The UK has certain distinctive advantages over America: the history, the unique atmosphere, the pubs, the bookstores. It is really a wonderful place to live. But America does much better than the UK on a few fronts. Selection, for one, is infinitely better here, whether in the housing market or the grocery store. Most of all, though, I have noticed how much more convenient everything is in America. You can get food practically any time of the day or night, most stores are open until at least nine or ten: whatever you need is right at your fingertips. Unfortunately, that also applies to whatever you want, and America simply wants too much.
Having convenient access to your needs is a very good thing. Even having easy access to your wants can be a good thing, as long as those wants are held in check. But without due control, the occasional indulgence can morph into full blown greed. Then we begin to think that what we want is what we need and will not take no for an answer. This sense of entitlement is unfortunately all around us.
I recently was in a Starbucks for a quick coffee when I observed a most troublesome scene. Before me in line was a middle-aged woman, rather orange with fake tan and loaded down with every possible type of jewelry. Along with her thirty or forty rings she carried a Gucci bag and yapped vigorously on her Blackberry, loudly complaining about the long line of two people in front of her. When she finally made it to the till 45 seconds later, she ordered a triple grande latte. For those of you not into coffee, that's a medium latte with three shots of espresso (there is no "x" in espresso), "But you can throw in a fourth shot if you want to," she told the barista. You see, every time Starbucks brews espresso, two shots are produced because of the machine set-up. So this lady knew that four shots of espresso would be made to create her three-shot drink. The extra one would have been used in my drink.
"You did just want a triple grande, not a quadruple grande, right?" the barista enquires.
"Well, yes, but you'll have an extra, so if you just want to get rid of it in my drink, that's fine. That's what they always do at the Starbucks I normally go to."
By this point I had already ordered my drink, which also required espresso, with the other cashier, so clearly the extra shot would find a home, but the woman was making it very clear that she wasn't just trying to help the baristas, she actually expected them to give her the fourth shot for free. At only fifty cents a shot, I was rather appalled by the dicotomy of her affluent appearance and her miserly coffee habits. It's one thing when a long-time barista throws in an extra shot for a loyal customer because of friendship; it's not the same when you purposefully buy one shot fewer than you want just because you are stingy, while all along expecting a better beverage than you purchased.
Just today in the car I heard a Schick (I think) commercial making use of America's sense of entitlement. The whole commercial is founded on examples of people ordering less than they expect. First someone orders a burger and is mad that he did not receive two burgers. Then someone else buys three of something while expecting four. Schick then steps in to say that we should expect more than we pay for, and that's why Schick gives us three blades for the price of two.
The idea that we deserve more than we actually pay for is a by-product of American convenience. It has become so firmly established that the customer is always right that customers now often demand much more than is right. It's McDonald's fault if you can't hold your coffee properly in your car; it's the Universal Studios' fault if you go into their haunted house and "suffer mental anguish." Preposterous. (By the way, here is site detailing a few ridiculous lawsuits.) Nor should you assume you can get something more than you pay for without a coupon. It's time we lost these "rights," for they were never ours to begin with. Convenience is no excuse for greediness.
Song of My Coffee
This morning as I sat drinking some coffee, I was inspired to write a poem. Here is what came forth:
Song of My Coffee
On the counter near the mixer
Brews my magic brown elixir
Whence my early vigor comes
And my ever-nightly Tums.
It is a true and constant friend
In sickness, health, or on the mend
From germ or woe or being bludgeoned;
It quickens me with scent so pungent.
And should you think that it were fate
That man and brew should thus relate?
Indeed - for 'twas not I that chose -
'Tis Java has me in its throes.
For once upon a glacier frozen
There were but me and some old crows, in
Britain's north, the land of Scots,
Banished from King Arthur's thoughts.
Yes, I was naught but errant knight
Who lost a killer-rabbit fight.
With failure grim I left the court,
My shame unable to support.
I found my way to snow and ice,
Mostly for to kill the lice
That grew upon my head like mold
(Thank God they cannot take the cold!).
So there I sat and contemplated
How grand to be defenestrated,
When what should sudden catch my ear -
An angel singing loud and clear:
"The best part of waking up
Is full chores in your cup."
Though voice and tune had me astounded,
The message left me twice confounded,
For chores were not my cup of tea,
Especially in hours wee.
Alighted near, the heav'nly being
As I, afraid, considered fleeing
Into a sharp and deep crevass,
But life would surely be my loss.
"Fear not," quoth she with solemn glee,
"For I bring full chores here with me!"
"Nay," says I. "I'd rather die
"Then live with full chores piled high!"
And so she flew, my chance of hope,
As I sat down to sigh and mope,
When what should fate but bring me luck:
I saw a golden glowing buck!
It seemed to beckon as I gazed
For me to follow through the haze.
