Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 5

Wouldn’t make a grilled cheese

While visiting Quebec City, we ate dinner at a restaurant known for its incredible shepherd’s pie.

The shepherd’s pie was excellent. It was exactly the way my mother made it.

However, when placing our orders, Clara — who has food sensitivities related to her autism and is in therapy to expand her menu options — asked if the chef could prepare her a grilled cheese.

She really couldn’t eat anything else on the menu.

The server said no, which I found extremely annoying.

Yes, it would be excellent if my daughter could find something to eat on the menu.

Yes, it would be impossible to begin cooking meals not on the menu to accommodate every guest.

‘But if a kid asks for the grilled cheese, you have a choice:

Make the damn grilled cheese, which will take all of three minutes, and for which you absolutely have the necessary ingredients.Refuse the child’s request and make the meal far less enjoyable for her and probably everyone else at the table.

This restaurant chose the latter, and that is exactly what happened. Clara ordered a cheese platter and found some of the cheese and crackers to be tasty, but the experience created unnecessary stress and consternation for her and us.

And had an adult requested the grilled cheese?

Sure, say no. Adults can fend for themselves, but this was a kid, on vacation, looking for something that she could enjoy, and given her limited options at the moment through no fault of her own, an accommodation could have been made.

When I managed McDonald’s, we were occasionally asked to make a grilled cheese or “Cheese Delight,” and yes, it was annoying to insert a non-menu item into the production cycle, but it was worth the minor annoyance to make a customer happy.

Had the customer asked for shrimp scampi or blueberry pancakes, I would have explained that these things were beyond our ability to achieve, but a simple grilled cheese?

Toasted bread and cheese?

You need to be a pretty pathetic or an incredibly snobby chef to refuse that request.

Of all the restaurants we ate at while on vacation — and it was a lot — our shepherd’s pie restaurant could have been one of the best. The food was fantastic, the service was otherwise excellent, and the restaurant offered a few delightful moments to make the meal and experience special.

But my daughter couldn’t eat much because of a lack of flexibility, which struck me as a stupid decision.

When a business has the chance to do something small to make a customer very happy, they are foolish not to. The restaurant business isn’t easy. Profit margins are slim, employee turnover is high, and the state of the economy can wreak havoc on your sales.

Small acts of kindness go a long way to building loyalty, establishing goodwill, and making a customer believe that they are paying for a service delivered by people who care.

This can be the difference between a business staying in business and being forced to close its doors.

A grilled cheese is a tiny ask in the restaurant world, especially when that request is made by a young person.

Refusing it was a mistake.

I don’t need this

“Really?” was my thought when I stepped up to these urinals in Quebec City and was greeted with this image.

I appreciate it when businesses find innovative ways to do things, but sometimes their attempts don’t quite work out.

Pilot message

When I boarded the plane in Philadelphia yesterday for the second leg of my trip to Traverse City, Michigan, the plane was incredibly hot. I sat down, buckled my seatbelt, and waited for the air conditioning to turn on and cool the plane, but for more than 15 minutes, while the plane was fully boarded, we sat at the gate, sweltering and still.

Finally, the air conditioning kicked on and the plane began backing away from the gate. A few minutes later, we took off, about 15 minutes behind schedule.

About 20 minutes later, once we’d reached our cruising altitude, the pilot’s voice came on the PA. He apologized for not speaking to us sooner and explained that the plane’s auxiliary power unit, which operates, among other things, the air conditioning, is broken, so they were trying to find a way to get the plane started and the AC running without that system, which is typically used to also start the engines.

He was also dealing with “a bunch of new people on the ground,” which made things more difficult.

“Rather than jumping on the PA and explaining the situation,” he said, “I thought it would be better to use my time getting the air conditioning on and getting the plane in the air.”

Then he advised us on the weather in Traverse City, Michigan, where we were headed, and our projected arrival time.

This was a stupid bit of communication.

