periods of time without being outstanding in either direction. And sometimes I am a terrible guy, for a thousand reasons and in a thousand flavors.
I’m not great. I’m OK…I’d like to think I may get to be a better guy…but right now I’m just OK. Tito, man, the truth is you’re right…bottom line.
Peace,
Justin
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
I’m on the way home from our nation’s capital.
Actually, to be more specific, I’m on the way home from a little cookie-cutter suburb about half-an-hour north of our nation’s capital, named Rockville, Maryland.
It's possible that Rockville, Maryland might be the capital of something, but the odds are pretty good that it’s the “200+ Thread-Count Duvet Capital” or “The Residents Who Undergo Regular Prostate Exams Capital” or something equally mundane. For the most part, it was just hotels and chain restaurants…though I’ll concede that I really only saw as much as was within walking distance…which includes my hotel, and the chain-restaurant complex next to my hotel. So, for all I know, it may very well have been a small town inhabited by mermaid queens and fairie pixies of yore…but most of what I saw was little Mexican men working behind the swinging white doors at the chain restaurants, and little Haitian women who leave new soaps by your tub every morning.
I promise, this is not a blog entry about race, class, immigration, or the plight of poor Spanish-speakers in America.
It is, however, a post about the mystery of capitalism.
See, here’s the thing…when I was growing up, my dad and mom would come each evening into my bedroom and take turns lying down for 5-10 minutes with me to help me go to sleep. We’d talk about the day, we’d talk about what to expect tomorrow, and we’d talk about whatever it is they felt like talking to me about in order to get me to calm down enough to sleep. My mom, for the most part, nurtured. It’s what she’s best at, and I can tell you she’s brilliant at it. She would say comforting things and kind things and sleepy-bye kinds of things. It’s a wonderful topic for another post.
My dad, however, preferred to teach. I loved it. He would talk about how combustion engines work, or what Mastadons looked like, or how our bodies turn oxygen into carbon dioxide or how a bill becomes a law. Mind you…I was, like seven. But he told it so well, and with such interest and drama, that I was enthralled, and I was actually learning it.…it’s one of the reasons I think I know so many helpful little bits of reality today. One of my favorite talks…and one which I remember fondly…was the one about capitalism. He would tell me, night after night, about supply and demand. About widgets, and how the trick for the manufacturer was to create interest in widgets through advertising and PR, thereby increasing the demand, and then to meet that demand by orchestrating a supply. And the sweet spot, he explained, was to come as close to meeting demand as possible with the supply…that’s where the real profit was. He always said, “A thing is worth whatever someone is willing to pay for it...no less, and no more.” It was a beautiful and simple explanation for a terrifically complex subject, and it’s the reason why I can always pay less for a hotel, an eBay purchase, and concert tickets.
And I’ve always believed it. I believe Adam Smith when he says that supply and demand will control the market. I believe my college economics prof when he says that competition will hone the skills and agility of business the way natural selection hones the skills and agility of the woodland critters. I’ve believed that good businesses (or bad businesses with good marketing) will succeed, and bad business will either sharpen its operation, or it will fail.
Yes, yes…I believed all of it…my dad, my economics prof, Adam, Karl…
…and then, I went to a Verion Wireless store.
Good freaking god.
Let me back up. My phone died two days ago. Dunno why, just ceased to function. Fortunately, my hotel was directly across a very busy street from a Verizon Wireless retail store, which has a counter marked “customer service,” and a counter marked “technical support.” (The poetic irony of these two appellations will strike you in a minute). I was so excited; I thought I may be able to turn my phone in on my lunch break, and perhaps pick it up later that day or early the next.
Yes, that’s what I thought indeed. And it's only now that I realize, that’s a little like thinking, “perhaps my sweater will turn to solid marmalade that I could eat on my flight home.”
Instead, what happened was I entered a customer-support-hell, full of very very angry customers, and some tremendously stupid employees.
I don’t mean stupid like, “My god, that pizza man is so stupid, he forgot to give me back my change.” Rather, I mean stupid like, “Hey, is that tubby guy with the absent grin pooping his pants right now?”