It strode away toward icy peaks
While 'neath its foot sprung brownish creeks.
And then it turned and said "Behold!"
And saw I there a thousand fold,
A host of shining bucks of gold
There on a northern glacier cold.
Then all the creeks did join to one
And all the bucks began to run -
Beyond the tips of mountains far
They came together as a star.
Turning to the river I,
With joyful heart and eager eye,
Drank my fill of beverage free
And knew to call its name "coffee."
Lifting up my head to heaven,
Thankful for a gift so given,
I saw a star, a sign of luck,
And named it thus, the Star of Bucks.
Thus the denouement draws nigh:
Java found me, not Java I.
So now when I of coffee think,
'Tis to the Star of Bucks I drink.
Song of My Coffee
On the counter near the mixer
Brews my magic brown elixir
Whence my early vigor comes
And my ever-nightly Tums.
It is a true and constant friend
In sickness, health, or on the mend
From germ or woe or being bludgeoned;
It quickens me with scent so pungent.
And should you think that it were fate
That man and brew should thus relate?
Indeed - for 'twas not I that chose -
'Tis Java has me in its throes.
For once upon a glacier frozen
There were but me and some old crows, in
Britain's north, the land of Scots,
Banished from King Arthur's thoughts.
Yes, I was naught but errant knight
Who lost a killer-rabbit fight.
With failure grim I left the court,
My shame unable to support.
I found my way to snow and ice,
Mostly for to kill the lice
That grew upon my head like mold
(Thank God they cannot take the cold!).
So there I sat and contemplated
How grand to be defenestrated,
When what should sudden catch my ear -
An angel singing loud and clear:
"The best part of waking up
Is full chores in your cup."
Though voice and tune had me astounded,
The message left me twice confounded,
For chores were not my cup of tea,
Especially in hours wee.
Alighted near, the heav'nly being
As I, afraid, considered fleeing
Into a sharp and deep crevass,
But life would surely be my loss.
"Fear not," quoth she with solemn glee,
"For I bring full chores here with me!"
"Nay," says I. "I'd rather die
"Then live with full chores piled high!"
And so she flew, my chance of hope,
As I sat down to sigh and mope,
When what should fate but bring me luck:
I saw a golden glowing buck!
It seemed to beckon as I gazed
For me to follow through the haze.
It strode away toward icy peaks
While 'neath its foot sprung brownish creeks.
And then it turned and said "Behold!"
And saw I there a thousand fold,
A host of shining bucks of gold
There on a northern glacier cold.
Then all the creeks did join to one
And all the bucks began to run -
Beyond the tips of mountains far
They came together as a star.
Turning to the river I,
With joyful heart and eager eye,
Drank my fill of beverage free
And knew to call its name "coffee."
Lifting up my head to heaven,
Thankful for a gift so given,
I saw a star, a sign of luck,
And named it thus, the Star of Bucks.
Thus the denouement draws nigh:
Java found me, not Java I.
So now when I of coffee think,
'Tis to the Star of Bucks I drink.
Beware Exploding Crabapples
When I think of porches, my mind is inevitably drawn to the sun beating down on my back as I bend over dry wood, paintbrush in hand. My family's large, elevated wooden deck was a barren land during my childhood. We seldom set foot on it except for the occasional cook-out and the bi or tri-annual staining of its bleached bones. Eager to make a few extra bucks, I always started the labor. My father would recommend that I rise early and get some work done before it was too hot, but did I listen? Of course! I just didn't apply, that's all. Early morning (that is, before 11 AM) and summer do not mingle.
I would finally roll out of bed at about 11:30 or noon, eat some breakfast, wait ten minutes, eat some lunch, wait five minutes, have a snack, and play some video games. Sometimes I would mix it up and eat lunch first, but my experimentation stopped there. Around three or four my mother would ask me if I was ever going to stain the porch like I said I would. Loth, I would finally go out.
Once outside, it did not take long for me to feel miserable for myself. The bending, the mosquitoes, and worst of all, the unbearable summer heat of which my father warned. My breaking point was normally about eight minutes, nine if I stopped for a break. By that point I had stained about two square feet, which I found rather impressive. Being a sweaty boy, I would then drip my proud self back into the house where, by the fearful sight of such copious perspiration, my mother would send me straight to the shower (despite my fervent protestations). How could I argue with my own mother? By 3:09 my duties for the day were over and I had earned a cool $1.58. After a few days of my lethargy, my father would take over, finishing the whole deck in one day.
Apart from my eight or nine minutes on a few days every two or three summers, I never went out on the deck. It was like a patch of scorched earth, unable to produce life. Sometimes it would attract wildlife, as carrion brings vultures - termites, woodpeckers, ferocious killer rabbits - but we were eager to scare them off with our plastic owl Gus. With Gus on patrol, the killer rabbits kept to their own business, though I secretly mourned their departure. To this day our watchful sentinel stands guard.