As a passenger, I don’t need to hear that:

A part of the plane I am now flying in is broken, even if that part is not essential for flight and causes no danger whatsoever.“A bunch of new people” serviced my plane before takeoff.

I am not a nervous flier, but if I were, these two facts would not have made me happy, and even as a worry-free flier, I didn’t like hearing them.

What the hell was this guy thinking?

Broken parts and new ground crew are not things passengers need to know about.

Ever.

I believe in truth, transparency, authenticity, and vulnerability, but I also believe in telling the right story at the right moment. Knowing that flying makes many people nervous or even afraid, announcements made by pilots and flight attendants should seek to instill confidence in their passengers.

We don’t need to know everything.

I also think it was stupid to suggest that the 14 seconds required for a PA announcement — apologizing for the cabin’s temperature and explaining that it would only take a few minutes to correct the problem and get the plane underway —were instead used to work on the problem.

A three-sentence PA announcement would’ve cost him almost nothing and would’ve settled the nerves of passengers who were sweating in their seats and wondering how long our delay would be.

Happily, the flight was uneventful, and I’m writing these words from a hotel room in Traverse City, where I will board another plane later today to head home.

Hopefully, the plane is operating well when I board today, but if it’s not and a wing needs tightening or an engine needs to be jump-started, I don’t want to know about these things.

I also don’t need to know windspeed and direction at my destination, which pilots are often fond of relaying to passengers. Air temperature and possible perceptions are great, but knowing that winds are out of the southwest at 13 knots has absolutely no meaning to me.

Why are they always telling us this useless bit of information?

But at least windspeed and direction won’t frighten a nervous passenger or leave us in the dark about possible delays.

The greatness of the half-entrée

I’m sure a restaurateur or chef will explain why this idea is unrealistic, unprofitable, and stupid, but I don’t care.

It’s not.

It’s a great idea. Tremendous, even.

My idea:

Half-entrées.

Allow customers to order two half-entrées.

Want the prime rib and the spaghetti carbonara?

Order one-half of each.

No more, “I want the chicken pot pie, but I’d also love a fish taco.”

Now you can have a little bit of both.

I’d even be willing to pay an extra $5 for this option. Maybe even $10.

It’s worth the price to get a couple of outstanding menu options, especially if you’re on vacation or out of town and unlikely to dine in the restaurant again.

I’d also strongly recommend putting some thought into the plating of these two half-entrées. No one wants two full-size plates placed before them, nor is there room on the table if everyone orders a half-entree (which you know they would if the option was available), so perhaps the restaurant could invest in plates with two clearly defined sections, with an elevated divider between them so the barbecue sauce from my chicken doesn’t mix with my grilled salmon.

This is a fabulous idea.

One of the most challenging parts of dining in a restaurant is making the right menu choice.
Choosing the dinner that will make you happiest and most satisfied.
Avoiding entrée envy.

Often, this comes down to one or two choices, but it doesn’t need to.

No longer do you need to look across the table at your dinner companion and think, “This duck is delicious, but that beef stroganoff looks so good, too. I wish I could’ve ordered both.”

Now you can.

At least if someone is brave and bold enough to pursue this brilliant idea.

 

What makes an American?

A recent YouGov poll asked Americans, “What makes an American?”

The most agreed-upon characteristic?

“Obeys US laws.”

Not my first choice, but not a bad one. At least it makes sense.

The second most commonly agreed-upon characteristic is “Supports the U.S. Constitution” — something that 86 percent of respondents believe is “Very important” or “Somewhat important” to being considered an American.

“Supports the U.S. Constitution” would’ve been my first choice, so I’m happy to see it rates so high, but I can’t help but wonder what the other 16% of Americans are thinking when it comes to the Constitution.

They don’t think the U.S. Constitution is a good idea? They don’t believe in the Bill of Rights?

Were they hoping to bear even more arms?

Enjoy less religious freedom?

Or maybe they find it ridiculous that two US states have fewer people than Washington, DC, yet residents of the District of Columbia have no representation in Congress.

