Sam Barry's Blog, page 8

Flying the "Friendly Skies" of United

Recently my 17-year-old daughter Laura was flying home from Atlanta, where she was attending People to People, Global Youth Forum. She was flying United Airlines, and the schedule had her landing in Denver for a connecting flight home to San Francisco. The United flight from Atlanta to Denver was late, and although it was 15 minutes before take-off when she arrived at the gate, she and a number of other people in the same predicament were not allowed to board the aircraft.

That's where the fun really started. It was nighttime in Denver and there was no United representative at the gate to offer any assistance. In fact, there was no United representative to be seen anywhere in the terminal. Laura was told that there was no flight until the next day, at which point she wisely called her parents. After endless waits on hold, in which we were informed our conversation might be recorded for quality control (note to United: the quality stank), we explained the situation to the United "customer service" representatives. We asked what the airline would do for our daughter, who was stranded in increasingly empty terminal 1.500 miles away from us. Our attempts to have her accommodated for the night in a safe place were greeted with a response of, in essence, "tough luck for your daughter."

Of course they said this in various other, slightly more polite, but no more helpful ways. Mostly they didn't have any idea what she should do, although one of them suggested she should get a hotel. How a 17-year-old would get a hotel room—it is my understanding that minors are not allowed to rent rooms on their own—and more importantly, how she would get back in the airport without a valid ticket the next day, was not explained. Perhaps there are good answers to these questions—the United people just weren't interested in helping us or our daughter work them out. In fact, the United people made it very clear that they wanted us to go away and stop bothering them with our pesky problem. They repeatedly tried to get us off the telephone. And this wasn't the case with just one representative; we spoke to a number, including a couple supervisors, all of whom made it clear that this was our problem, and some of whom implied that we were negligent parents. And perhaps we were; had we known how irresponsible United could be about their passengers' well-being, we certainly would have thought twice about allowing our daughter to fly with them.

Eventually, the sheer determination of Laura's mom Pat resulted in someone at United contacting the supervisor at Denver airport, who met Laura at the gate, told her she was scheduled to be on an early flight the next morning, gave her two blankets and a pillow, and walked away. Had we not persevered, Laura wouldn't have gotten this much guidance or comfort for her evening sleeping on the floor in the deserted Denver terminal.

Fortunately, Laura is now home safe and sound. Our faith in United, though, is severely damaged. And there's another thing United has managed to damage: "Rhapsody in Blue" by George Gershwin, United's theme song. Being forced to listen to this great piece on endless holds in-between unhelpful, and at times even rude customer service agents who don't give a damn about their customers' welfare should be illegal. I love that music, and now I associate with a bunch of jerks.

Thanks for everything, United "It's time to fly" Airlines. Why don't y'all to take a flying . . .

If the Shoe Fits . . .

 I just spent a week in Atlanta at the American Academy of Religion (AAR). These are America's preeminent religion experts—the people who teach at our great universities and college—and I was there to sell HarperOne's books, talk to our authors, and scout for new ones.The AAR people are fashion failures. Well, that isn't really fair. The men are fashion failures. Some of the women ...

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If the Shoe Fits . . .

I just spent a week in Atlanta at the American Academy of Religion (AAR). These are America's preeminent religion experts—the people who teach at our great universities and college—and I was there to sell HarperOne's books, talk to our authors, and scout for new ones.

The AAR people are fashion failures. Well, that isn't really fair. The men are fashion failures. Some of the women actually know how to dress, and occasionally the exotic garb of someone from overseas lit up the hall. But in general, academics look as though they dress in an unlighted closet every morning—and I fit right in.

