​
Sometimes, when I’m in the middle of my second hour with customer support and I’m rattling off my account number for the 40th time, I’ll think about the appropriate penalty for the person who set up the system in the first place.
 
I’ve often said that the guy who invented speed bumps should be strapped to the bottom of a sports car chassis and driven over a few of those monsters at high speed. For the people who design websites and medical forms, we need to come up with something decidedly more severe.
 
We’ve all been through the drill. We try to open an account and the system rejects our password because it doesn’t have an ampersand, or because it does, or it has no caps or too many caps or not enough irony. Or we call customer support and we have to enter our account number at least twice before a human being picks up the phone…to ask for our account number.
 
As the customer service rep reads her required script, I try to shorten the process by answering all the questions I know she’s going to ask, but she still goes through the recitation of data points—or risk being fired. I’ll tell her I know she didn’t make up the rules, or the script, but I really, seriously, desperately want to get my hands on the person who is responsible for the extra 35 minutes I’ll spend on this nonsense.
 
It’s the same thing when we’re offline in the doctor’s office, where they hand you four pages of questions to answer while waiting for your appointment. Yes...

...all the information you’re about to give them is the same thing they asked when you contacted them the first time and...

...all of it is already in the portal they made you sign up for when made the appointment, and...

...it’s absolutely certain the doctor will not look at the form after you fill it out,...

...but that’s no reason to let it slide.
 
There’s no way to fix it, as we know, because the nameless and faceless drones who put the hamster wheels in motion left the company a long time ago. Since then, there’s no one on the payroll with a career interest in making their processes more user friendly, or efficient, or sensible.
 
Strapping them to the bottom of a sports car and driving over a speed bump is too good for them, but they aren’t the only ones who come up with rules that make no sense. For instance, who was it that decided:

• All caps in an email is yelling?

 

• People who breathe through their mouths instead of their noses are cretins?

 

• A preposition is something you cannot end a sentence with?

 

• Black and blue clash, but black and green is fine?

 

• All theater rows should be 2.7” higher than the row in front of them, as if everyone was the same height with a 2.7” forehead?

 

• We can only wear white pants, or shoes, between Memorial Day and Labor Day?

 
The world is filled with arbitrary rules that we follow as if they flowed logically from a font of wisdom, including rules we have to comply with in order to get support from the doctors and businesses we frequent. If you know who came up with any of these gems, let me know how to find them. I know a guy with a sports car.
 
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The pastor actually seemed irritated that there were no reporters in the church.
 
“You don’t see The Media covering this,” he said as about a dozen congregants literally took the plunge in their baptisms.
 
And all I could think was, “Even here?”
 
No matter where I am or what the situation is, somebody is going to take a gratuitous swipe at The Media. We haven’t reached the point at which everyone is required to wear a mask, but it seems we all have a media-slap quota that we must meet.
 
Even people in The Media love to pile on, dismissing viewpoints they don’t like as “something The Media wants you to believe.” On the left, they deride the right-wing outlets and websites. On the right, they attack everyone else as “leftist,” “mainstream” or “lamestream.”  And that’s especially weird, because it’s pretty clear there is no single “media” with a single slant or a singular focus. “Media” is a plural word for a reason. In this country, we have left wing and right wing, mainstream and niche, online, broadcast, corporate, social…even retired guys who take up blogging for fun.
 
Within that confused maelstrom of views, The Media is whatever message I don’t like. If I think the message is wrong or the emphasis is misdirected or the timing is bad or my side isn’t supported unconditionally, I’ll blame The Media. If I’m not getting the attention I want, The Media are biased against me. If I’m getting attention that I don’t want, The Media are biased against me. If I’m getting what I want, The Media finally got it right.
 
Meanwhile, as much as we spit on the Fourth Estate, we rely on The Media for about 90% of what we think we know about this world. I’ve never been to India, never attended a session of Parliament, never rode a rocket…but I know at least something about them from reading the daily news. I’ve never attended a BLM march or a Trump rally, never subscribed to a QAnon site or discussed motivations with anarchists. Over the past several years, it’s become more and more clear to all of us that we live in relative bubbles, restricted to a small social and familial sphere, relying on other sources to flesh out our sense of the world.
 
We rely on The Media.
 
I don’t think there’s any other institution that we rely on so intimately and loathe so flippantly as The Media. It might be the one thing that unites people of all faiths, political views, tribes, cities, states and pronouns. We all hate The Media.
 
Actually, this might be a good thing. Buried somewhere in our universal scorn for the people we depend on so much, hidden in the constant sniping at the people who hired fact checkers before anyone had heard of fact checkers, just maybe there is the kernel of cohesion. Perhaps our disdain for The Media can form the spark of unity this country needs so desperately.
 