Maybe some of the 16% who don’t support the Constitution reside in Washington, DC, which would at least make sense. If I were an American who didn’t have a Representative or Senator serving my interests in Congress, I’d be annoyed with the Constitution, too. When Wyoming has 20% fewer people than Washington, DC, but has two Senators and one Representative in Congress, and Washingtonians have none, the Constitution has a problem that needs correcting.

Despite this, it’s still a pretty fabulous document.

Here’s the most disturbing finding in the poll:

18% of Americans identify “Being white” as a necessary characteristic of being American.

That’s a hell of a lot of racists.

And this isn’t the kind of implicit racism that makes a person fine with black or brown people as long as they don’t live next door.

It’s not the kind of racism that enrages a person to learn that a black or brown person has received some sort of preferential treatment because their great-great-great-grandparents were owned like livestock, except they were also routinely raped and murdered, so perhaps they and their family didn’t have the same opportunity as white people to accumulate generational wealth.

No, these aren’t the subtle racists. These are real, honest-to-goodness bigots. These are the monsters who say, “If you’re not white, you’re not a real American.”

In other words, white supremacists, though I suspect many would bristle at that accurate label.

The breakdown of these numbers is also telling:

Three percent of Democrats think “Being white” is very important, and four percent think it’s somewhat important.

That’s 7% of Americans who believe this awful thing.

Conversely, 20% percent of Republicans think “Being white” is very important, and 11% think it’s somewhat important.

This means that almost one in three Republicans view “Being white” as an important characteristic of being American, which is to say:

What the hell has happened to the Republican Party?

Since when did explicit racism become a dominant feature of the GOP?

On a positive note, two-thirds of the Republican Party believe that non-white citizens should also be thought of as Americans, which is admittedly a low bar, but it’s apparently an important one, at least today.

Sadly, the 18% of all Americans who believe you need to be white to be American — and the 31% of Republicans who believe this — have always existed, and they will likely exist for a long time. But there was a time, not so long ago, when these hateful, ignorant monsters mostly lived under rocks, keeping their vile and stupid beliefs to themselves and their other hateful little bigots.

Today, this kind of racism is more openly expressed thanks to the transformation of the Republican Party and, in some ways, a large swath of America, by the MAGA movement.

This isn’t to say that most Republicans are racists. I have many friends who are registered Republicans and are good, decent people.

But if a Republican attends a GOP rally or political convention and looks to their left and right, they should know that one of those two people standing beside them will likely be a racist who believes “Being white” is an essential part of being American.

At least according to the poll.

As someone who thinks two rational, productive political parties are good for American democracy, this is a problem in desperate need of a solution.

“Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend” — the song!

A band named Soup wrote and recorded a song titled “Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend,” based upon my novel of the same name.Twelve years ago.Little did I know.Soup is a post-rock band from Trondheim, Norway, founded in 2004 by the Norwegian-based multi-instrumentalist Erlend Viken.I can’t say I love this song, but Charlie does, and he has far more musical talent than me.Regardless, it was a thrill and an honor to discover this song.

Just another tree. Kind of.

On our hike to Montmorency Falls in Quebec, Elysha stopped us on the trail to point out this tree, just on the edge of the boardwalk.

It’s a real thing. Not manmade in any way.

Just a naturally occurring growth on an otherwise ordinary tree.

I suspect Elysha wasn’t the first to notice this tree’s unique feature, but how has someone not come along and removed this phallic projection?

Maybe Canadians are just better people, at least when it comes to preserving nature in all its pornographic oddities.

 

“That’s my time”

A bit of advice for all comics or performers of any kind:

The last three words that you speak onstage should never be, “That’s my time.”

It’s a repetitive, boring, and unoriginal way to end your set. It’s also how many, if not the majority, of comics end their set, which is precisely why you should not.

If you sound like everyone, you sound like no one.

It’s also the final impression you leave with an audience, and it’s a lousy one. It’s not funny, and it means nothing. It’s three stupid words that simply report on the amount of time you’ve been speaking.

It’s dumb.