The other day I was ironing one of my shirts when I discovered two of those little plastic thingamabobs that the manufacturer inserts in the corners of the collar to maintain its shape in the store. This wouldn't be that unusual, except that I have already owned this particular shirt for more than a year, and have worn it probably fifty times. When I find an article of clothing I like, I stick to it, by gum, often until it disintegrates. Also, since my method of washing clothes is to put huge loads in the washing machine in a super-size, cold-water wash, the shirt's color—originally an attractive, slightly metallic blue as I remember it—is now leaning more to the grey color that all my clothing takes on in time. After I "wash" the clothes I take them up in a hamper to the bedroom, where in theory they will be folded and put in drawers or hung on hangers. In reality, they remain in these baskets, sometimes for months. Each morning I claw through the tangled mess, dumping half of it on the floor as I frantically search for matching socks, or at least two socks that could be mistaken for a match if no one looks too closely. Also, I do a lot of ironing.

I have lived in some very fashion-conscious places in my life: New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Omaha—but I have never managed to grasp the concept of how to connect the fashion awareness around me—the stores, the snappily dressed people—with my actual person. Sometimes, in fact, I think I would be better suited to a more rural life—living, perhaps, in a cave—where all that was expected of me is that I would, in fact, wear clothing in the presence of other people. Or not.

At my own wedding I forgot to bring my good shoes, and after solving this problem, my brother Dave stopped me from walking down the aisle with the Macy's sticker still on the sleeve of my suit. Not that I was ashamed—we got it for a pretty good price. However, this wasn't something that needed to be advertised at that particular moment.

Like all fashion-challenged people, I justify my bad taste and poor judgment by saying I am not a materialist, I am not interested in all the beautiful people, I rise above these things because I am thinking about more important matters than youth, beauty, money, style, and so forth. These rationalizations are completely ridiculous: if my fairy godmother showed up and waved a wand, making me handsome, well-dressed, and a prince, I wouldn't turn her down.

The Power of Music

Music is the most powerful art form. More powerful, even, than mime.Sorry, that was a cheap shot at an easy target that can't talk back. But when it comes to emotional, physical power—to moving people, to holding sway over the human heart and spirit—music is the supreme art.I know this from personal experience. All my life there has been a lot of music in my home. I don't mean we were ...

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The Power of Music

Music is the most powerful art form. More powerful, even, than mime.

Sorry, that was a cheap shot at an easy target that can't talk back. But when it comes to emotional, physical power—to moving people, to holding sway over the human heart and spirit—music is the supreme art.

I know this from personal experience. All my life there has been a lot of music in my home. I don't mean we were always listening to Great Music; nor do I mean that my family is exceptionally talented at music. Neither string quartets or the Marsalis family regularly played in my living room. In fact, most of the music has been decidedly lowbrow, and while some of the songs were marvelous, many of them were forgettable.

There were the old favorites, albums for the Christmas holidays—some of these were unbelievably schlocky, but we loved them. There were a smattering of show tune albums—to this day brief snatches of songs from "The Music Man" and "Oklahoma" come popping out of my mouth, unconnected to any event in my day or even the rest of the song. There were the tunes my parents loved and tunes each of their kids liked. When I became a parent there was new batch of music—the music parents buy to entertain and educate their children, and then the music my kids discovered on their own. It was important to me to instill an appreciation of certain music in my children, and so of course they ignored everything I said. However, they are music lovers, so I accomplished something.

We make our own music, too. My mother could play one song on the piano: "Glowworm." She enjoyed the absurdity of knowing only that one song and played it with great gusto. I still have the sheet music. Over the years we've sung and played in our living room, in basements, driving in cars, hiking, at summer camp, church, at school, playing games, and at demonstrations. We sing for holidays and birthdays and just because there's a party going on. Sometimes we sing with the conviction that singing itself can change the world—as if the fate of the human race is at stake—and sometimes we sing just to annoy each other.

Music does indeed have the power to annoy, like that commercial jingle you can't get out of your head, or the horrible song that becomes a major international hit, played again and again by radio stations and your neighbors until you go mad. I have had the theme song from The Flintstones stuck in my head for decades (it is, admittedly, a very catchy number). But the hostility we feel for bad or commercial music simply demonstrates in a negative way how powerful this art form is—as does the use of music by corrupt governments and ideologies to control the minds of their subjects. Not that I am implying the CIA used The Flintstones theme song to brainwash an entire nation.