The Verizon Wireless store in Rockville Maryland, should anyone ever ask you, is operated by a gang of imbecilic 17-year-olds whose IQ’s are only subbed by their basmented sense of motivation and pride in their work. I won’t get into the furry details, lest you get so empathetically angry that you punch your screen…but I will summarize:
Phone dies =
6 trips to Verizon Wireless store in Rockville Maryland.
4.5 total hours spent waiting in the lobby for the lethargic teens of tech support to diagnose the problem
2 new batteries, one of which didn’t fit in my phone, but was jammed in forcefully by Malak in tech support, in the hopes that maybe if the wrong battery is pushed into the wrong phone hard enough, God will sympathize and provide power to the phone.
1 complete loss of all my address book and contacts. The only reason this "1" wasn’t a higher number is because, let’s face it, you can only completely lose something once.
2 battery covers, neither of which fit, and one of which, I’m pretty sure, was just the top to a peanut butter jar.
2 brand new V710 Motorola phones to replace the one that Malak-the-tech-support-guy broke with the battery. (The second new one was to replace the first new one, which Greg in tech support broke when he dropped it trying to get the wrong battery cover on it).
And…in case you’re interested…I eventually did what the guys in Tech Support at Verizon Wireless could not…I figured out what was wrong with my original phone.
...The battery charger wasn’t working.
Seriously…it just needed a new battery charger.
Not a new battery, mind you. A charger. The little thing you plug into the wall.
That’s it.
And now I’m out a phone.
I was not alone…in the 4.5 hours that I stood in line at Verizon Wireless over the course of six trips, I watched at least 50 people get very very very angry with the people who work there. The employees were slow, they were stupid, they were poorly trained, they were poorly equipped, and they lacked basic customer support skills.
And, if capitalism works like it is supposed to, this store would be shut down. Its managers would be fired and its employees would be thrown to the wolves with nothing but their glitter encrusted cell phones, Usher or Beyonce ring-tone blaring, to protect them. If capitalism works, I would have a working phone and I would have spent another hundred bucks on cheap plastic electronic goodies while I was there, just because I was so enthralled with this amazing store and it’s brilliant associates.
Instead, I’m just pissed. And Verizon Wireless is still getting my $120 a month, because they offer better shitty service than the other shitty phone companies.
Hey, I wonder if the Verizon Wireless store in Rockville, Maryland is hiring? I’m pretty sure I know a guy…he sat two rows behind me at an Over the Rhine concert recently…
Peace,
Justin
Actually, to be more specific, I’m on the way home from a little cookie-cutter suburb about half-an-hour north of our nation’s capital, named Rockville, Maryland.
It's possible that Rockville, Maryland might be the capital of something, but the odds are pretty good that it’s the “200+ Thread-Count Duvet Capital” or “The Residents Who Undergo Regular Prostate Exams Capital” or something equally mundane. For the most part, it was just hotels and chain restaurants…though I’ll concede that I really only saw as much as was within walking distance…which includes my hotel, and the chain-restaurant complex next to my hotel. So, for all I know, it may very well have been a small town inhabited by mermaid queens and fairie pixies of yore…but most of what I saw was little Mexican men working behind the swinging white doors at the chain restaurants, and little Haitian women who leave new soaps by your tub every morning.
I promise, this is not a blog entry about race, class, immigration, or the plight of poor Spanish-speakers in America.
It is, however, a post about the mystery of capitalism.
See, here’s the thing…when I was growing up, my dad and mom would come each evening into my bedroom and take turns lying down for 5-10 minutes with me to help me go to sleep. We’d talk about the day, we’d talk about what to expect tomorrow, and we’d talk about whatever it is they felt like talking to me about in order to get me to calm down enough to sleep. My mom, for the most part, nurtured. It’s what she’s best at, and I can tell you she’s brilliant at it. She would say comforting things and kind things and sleepy-bye kinds of things. It’s a wonderful topic for another post.
My dad, however, preferred to teach. I loved it. He would talk about how combustion engines work, or what Mastadons looked like, or how our bodies turn oxygen into carbon dioxide or how a bill becomes a law. Mind you…I was, like seven. But he told it so well, and with such interest and drama, that I was enthralled, and I was actually learning it.…it’s one of the reasons I think I know so many helpful little bits of reality today. One of my favorite talks…and one which I remember fondly…was the one about capitalism. He would tell me, night after night, about supply and demand. About widgets, and how the trick for the manufacturer was to create interest in widgets through advertising and PR, thereby increasing the demand, and then to meet that demand by orchestrating a supply. And the sweet spot, he explained, was to come as close to meeting demand as possible with the supply…that’s where the real profit was. He always said, “A thing is worth whatever someone is willing to pay for it...no less, and no more.” It was a beautiful and simple explanation for a terrifically complex subject, and it’s the reason why I can always pay less for a hotel, an eBay purchase, and concert tickets.