But I have had other porch experiences as well. My grandparents on my father's side were porch lovers for as long as I could remember. They had a cozy house in Cincinnati with a huge backyard. Every evening when we visited (or morning or afternoon), we would all recess to the porch until the mosquitoes started sucking. Grandma would sit and talk with us for awhile, and then I (and often my siblings) would wander out into the yard to check out the garden. It too was enormous, full of green beans and corn and 'maters and every other vegetable eaten in country dinners. Both from rural backgrounds, my grandparents loved their fresh veggies. I did too, especially when cooked with liberally applied bacon grease.
If we went too far beyond the garden we would hear a faint "Kids!" coming from the porch, our sign to come back a little. During the day it was easier to evade the grown-ups' eyes. Then we would take to the crabapples with baseball bats, tennis rackets, hoes, tree branches - whatever could be used to explode the little suckers into millions of pieces. There is something supremely satisfying about watching an overripe crabapple blow up and fly across the yard. This activity, however, was not sanctioned. Every few apples we would glance to the porch to ensure our safety. When had a particularly juicy explosion, we had to contain our "whoa!"s so as not to elicit unwanted notice.
The porch was nice, but the yard was better. The porch was for adults, the yard for kids; the porch for talk, the yard for play. And so it stayed for some time. But everyone has to grow up, and so did I. After awhile, my grandparents moved away from Cincinnatti, the big yard and the stairs of the house becoming a burden. With the move, porches exited my life for a few years. I went off to college where porches were virtually non-existent, but I discovered something else. I learned that a large quad was the perfect place to relax and reflect at two or three in the morning. Despite the three dorms that surrounded it, Myers Quad was virtually empty at that time of night, especially during the times of year when I was most wont to wander late. On chilly nights in February or perhaps March, there I would be.
A few years later as a senior, I finally took some time to explore the large botanical gardens just down the road from my apartment. Always assuming them to be a bit girly, I had not realized how wonderful were the trails that ran along the Oconee River. That year I found myself frequently following the unmarked trails for the "Botans," as my sister and I called them, finding unmarred riverbend beaches and rocks jutting into the river where I could sit and enjoy nature.
I loved my quad walks and my time in the Botans because they were the closest I could come to enjoying nature unspoilt in a city full of people. Since then I have finally come to understand my own love of nature, a love that was hidden throughout my childhood, never given a chance to blossom. And that love has only grown since college.
Shortly after graduation I was wed to my lovely wife, and before moving to England we stayed in the basement of my middle school science teacher's house for a few months. Mrs D and her husband Mr D fully appreciated the wonder of nature. While living in their house, I came to understand the value of a living porch. Exiting the dining room, you hardly felt like you had left the house, but you instantly felt surrounded by nature. With a large awning over a sitting area enclosed by flowers, plants, and feeding hummingbirds, their porch was the best natural getaway you could find in an urban setting. Every morning my wife and I would see them outside enjoying their green sanctuary.
At that point I couldn't help but wonder if porches might have something more to offer. Now, less than a year later, I have my own porch, and I am currently sitting on it. Sure I've already killed some chrysanthemums, and I bet before I'm through our porch will have been a plant mausoleum more than once. And it's true that I have yet to get the hummingbird feeder up (but we've only lived here a few weeks - geez, give me a chance!), but in time our porch will hopefully be as green as that of the D's.
Despite the sound of air conditioning units and the view of the parking lot, sitting on the porch has become one of my favorite activities. The birds living in the trees beyond the lot seem to be happy, so I'm happy too. It's no Alaskan wilderness; it's not even an area park, but at least sitting out here I'm closer to nature than in my kitchen. No cell phone, no email - just me, my pad of paper, and the birds. It's amazing how much a little nature can bring relaxation and rest to a hectic life.
As subdivisions and skyscrapers erode away what is left of nature in our cities, it becomes harder to remember those times when we enjoyed being alone with the trees, the wildlife, the fresh air, and our thoughts. But the porch can provide a taste of these, just enough so we do not forget. Be warned, though, if walking under my porch: I have not lost my taste for exploding crabapples.
I would finally roll out of bed at about 11:30 or noon, eat some breakfast, wait ten minutes, eat some lunch, wait five minutes, have a snack, and play some video games. Sometimes I would mix it up and eat lunch first, but my experimentation stopped there. Around three or four my mother would ask me if I was ever going to stain the porch like I said I would. Loth, I would finally go out.
Once outside, it did not take long for me to feel miserable for myself. The bending, the mosquitoes, and worst of all, the unbearable summer heat of which my father warned. My breaking point was normally about eight minutes, nine if I stopped for a break. By that point I had stained about two square feet, which I found rather impressive. Being a sweaty boy, I would then drip my proud self back into the house where, by the fearful sight of such copious perspiration, my mother would send me straight to the shower (despite my fervent protestations). How could I argue with my own mother? By 3:09 my duties for the day were over and I had earned a cool $1.58. After a few days of my lethargy, my father would take over, finishing the whole deck in one day.