It’s not ideal, I know. It’s not like we can agree that there’s a Covid pandemic or that Joe Biden is the president or that internet dress is gold, not black, but at least we can agree on one thing: We all hate The Media. And if we can all share in the glow of our hatred for just a few moments, maybe we can begin the healing our nation craves so deeply.
 
It isn’t much, but it’s a start. Join me in shouting, “I hate The Media,” and we can begin the long journey home.
 
Now that you realize Dad Writes is part of The Media, you’ll absolutely want to cancel your subscription. But you can’t cancel until after you’ve clicked here to subscribe. First things first, my friends.
 

 
 

Why I want to be like Theda Bara, plus my brush with the most dangerous pop-up on the internet, among the items rattling around in my dormant mind these days…

1. Did you ever notice that all the really good junk food ends in an O? Cheetos, Doritos, Tostitos, Oreos, Fritos… Is there an official rating organization where the food companies apply for admission to the Esteemed Order of O? And how did pizzo miss the cut?
   
   
2. It’s my one goal in life to become the answer to a crossword puzzle clue. I want to join the ranks of Clara Bow, Ernie Els, Theda Bara, Bela Lugosi, Ruby Dee, and Isao Aoki, among the many people who will live on in the crosswords long after their careers are forgotten. Now all I need is a career.
   
   
3. I’m really upset with the airlines for their new restrictions on service animals. I was almost ready to launch my Rent-a-Python app and now they’ve killed my small business. Wait, are we still allowed to have snakes on the train?
   
   
4. From my apartment in Chicago, I can see more than 1,000 other apartments around my neighborhood. I don’t know these people, don’t know their dreams, don’t know their challenges; actually, I don’t know anything about any of them. Sometimes I think I’m pretty aware of what’s happening around me and, other times, I recognize how much I’m in the dark.
   
   
5. I used to see a guy walking down the street in a pair of flip-flops and wonder what his story was. Now I see a guy with a suit and tie and a briefcase and I wonder, what the heck is his deal?
   
   
6. The people who live next to the train tracks think they’re luckier than the people who live next to the expressway, who think they’re luckier than the people who live by the airport… We all need to feel that we’re better off than the next guy, no matter where we are in the pecking order.
   
   
7. I’ve been thinking about all those friend recommendations I get each day from Facebook. I’ve never heard of most of these people, but Mark Zuckerberg might (might????) know something I don’t. Maybe Facebook knows these people are so desperate for connections that they’ll agree to be friends with an absolute stranger. Or maybe Mr. Zuckerberg realizes that I’m just as desperate.
   
   
8. The most dangerous pop-up I’ve seen reently is the one at the top of this post, asking me if I want to banish news that doesn’t agree with my prejudices. It’s way too easy to fall into an echo chamber without thinking about it. Now we’re invited to become less informed, less open and more polarized. What could possibly go wrong?

 
We’ll never ask you to banish anyone from your news feed at Dad Writes, because we encourage our subscribers to be as well rounded as possible. Join our subscribers by clicking here and we promise to broaden your horizons, sorta.
 

I sure hope nobody finds out that the password for this blog is "PaSsWoRd!" Otherwise, they might sign on as me and post something that you find offensive, demeaning, or borderline mansplaining. So, if you see anything here that gives offense, I was hacked.
 
The same thing applies to written documents. Back in third grade, Eddie Greenboogers learned how to copy my handwriting and continually wrote all kinds of terrible notes that seemed to have my signature, and he has continued doing that until, um, well, he’s still doing it today. So if you see any paper copies of any documents that suggest I wrote something bad, it was absolutely Eddie Greenboogers, not I.
 
Am I safe now? Probably not. In fact, nobody is safe today, because we live in a gotcha world, where a video of your least articulate moment will be shared by all your “friends” and your kindergarten coloring book will become Exhibit A in your public shaming. Or your murder trial, if you end up raising tigers for a living.
 
Life was so simple when our teachers threatened to make a note of our misdeeds in the “permanent record” that would follow us throughout our lives. As with (spoiler alert) Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and those X-ray glasses they advertised in the back of  comic books, our “permanent record” turned out to be more legend than reality, and we all breathed easier as a result.
 
Of course, that was pre-internet and before the time that anyone, anywhere, could dredge up a bloody scent for the posterazzi. Clearly, it’s all gotten out of hand and we need some new rules to make sense of it all.
 
First, we need a statute of limitations for all the perpetrators of racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, anti-American, anti-religious, nasty, vicious, foul, revolting, offensive, nauseating, sickening vile, ghastly, repugnant, inexcusable statements, posts, pictures, texts, e-mails and emojis.
 
I’d give anyone a pass for anything they said before the age of 16. Even if it’s really, really awful, I will accept that the offender is still developing mentally, is overwhelmed by hormones and peer pressure, and has time to grow out of their wretchedness. 
 