And I’ve always believed it. I believe Adam Smith when he says that supply and demand will control the market. I believe my college economics prof when he says that competition will hone the skills and agility of business the way natural selection hones the skills and agility of the woodland critters. I’ve believed that good businesses (or bad businesses with good marketing) will succeed, and bad business will either sharpen its operation, or it will fail.
Yes, yes…I believed all of it…my dad, my economics prof, Adam, Karl…
…and then, I went to a Verion Wireless store.
Good freaking god.
Let me back up. My phone died two days ago. Dunno why, just ceased to function. Fortunately, my hotel was directly across a very busy street from a Verizon Wireless retail store, which has a counter marked “customer service,” and a counter marked “technical support.” (The poetic irony of these two appellations will strike you in a minute). I was so excited; I thought I may be able to turn my phone in on my lunch break, and perhaps pick it up later that day or early the next.
Yes, that’s what I thought indeed. And it's only now that I realize, that’s a little like thinking, “perhaps my sweater will turn to solid marmalade that I could eat on my flight home.”
Instead, what happened was I entered a customer-support-hell, full of very very angry customers, and some tremendously stupid employees.
I don’t mean stupid like, “My god, that pizza man is so stupid, he forgot to give me back my change.” Rather, I mean stupid like, “Hey, is that tubby guy with the absent grin pooping his pants right now?”
The Verizon Wireless store in Rockville Maryland, should anyone ever ask you, is operated by a gang of imbecilic 17-year-olds whose IQ’s are only subbed by their basmented sense of motivation and pride in their work. I won’t get into the furry details, lest you get so empathetically angry that you punch your screen…but I will summarize:
Phone dies =
6 trips to Verizon Wireless store in Rockville Maryland.
4.5 total hours spent waiting in the lobby for the lethargic teens of tech support to diagnose the problem
2 new batteries, one of which didn’t fit in my phone, but was jammed in forcefully by Malak in tech support, in the hopes that maybe if the wrong battery is pushed into the wrong phone hard enough, God will sympathize and provide power to the phone.
1 complete loss of all my address book and contacts. The only reason this "1" wasn’t a higher number is because, let’s face it, you can only completely lose something once.
2 battery covers, neither of which fit, and one of which, I’m pretty sure, was just the top to a peanut butter jar.
2 brand new V710 Motorola phones to replace the one that Malak-the-tech-support-guy broke with the battery. (The second new one was to replace the first new one, which Greg in tech support broke when he dropped it trying to get the wrong battery cover on it).
And…in case you’re interested…I eventually did what the guys in Tech Support at Verizon Wireless could not…I figured out what was wrong with my original phone.
...The battery charger wasn’t working.
Seriously…it just needed a new battery charger.
Not a new battery, mind you. A charger. The little thing you plug into the wall.
That’s it.
And now I’m out a phone.
I was not alone…in the 4.5 hours that I stood in line at Verizon Wireless over the course of six trips, I watched at least 50 people get very very very angry with the people who work there. The employees were slow, they were stupid, they were poorly trained, they were poorly equipped, and they lacked basic customer support skills.
And, if capitalism works like it is supposed to, this store would be shut down. Its managers would be fired and its employees would be thrown to the wolves with nothing but their glitter encrusted cell phones, Usher or Beyonce ring-tone blaring, to protect them. If capitalism works, I would have a working phone and I would have spent another hundred bucks on cheap plastic electronic goodies while I was there, just because I was so enthralled with this amazing store and it’s brilliant associates.
Instead, I’m just pissed. And Verizon Wireless is still getting my $120 a month, because they offer better shitty service than the other shitty phone companies.
Hey, I wonder if the Verizon Wireless store in Rockville, Maryland is hiring? I’m pretty sure I know a guy…he sat two rows behind me at an Over the Rhine concert recently…
Peace,
Justin
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