And yes, I know these three little words have been used to end sets for a long, long time, and given my limited standup experience, one might wonder:

“Who the hell are you to suggest an industry norm is stupid?”

Answer:

I’m Matthew Dicks, and I’m absolutely, positively correct. You don’t need to be doing two dozen sets per week to realize “That’s my time” is stupid. I knew it before I ever started doing standup, and I know it now that I’ve been doing standup.

Find something better.

Those last few words might really make a difference.

For example:

After enjoying a meal in a restaurant in Quebec City a few nights ago, our server processed the check at the table, handed me the receipt, and said, “Thank you. See you tomorrow,” then quickly pivoted and walked away.

Elysha and I laughed aloud. It was unexpected, confident, and amusing. It was made even funnier by the fact that the server knew we were visiting the city, leaving soon, and were unlikely to eat at the same restaurant twice.

It was clever and cheeky, designed to elicit a response, and it did.

“See you tomorrow” was an original, amusing, and meaningful way to end a meal.

Those three little words made us laugh.

Not a bad way to end a set.

So when the light comes on, signaling your time is up, or the clock on the wall is approaching zero, at the very least, land your last joke — funny or not — and thank the audience.

Then walk offstage.

Thanking the audience might also be unoriginal, but at least it has some genuine meaning. Those two little words express an actual sentiment:

“Thank you for listening to my funny and not-so-funny jokes without throwing things at me or heckling me.”

It’s not a great way to end a set, but it’s a hell of a lot better than “That’s my time.”

Walking in the footsteps of my grandparents

We were vacationing in Quebec City for about three days when it finally hit me:

This is where my mother’s side of the family lived not that long ago.

I should’ve known this, since I knew it, but it simply never occurred to me at the beginning of this trip. Then I found myself eating meat pie and baked beans for breakfast and shepherd’s pie for dinner. I heard the people of Quebec speaking Québécois and sounding just like my grandmother, grandfather, and great-grandmother.

They even look like my grandparents.

Of course.

Also, duh.

This is the land of my people.

Happily, in the midst of the trip, after reading a post about our wedding song being played in Montreal, my Aunt Diane — sister of my mother — reached out to catch me up on some family history, including this remarkable story:

“You may not know that your grandfather made a plea, when your grandmother was dying of cancer in 1962 (and given 6 months to live), that if she were cured, they would visit Quebec City and the shrine of St. Anne every year for the rest of their lives. She recovered, and they went to Quebec City and St. Anne’s every year until my dad could no longer drive there.”

I had no idea.

I had never heard this story before, but after visiting the Montmorency Falls and Ile d’Orleans (where my family’s roots can be traced back to 1666), we drove up the river to visit the shrine of St. Anne, mother to Mary, who was mother to Jesus.

I expected to find a small church and an even smaller shrine, perhaps in a town where one of my ancestors once lived, but instead, we found the most beautiful, majestic church we’ve ever seen.

“One of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen,” Elysha said.

It was unspeakably magnificent and enormous beyond measure, making the Notre Dame Basilica in Montreal pale in comparison. Filled with elaborate mosaics, stained glass windows, ornate floors, ornamental ceilings, and so much more.

It would’ve been worth the trip to see the church even if I hadn’t known my grandmother and grandfather made an annual pilgrimage to this place for more than thirty years.

I wondered as we drove to the church:

What makes two people decide to travel hundreds of miles every summer to visit a church? I know my grandfather made a promise to God, but he also had six kids and a full-time job.

It would’ve been understandable to miss a year or two.

Or six.

What made a couple undertake this pilgrimage year after year after year?

Now I know.

As Elysha said:

“You could spend a lifetime just studying the art in this place and never finish.”

But the best part for me was walking through the enormous doorway at the front of the church, knowing that my grandparents, who passed away almost three decades ago, once walked through this same portal again and again and again.

I tried to imagine them — younger, more vibrant, and filled with gratitude and appreciation — entering this building again and again and being overwhelmed by its beauty each time, just as I was upon entering the first time.

