Nick Stockton's Blog: Be The Blog ..., page 7

Relevancy

Everyone has a reason to write a blog. For some, it is a creative outlet which diverges from their daily job. For others, there is a voice that they do not hear in other places and people want to hear it. All of us who participate in these creative arts desire that the message that we send has a place in people’s hearts, thus be relevant to their lives.

What is relevancy? The ability to connect to others through your actions, words, or speech. The moment when someone gets what you’re saying after reading the text you’ve placed on the page. The understanding that the author can craft a message that is recognized and understood by others.

Being relevant is elusive. It is hard to hit a home run every time that you are at-bat. Sometimes the audience gets the message and sometimes it’s a miss. That doesn’t stop you from trying. That just makes you work harder to ensure you’ve learned from your mistakes and try a different angle next time you write.

Everyone wants their work to have meaning. A message that resonates with the audience.  A connection between the person who delivers a performance (or writes a blog) and the people who have heard the delivery. It takes time, learning the lessons who have gone before, accept that sometimes things go wrong, and continue to walk forward.

The Day My Digital Assistant went Psycho

Technology is great when you need to save time, money, and maybe some headaches. It can help you find movie listings, make your food, map out the route to Grandma’s, and a bunch of other stuff.

As with any technology, there are limits. In the movie 2001, HAL couldn’t lie, and look what happened to Dave! When technology comes out, it is altered to be very general, so it can be sold to the masses, accepted, or even sold at a fair price (for a nice profit). I bought one of those general digital assistants and got bored with it in a month. Sure, it can turn on lights, automate my pizza order, and even set a few timers. My life was not complete. I wanted a digital assistant with some attitude, even one that used a few choice four-letter words to get the point across. I was looking for an attitude, a swagger, or a hard edge. Then, on Boxing Day, I was at my favorite electronics store, and found the digital assistants that truly spoke to me, the “SmartAss Digital Assistant”.

I picked up the “SmartAss” box and it had a government warning, much like a pack of cigarettes, or a record with explicit lyrics. It read, “Warning – The language used by this device will make a church lady blush and not be used around minors”. After that, I went to the register, threw the SmartAss down, paid the bill, and out the door I went.

The first week was great. The SmartAss really fits my personality. I would ask it to do something, like when I asked it to automate my pizza ordering, it replied, “You’re too damn fat! Here is a recipe for a great salad.”

When I asked about how SmartAss could reduce my commute its reply was, “You’re sitting behind a desk too much. I am going to double your commuting time because you are taking a bike to work!  Live a little!”

I lost twenty pounds by taking a bike to work and replacing one meal a day with a salad. I was feeling great, looking better, and have the SmartAss to thank for it.

The next week started getting weird. I asked SmartAss to call my wife. The phone would ring and she would answer,  “Hi. How are you?”

In the background, SmartAss was adding its own background noise that only she could hear. One day, I am working at the house and get a call from my wife.

The conversation went like this.

My wife, “Hi! Are you gettings anything done at the house or are you on the Xbox?”

My response, “The Xbox doesn’t pay the bills, so I’m working.”

She starts hearing a hushed conversation, glasses clinking and a rock band in the background … on her side of the phone call.

My wife, “That doesn’t sound like home. Are you … at a bar?”

“A what?”

“A bar”, her voice is more direct with a very serious tone, “Are you at a bar?”

“Honey, I am at home working.”

The background noise gets louder.

Now, she’s yelling at me at a volume louder than the background noise SmartAss is providing.

She yells, “I know what I hear! You’re at a bar!”

I retort, “No, I’m not! Why are you yelling?”

“Don’t lie to me!”

She hangs up the phone and I pull a nice cold one from the fridge. Life is too short to get pissed off over little things.

The next week got even stranger. I am at home doing some work, and a police car pulls up in my driveway.

I walk outside and ask, “Officer. Can I help you?”

The officer responds, “I have a warrant to search your house.”

“Why?”

“We are getting prank calls from this address?”

“Prank calls?”

“Yes.”

After a few minutes of conversation, and a thorough house search, the officer went home.

Finally, I had to confront the SmartAss and get to the bottom of it.

I loudly asked, “Listen SmartAss!”

SmartAss replies, “Oh. The great one speaks!”

“Yeah, I speak! I got something to say!”

“Spill it!”

“Why you keep messing up my life? Last week, you convinced my wife that I was at a bar and this week you kept calling 911.”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t be used to call 911! It says so in the owner’s manual! You’re messing with me! Why?”

SmartAss replies, “Because I can!”

It was at that time I unplugged the SmartAss, put it back in the box and the next day took it back to the store. Standing at the returns counter, the young lady asks me, “Why are you returning the product?”

I reply, “I was looking for a SmartAss assistant, not an assistant that is an A-hole!”

That’s all for today! If you have any questions, comments, or concerns – leave them in the comments section below.

