Be Careful What You Ask For

For some reason I had a hankering for a featured meal at a familiar restaurant chain I hadn’t graced with my presence in over twenty years. I went with my friend who seemed a little querulous at my selection, as he should have been.

          I expected that the place would have kept up with the times in terms of interior design and food offerings, but no, this restaurant was built in the sixties and little had been done with it since. It was lunch time and there weren’t more than seven customers, and they seemed to be old geezers like me.         We’d gotten old along with an establishment that looked as beat up as we did. Poor lighting, worn tables and chairs: the only sop to modern times was a credit card reader that still looked seriously out of date.

          We were greeted by Bambi, a waitress (sorry, server) who was nice enough but looked like she had been on meth for several years. I ordered the breakfast special from a menu that probably had been printed when Gutenberg first came out with his press. The photos weren’t exactly enticing. My friend ordered a lunch selection and had the temerity to ask them to toast the sandwich bread.

          So it took forty-five minutes for the food to arrive (remember, seven folks in the restaurant), but my toast didn’t make it with the main dish. When it did come, I asked for jelly, and Bambi apologized, but they were all out of jelly. Of course they were. The food itself tasted like it had been left under a warming lamp for a couple of days. I could have bounced the rubbery eggs off the wall, and the bacon was so crisp and black, it stood up on its own. My friend’s sandwich and fries didn’t fair much better.

          I decided to use the restroom, big mistake. The sign said, “Let the management know if this facility needs attention.” Well, obviously, nobody in management had entered this hallowed space in days. Dirty sinks and mirror, roll of paper towels on the floor and the distinct odor of bodily fluids. Not exactly the de rigueur sanitizer.

          I treated my friend; hey, this had been my idea. As I stood at the counter to pay, a disheveled lady next to me asked if they had any dishwasher openings (beats working at McDonalds?) and Bambi said, no, they already had two dishwashers, but they only worked in the morning. Of course they did. The credit card reader gave the option of no tips,15%, 20%,or 22% (?).  I’m sure the no tips selection got a heck of a workout, but I went with the 22%. Figured Bambi needed whatever help it took to get out of this place.

          So if you’re doing the foodie nostalgia tour, be careful what you ask for. You might just be able to bounce the selection off the walls.

Tapped Out

          I made the mistake of requesting a new debt card with a “tap” feature. Leave those pesky pin numbers behind. Then the trouble started. First I had to go through three different AI voices to activate it by phone. Each voice sounded like some version of either a carnival barker or a sultry cat house madam. Then I noticed that the card numbers had changed from the previous card. This meant I had to change cards on several sites. Let the slog begin.

          The first problem was at the online bank site. I had questions about this change, and I was only allowed to “chat” with an AI generated “friend.” My question was not listed in the drop down menu, but I typed in my concern anyway. My “friend” wasn’t buying it. I had to choose from an option that made no sense for my question. After four attempts I gave up.

          Then I tried to add the card to a secure pay site, where the old card was already registered. The site was as easy to navigate as a narrow mountain road in the Pyrenees. I finally added the new card but couldn’t delete the old one. What could ever go wrong going forward?

          Next I attempted to delete the old card and add the new at a church website which debited the card for weekly donations. I could double my pleasure by having both cards debited but without being able to delete the old one. God would appreciate this, but not my bank account. I was already giving much more than a 10% tithe.

          In frustration, I decided to take a break and call a roofing company that had been recommended for roof repairs. I got a laid back AI male voice that asked repeatedly when I wanted to schedule an inspection appointment. Every day and time I gave was unavailable. The earliest was sometime in 2027. I finally said, no thanks, AI. The reply was, “My name is Hal and it has been a pleasure to serve you.”   

          Lest this little diatribe end on a sour note, let me disabuse you that all such transactions are destined to be unpleasant. I have had a conversation with a real person in a medical office where he was very understanding about my constipation and took time to offer multiple solutions, like drink water. When I had issues with my TV satellite dish, I had a lady from a call center in the Philippines where she called me Mr. Robert. She spent an hour walking me through the complexities of resetting the system so I could watch a program on how to properly marinate hog jowls.

          There was even a guy at a car dealership service center who told me I didn’t need half the repairs which some other underhanded Bozo had suggested, like a rebuilt engine and four new tires. While there are still bright spots out there in terms of consumer service, more and more you have to deal with AI voices or boiler room pestering from India.

          I have occasional nightmares where I wake up in a cold sweat after experiencing a scene from 2001 A Space Odyssey and the disembodied computer voice.

          “Hal, open the pod bay doors, please.”

          “Sorry, Rob, I can’t do that.”

          “Hal!!”

          You almost wish for the good version of the Terminator to fix the AI mess as he says, “I’ll be back” and later blasts the AI creations growling “Hasta la vista baby.” What could possibly go wrong?

In Praise of Muzak

          Muzak, often called “elevator music,” provided background music in offices, stores, restaurants and elevators from the 30s to the mid 60s.  The music was primarily a soothing orchestral mix which blended into the surroundings. It was also designed to promote workplace productivity based on varied pace and style throughout the day. As a child of the fifties I was infused with Muzak in the marketplace and its equivalent, by Les Baxter and Mantovani, at home.

          By the mid-sixties with the youth revolution in full bloom, popular vocal music came into its own as the go to for background music in retail establishments and even elevators. Since royalties need to be paid for music played commercially, over the years a variety of companies, such as Playnetwork and Music Choice, have provided content and paid the licensing fees for their clients. Also, commercial free subscription music providers like Spotify, Amazon and Pandora are used in many retail sites and medical offices.

          So what’s the beef? If I’m an old geezer going in for delicate heart surgery, do I really want to hear “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin while being prepped? If I’m at the supermarket and can’t find certain items, does it help to be subjected to “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Rolling Stones?  Then, some nineteen year old employee has chosen to crank up the hip hop station on Spotify while I’m shopping for sleep aids at the drugstore.

Basically, piped in music should match the clientele and mission of a particular establishment, but this is often not the case. My local Mexican restaurant plays mariachi music I can’t understand, but at least I’m not listening to Cyndi Lauper sing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” And, when I’m captive in the dentist’s chair, the last thing I want to hear is heavy metal like “Lick it Up” by Kiss.

A corollary to the invasion of “musical noise” in various public environments is the ubiquitous TV in doctor waiting rooms. Usually these TVs are spouting some frightful information about your intestines, your bladder, your heart, your bones or your eyesight. Just as you are trying to calm yourself for the upcoming appointment. At the same time, the overhead speakers are pumping out someone’s skewed idea of modern musical nirvana. A mentally debilitating combo for the poor patient.

          So I say, bring back Muzak, at least in the elevators. How about music by 50s and 60s orchestras like Sounds of a Thousand Strings and Percy Faith? Heck, I’d even listen to Frank Sinatra quietly crooning “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” At least it’s not Huey Lewis and the News belting out “Trouble in Paradise” and “The Heart of Rock and Roll.” However, realistically, I’m resigned to going to the grocery store for a bottle of wine and hearing Jimmy Buffett sing “Why Don’t We Get Drunk.” C'est la vie.