Connecting the past with the present is something I constantly seek to do:

Live in the moment while relentlessly trying to understand how this moment is the result of so many moments that came before it.

While visiting St. Anne’s Church, I had a chance to do just that:

Bring the past and the present together. Link them in a singular moment of awe and wonder. Walk in my grandparents’ footsteps, and for a moment, see the world as they did.

To think I almost missed it.

We need to tell our stories:

To our friends, our colleagues, our spouses, our children, and yes, our grandchildren.

Where do all the rebels go?

A question I ask myself all the damn time is this:

“Where did all the rebels go?”

While I certainly know some people who remain rebels today, I have watched the people of my generation slowly but relentlessly conform to conventional expectations and traditional beliefs that were once viewed as heretical and awful.

How did so many people stop fighting and fall into line with so many others, willing to follow a monster with a desire for authoritarian power?

Recent research, presented in Scientific American, offers an interesting answer:

When people view the world as a dangerous and threatening place, they inherently search for ways to regain control. Placing trust in a strong man or dictator and becoming an authoritarian follower is one way to reestablish a sense of control.

Research has shown that authoritarian followers share three key tendencies:

They obey authority figures from their in-group (called authoritarian submission)They punish rule breakers (authoritarian aggression)They rigidly endorse long-held traditions (conventionalism).

Findings in this Scientific American study and others reveal that authoritarian followers express a range of anti-democratic attitudes, including anti-gay prejudice, anti-immigrant attitudes, generalized prejudice, nationalism, and the belief in conspiracies.

Crucially, the social, economic, and physical environment also matters. Low levels of openness to experience, coupled with an insecure and threatening environment, lead people to chronically view the world as a dangerous and threatening place, even when recent FBI data indicates that crime has been at its lowest levels since the 1960s in all ten categories that they measure.

Reality is irrelevant if you’re afraid or have been made to feel afraid, as so many Americans are today.

When we think that the world is unstable and unsafe, we search for ways to regain control.

Unfortunately for our democratic institutions, placing trust in a dictator and becoming an authoritarian follower is one way to reestablish a sense of control.

In other words:

It’s nice to know that Daddy is in control. Rather than allowing for nuance, long-term planning, investment in institutions, disagreement,  and discourse, frightened people want to sit in the backseat of the car, stare at their phones, and let someone else with a big stick take the wheel.

Maybe they’re afraid of their precarious economic position in life.

Maybe they’re afraid of brown people who don’t look or sound like them.

Maybe they’re afraid of their sons or daughters outing themselves as gay or bisexual or transgender.

Maybe they’re afraid that enemies of our country, foreign and domestic, will commit acts of terrorism on our soil and kill their loved ones.

Either way, they are afraid. Maybe some of their fear is justified, but mostly, it’s born from bigotry, inadequacy, ignorance, and an attachment to conventionalism, tradition, and the past.

Wondering why Uncle Bill supports Donald Trump?

He’s probably frightened. He won’t admit it, but that’s because acknowledging fear requires courage, and remember, he’s frightened. He can’t say how he really feels because he’s a scaredy-cat.

Wondering why your brother-in-law spouts MAGA talking points at Thanksgiving?

First, he’s a selfish dumbass for bringing up politics on a holiday, but he’s probably also afraid. Afraid that a Mexican family might move in next door or his son might decide that he’d be happier if he dressed in women’s clothing. Maybe he’s terrified that his daughter might become a militant vegan who covers her roof with solar panels because that doesn’t make sense to him.

None of this understanding makes Americans who freely support an authoritarian any better, but at least it brings context to a confusing reality.

These MAGA-loving, authoritarian-seeking Americans are still numbskulls, and I still think they’re ignorant of basic facts and irrefutable data, but I can at least feel empathy for them because they are small, frightened, little people inside, speaking loudly, stupidly, and hatefully to hide their fear.

They may act tough, but it’s only because they are frightened souls who want Daddy to take charge.

It’s pathetic, but at least it’s a little more understandable.