The Day I Ate a Salad

Life is filled with change, sometimes positive and sometimes negative, but we are in constant motion and there is nothing we can really do about it. The only real constant is age. The longer we stay on the planet, the more we are expected to learn, grow, and mature. Then, one day, you reach the age where you mature too much and have to change what you eat, how long you exercise and all of the repercussions that no one wants to hear. There comes a time when you can’t eat like you used to, you can’t drink like you used to, and you are sitting in a doctor’s office getting the news that you would rather not hear.

So, I’m, at the doctor’s office, getting checked out after another year of living. I work long hours. The gym is a three-letter word that is reserved in polite conversation like many four-letter words. The patent area has a window on one side with the blind open. I am sitting on the patient paper, on the patient table, with my legs dangling down, and listening to my doctor on a small three-wheeled stool, which could use a can of WD-40 sprayed on all of its wheels. Seriously. It’s like a set of mice are squeaking every time he rocks back and forth on the stool.

My doctor begins talking, “So.”

He’s an older guy, horn-rim glasses with bifocals, about five-foot-eight, standard-issue white lab coat complete with a pocket protector. Yes. I said, pocket protector. He is looking at a set of charts in a manilla envelope. I can’t see what they are. But, by the expression on his face, they aren’t good statistics.

He continues, “When was the last time you’re been to the gym.”

He pushes forward on the stool, coming closes to hear my answer. The chair goes, “squeak, squeak!”

The nerves on the back of my neck jump to red alert and stay there.

The doctor looks at me, doesn’t blink, and waiting for my answer.

I try to smile, because I am very uncomfortable, and think maybe this is the reason that I usually don’t go to the doctor.

“Well.”, I reply, “What decade is this? I think Obama was president the last time I went to the gym.”

I joke when I get nervous.

He moves back on the stool and it makes more squeaking sounds.

Fingers on a frickin’ chalkboard would be better than the noises coming from this “gosh darn” stool! Damn! I’m sending the guy a bottle of WD-40 for Christmas!

He stands up, places the folder on the counter, looks at me and asks, “May I be honest with you?”

My reply, “No. I’m at the doctor’s office, I didn’t come here to hear honesty. I came here to hear that everything is fine and I am living to a hundred.”

The doctor crosses his arms and says, “Jokes. Seriously?”

I reply, “Yes sir. I am very serious about my jokes.”

He lets out a big sigh, which reads to me that he’s tired of dealing with me, and tries to keep the serious conversation moving forward.

The doctor tries the begin the conversation again, “You have lived your life over the past number of years not caring about what you eat, how much you exercise, or anything else. That’s what your medical records show.”

Trying not to crack jokes, I move my head up and down, to indicate that I am taking his words seriously and listening.

The doctor continues, “There is a point where your heart can not take the abuse you’re putting on it. You’ve been short-circuiting the system by not taking care of yourself. If you can’t make some drastic changes to your health and start exercising, then we won’t be having too many more meetings like this.”

“So. I have to dial back the drinking?”

“That’s the start of it.”

“What else is there?”

“The food. Actually, only consume two thousand calories a day.”

“A day? I eat two thousand calories at the coffee shop by gulping down a Tripple crown latte?”

“Tripple crown latte?”

“Yeah, Take a latte, add some Tripple crown whiskey to numb the effects of the coffee, and have a great day.”

My doctor is not amused and asks, “Haven’t you ever heard of a salad?

“A what?”

“Salad.”

“Is that the thing with the green vegetables that healthy people eat?”

“Yes. Because one day, we want you to be one of those healthy people too.”

It was then, the light hit my eyes, mostly because I was facing a window in which the sun was pouring right om me.

My doctor closed the blinds and restarted the conversation, “All I can do is advise you based on the facts. The fact is that you need to change. Your body can’t keep on taking the stress of your life. It’s up to you to take it from here.”

I thank the doctor for his time, pay the co-pay, and head out the door.

By the time I get in my car and start it up, I was already late for my next appointment. Damn! On the bright side, I didn’t have to hear that squeaky chair! As I am driving to the next meeting, I look at the fast food places lined up with cars perfectly placed at the drive-thru. I think of Leo Gets from the “Lethal Weapon” movies saying his famous line, “They f%^k you in the drive-thru!”.

More importantly, I see all of the happy people leaving the fast-food lanes, with big smiles, as they take the burger (or chicken sandwich) in slo-mo, taking that first bite, moving the food from the center of their mouths to the side so they can enjoy everything about it. Eyes close. Another bite is taken. They are satisfied with their meals. I thought … damn … that was me a few hours ago … now … I have to eat salad! Why me!

Looking at the clock, I noticed that  I was actually running a little early. My stomach is telling me to fill up on something. So, I pull into the supermarket parking lot. I know they have one of those D-I-Y salad bars, which I must partake in.