After 16 though, your driver’s license comes with the burden of accountability. If you’re old enough to take responsibility for a car, you’re old enough to take responsibility for your actions. Yeah, you’re still a kid, partly, but you’ve been online since you were two and you’ve probably been part of the mob more than a few times, so suck it up and be ready to take the heat.  
 
Along the same line of reasoning, it’s time we rejected all claims of “youthful indiscretions,” which is the favored excuse for people in powerful positions who do terrible things or make terrible statements that, without a doubt, they knew were terrible at the time. And, if they didn’t know, they were pretty damned stupid and they really don’t belong in positions of power in the first place.
 
At the same time, we need some form of parole for people who see the light and change their ways. Maybe we can agree to ignore statements or (most) infractions at least 10 years in the past, if the person has not made similar statements or committed similar infractions since then. With elected officials, C-Suite executives, educators and clergy, I might lengthen that to 15 or 20 years. But if a person goes a decade or more without repeating the sin, it’s likely they don’t represent a current threat.
 
I’m okay if we never forgive someone for murder, rape or child molesting, though. Some things are just too venal for forgiveness on this Earth. Everything else is on the table, though, because we want people to have an incentive to do better and be better.
 
We talk a lot about healing our wounds in this society. Maybe we can start the process by committing less bloodletting.
 
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​​Dining out is pretty close to normal again, which is a continuing source of joy for a guy who’s energized by a noisy joint and really tired of doing his own dishes. Part Two of our celebration…

1. Compared to delivery services in Chicago, going to a restaurant is a gigantic bargain. By the time I’ve paid the delivery fee and the service charges and the tip for the driver, my $15 pizza costs $57.50, and it’s cold.
2. I am comfortable enough with my gluttony to be the only person who orders dessert, so it’s irritating when the waiter comes back with six spoons. Did I say I wanted to share?
3. Alcohol is much better in restaurants and bars than it is at home. I get more lively and animated when I’m drinking in a bar, but having a drink with dinner at home can be kinda sad. That doesn’t stop me, of course, but it’s a bummer.
4. One really great thing about meeting friends for dinner at a restaurant: I don’t need to clean the apartment before they arrive. When we get together at a restaurant, I can leave the laundry basket on the dining room table and I can leave my leftover bagel on the recliner. And they’ll never know what a slob I am, unless they happen to read this post.
5. Is fine dining still a thing and should it be? Could we gush over a perfectly steamed hot dog the same way we do with a flinty wine?
6. I saw a restaurant promoting their brunch with about 200 items, which sounds great until you realize you only like 12 of them and you only have room in your stomach for five. Mostly, you’re paying for the dream.
7. At some places, I always order the same thing because they have a recipe I like and I can’t get anywhere else. There’s probably something else on the menu I’d like, but why take the risk?
8. One thing I’ll never understand is how excited people get about restaurants that serve breakfast all day long. Breakfast food is usually a choice between fried eggs and fried dough, with maybe a bit of fruit on the side for variety. And people want more of this?

 
 
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Now that almost all the restrictions have been lifted and outdoor dining is available pretty much everywhere in the country, I’m rediscovering the joys of never, ever, ever cooking my own food. I’m also rediscovering some of the fascinating questions that come with restaurant visits, including…

1. I used to think I went to restaurants because somebody else did the cooking for me. After eating in for the past year, I now realize the best thing about restaurants is that somebody else does the dishes.
2. Whenever I order something and the waiter tells me, "That’s my favorite entrée," I wonder if he expects me to offer him a fork so he can dig in.
3. We need a six-month moratorium on schools and park districts and churches hitting up their local restaurants for donations. Pretty much every local joint is under water and behind on at least a million payments at this point, so let’s give them a chance to breathe for a while. Actually, let’s make the moratorium 12 months, not six, and require that people eat at the restaurant at least ten times before asking for a handout.
4. The great divide in dining out is whether you want your plate picked up before everyone else is finished. If I'm the last guy eating and everyone's plate is gone, then I'm a pig at a trough. But if everyone sits with dirty plates while I finish…actually I am still a pig at a trough. Never mind.
5. Sometimes, I need to stifle the laughter when the waiter explains, “Tonight, Chef has combined caviar, foie gras and truffles into a puff pastry that tastes exactly like Cheetos. For $57.”
6. In a fancy restaurant, they pick up the appetizer plate and then hand back your dirty knife and fork. But only after the busser has fondled them.
7. Speaking of which, bussers are paid by the plate, not the hour, which is why they keep asking if you are done with your food. At least I hope that’s why they’re asking.
8. I’m really miffed when the server refuses to write down my order and assures me he’ll remember every detail. At my age, I can’t remember anything I’ve said, so I’ll have to take his word for it when he comes back with the kale waffles.

 
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