Apart from my eight or nine minutes on a few days every two or three summers, I never went out on the deck. It was like a patch of scorched earth, unable to produce life. Sometimes it would attract wildlife, as carrion brings vultures - termites, woodpeckers, ferocious killer rabbits - but we were eager to scare them off with our plastic owl Gus. With Gus on patrol, the killer rabbits kept to their own business, though I secretly mourned their departure. To this day our watchful sentinel stands guard.
But I have had other porch experiences as well. My grandparents on my father's side were porch lovers for as long as I could remember. They had a cozy house in Cincinnati with a huge backyard. Every evening when we visited (or morning or afternoon), we would all recess to the porch until the mosquitoes started sucking. Grandma would sit and talk with us for awhile, and then I (and often my siblings) would wander out into the yard to check out the garden. It too was enormous, full of green beans and corn and 'maters and every other vegetable eaten in country dinners. Both from rural backgrounds, my grandparents loved their fresh veggies. I did too, especially when cooked with liberally applied bacon grease.
If we went too far beyond the garden we would hear a faint "Kids!" coming from the porch, our sign to come back a little. During the day it was easier to evade the grown-ups' eyes. Then we would take to the crabapples with baseball bats, tennis rackets, hoes, tree branches - whatever could be used to explode the little suckers into millions of pieces. There is something supremely satisfying about watching an overripe crabapple blow up and fly across the yard. This activity, however, was not sanctioned. Every few apples we would glance to the porch to ensure our safety. When had a particularly juicy explosion, we had to contain our "whoa!"s so as not to elicit unwanted notice.
The porch was nice, but the yard was better. The porch was for adults, the yard for kids; the porch for talk, the yard for play. And so it stayed for some time. But everyone has to grow up, and so did I. After awhile, my grandparents moved away from Cincinnatti, the big yard and the stairs of the house becoming a burden. With the move, porches exited my life for a few years. I went off to college where porches were virtually non-existent, but I discovered something else. I learned that a large quad was the perfect place to relax and reflect at two or three in the morning. Despite the three dorms that surrounded it, Myers Quad was virtually empty at that time of night, especially during the times of year when I was most wont to wander late. On chilly nights in February or perhaps March, there I would be.
A few years later as a senior, I finally took some time to explore the large botanical gardens just down the road from my apartment. Always assuming them to be a bit girly, I had not realized how wonderful were the trails that ran along the Oconee River. That year I found myself frequently following the unmarked trails for the "Botans," as my sister and I called them, finding unmarred riverbend beaches and rocks jutting into the river where I could sit and enjoy nature.
I loved my quad walks and my time in the Botans because they were the closest I could come to enjoying nature unspoilt in a city full of people. Since then I have finally come to understand my own love of nature, a love that was hidden throughout my childhood, never given a chance to blossom. And that love has only grown since college.
Shortly after graduation I was wed to my lovely wife, and before moving to England we stayed in the basement of my middle school science teacher's house for a few months. Mrs D and her husband Mr D fully appreciated the wonder of nature. While living in their house, I came to understand the value of a living porch. Exiting the dining room, you hardly felt like you had left the house, but you instantly felt surrounded by nature. With a large awning over a sitting area enclosed by flowers, plants, and feeding hummingbirds, their porch was the best natural getaway you could find in an urban setting. Every morning my wife and I would see them outside enjoying their green sanctuary.
At that point I couldn't help but wonder if porches might have something more to offer. Now, less than a year later, I have my own porch, and I am currently sitting on it. Sure I've already killed some chrysanthemums, and I bet before I'm through our porch will have been a plant mausoleum more than once. And it's true that I have yet to get the hummingbird feeder up (but we've only lived here a few weeks - geez, give me a chance!), but in time our porch will hopefully be as green as that of the D's.
Despite the sound of air conditioning units and the view of the parking lot, sitting on the porch has become one of my favorite activities. The birds living in the trees beyond the lot seem to be happy, so I'm happy too. It's no Alaskan wilderness; it's not even an area park, but at least sitting out here I'm closer to nature than in my kitchen. No cell phone, no email - just me, my pad of paper, and the birds. It's amazing how much a little nature can bring relaxation and rest to a hectic life.
As subdivisions and skyscrapers erode away what is left of nature in our cities, it becomes harder to remember those times when we enjoyed being alone with the trees, the wildlife, the fresh air, and our thoughts. But the porch can provide a taste of these, just enough so we do not forget. Be warned, though, if walking under my porch: I have not lost my taste for exploding crabapples.
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