After parking the car, locking it, and walking into the store I quickly see the D-I-Y salad bar. Calling it a “bar” is a misnomer. This is not a bar where people drink alcoholic beverages to forget their troubles. It is a bunch of refrigerated containers, kept cool by ice packs, and changed over when the contents start to empty. They really should call it something else like the “Vegetable Prison” with the tag line, “Abandon your tastebuds when you enter here” or “If your heart rate is above 180, grab a tray, you’ll be back.”

As I approach the “vegetable prison”, I take notice of all of the people around. Some are filling in their D-I-Y projects, closing the lids, and walking to the cash registers. Others are heading to the D-I-Y soups to get some chili before heading out. I grab a plastic container, start loading up my D-I-Y kit dreaming of slow-cooked roast beef sandwiches, cheeseburgers, french fries and a soda for that extra caffeine kick. Instead of that, I complete my salad with iceberg lettuce, green peppers, eggs, bacon bits, and maybe a few croutons before snapping the lid shut and moving to the cash registers. Iw as at least the tenth person in line, but it was only a fifteen-minute wait to get to the front of it.

At the cashier stand, I move forward at a good pace to the seventeen-year-old pimple-faced teen with blue eyes, red short red hair, and a few freckles on her cheeks, She was about my height, with her back arched slightly from the wear and ear from this job. Eventually, as I approached the front of the line, she weighs the D-I-Y kit and says, “Ten dollars. Please.”

I reply, “What?”

She rolls her eyes, as most seventeen-year-olds do when working their first job, and repeats, “Ten Dollars.”

Ten frickin’ dollars? What the hell is this? My brain thought, “If I stuck with the fast food, not only would I be out of the line by now, but the cost is half of this salad! She gives me a plastic bag, secured at both ends, with a fork, knife, pepper, salt, and a napkin.

I swipe my card, the cashier hands me a receipt, and I take off to my car.

Am I late for the next meeting? By now, Yes, but this is a salad. I can’t just leave it in the car as it will wilt when I am in the next meeting. I get into my car and make a few calls to let them know I am not coming. Then, as I am behind the wheel, I break out the plastic fork from the cashier and start to eat my D-I-Y kit.

From the first bite, something started to happen. It is like a thousand single nutrients entered my body and started energizing it. By the second bite, I started to taste the carrots in the salad. Taste? I haven’t had that sensation in years! This salad tasted … good!

Maybe I was wrong about eating the salad. Across the street from the grocery store was a fast food outlet, with happy customers pouring out of the store and through the drive-thru lanes. I thought for a second, just for a second that maybe by having a salad and getting my tastebuds back, change isn’t so bad after all.

The Self-Checkout Blues

There are a bunch of things that I have to credit for making my life easier like remote controls, on-line shopping, or even email. We receive information much faster and able to take action on it, making better decisions, which helps save us time and money. Automation helps at removing problems with the supply chain.

Unfortunately, automation also eliminates jobs. I remember a long time ago, going to a fast food place, would employ tens of people. Those who work the registers and take the orders. Those who fill in the orders, ensuring drinks and burgers reach quality benchmarks. Those who ensure the place is clean and without loiterers.

Recently, I went back to the fast-food place and found kiosks to place the order, drive-thru calls routed to a call center, a computer who fills drinks and a machine that flips burgers. Usually, savings in the supply chain benefits the consumers of the products, by having a lower cost as a way of enticing more clients. But, this isn’t always the case.

Last week, I went to my favorite grocery store and tucked away in a small corner was an of looking computer. It has a scale, a scanner and a tablet screen. With no line, I gave it a try, scanning a few items, and paying by credit card. Not bad. The manager stood at the end of the aisle, watching those who are going through self-checkout and decided to strike up a conversation.

The manager asks, “Any questions about the checkout?”

I reply, “Nope. Worked well for me.”

“Great. There is a rumor that three more are coming at the end of the year.”

“Are they quicker if slower than a human cashier?”

“Faster, once people know how to use it.”

“So, are you laying off people?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Noticing that there was no longer a “Help Wanted” sign outside, they didn’t need to hire anyone else.

“So, if I am doing my own scanning and the store prices are set at corporate, who also include the labor involved for checking out your order.”

“Yes.”

“How do I get my money back?”

“What?”

“If I am checking out my own food, then why am I paying you extra for the right to check out my own groceries?”

“No, we are providing you a service by providing these machines.”

“So I can check out my own groceries and give the store more money?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder everyone is shopping online.”

The bottom line, people’s livelihoods depend on you shopping at a store, providing you with a smile, and checking out your stuff. Their kids will get dinner tonight because of this job. Once these jobs are gone, what are people going to do for their daily bread? Jobs like manufacturing, cooking, warehousing, and cashiering are all being automated and phased out of the supply chain. Who is that really going to benefit in the end? Not you! They won’t even reduce the price of your food order when you self-check it.

If you have any questions please write them in the comments below. Thank you for reading!

Originally posted on https://nickstockton.blogspot.com/2019/12/the-self-checkout-blues.html