Music may be abused or used for trivial purposes, but its power to move us can not be diminished. This is because it connects us as nothing else can. I can change my son Daniel's life by taking him to one concert; the song I sing with my daughter Laura will remain with her long after I am gone. I forget most of the music I've ever listened to, but some of those songs have the power to transport me back in time, or bring me to tears, or make me believe in a world of universal love and hope.

A wonderful quality of music is that we are all welcome to try our hand at it, whether we are the greatest vocalist or one of millions upon millions singing in the shower. (I wonder if great vocalists sing in the shower.) Music allows us to express and evoke emotions that would otherwise remain trapped within. Absent music, we would, in a sense, be mute. Music fuels the engine of our passion. It is the touchstone of our lives, connecting us one to another, and the very expression of the human soul.

The Daily Sam: Unstable at Any Speed

Recently I asked my doctor, Matt Freeman, about a painful lump on the side of my right ankle. (Matt is actually a nurse practitioner, but as far as I am concerned he is my doctor, since he is the one I always see when I go to the doctor's office.) I asked Matt about this same lump almost three years ago, but at the time I was busy getting a piece of my colon removed and we agreed the lump on my ...

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Unstable at Any Speed

Recently I asked my doctor, Matt Freeman, about a painful lump on the side of my right ankle. (Matt is actually a nurse practitioner, but as far as I am concerned he is my doctor, since he is the one I always see when I go to the doctor's office.) I asked Matt about this same lump almost three years ago, but at the time I was busy getting a piece of my colon removed and we agreed the lump on my ankle was, in the grand scope (no pun intended) of things, something that could wait.

My colon rectified, I was back again with the sore lump on my ankle, and Matt, after examining it and saying "Does this hurt?" (Answer: "Yes!") suggested I see a podiatrist.

So, off I went to Dr. Jenny Sanders, foot and ankle doctor. After a thorough examination ("Does this hurt?" "Yes!") Dr. Sanders went to work on my lump, sticking it with various needles ("This may hurt a little." "Ouch!") and setting up a return visit. We went through three visits, at which point she suggested getting an MRI to determine what was really going on with this lump, as it wasn't responding to the simpler solutions involving needles that "might" hurt.

It was on this third visit that I thought to bring up the pain on my left foot. For some time now—four months, or half a year, I have had this dull-to-sharp pain on the outside of my left foot and ankle. You may be wondering why I hadn't mentioned this to Dr. Sanders on the first or second visit, in which case you do not understand the male psyche and doctoring. If you feel pain, the best thing you can do is walk it off, assuming your foot is still more or less attached to your body. On the other hand, if the injury is particularly painful, you are expected to "power through" it. It's my understanding that many doctors do exactly this, rather than seeking medical treatment for their ailments.

But after eight months I was beginning to suspect the pain in my left foot was not going away, and there I was in the room with an actual foot doctor, so I thought I'd mention it. And just as I feared, Dr. Sanders became very interested in this new information.

"Does this hurt?" "Yes!" "And this? "YES!!" It was like we were having sadomasochistic sex. After determining to her satisfaction that something was clearly wrong with my left foot, Dr. Sanders said I would need an MRI on that foot, too. And of course they can't do an MRI on both feet at once, so I was in the MRI place long enough to fall asleep and start snoring. But at least that didn't hurt.

In the end Dr. Sanders determined that I had a torn ligament in my left foot and now I am wearing an air cast for at least four weeks. I think it looks a lot like the boots worn by the Storm Troopers in Star Wars, only stupider, but you can judge for yourself. It is certainly a lot larger than Bombo the Yorkie.

As for the lump on my other ankle—Dr. Sanders has lost interest. She says I can get it cut off if I want, but aside from the discomfort it isn't doing me any harm. One thing is certain: before any surgery, the doctor will want to do extensive testing to determine if it hurts.

The Daily Sam: Happy New Year

Saturday was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement in the Jewish tradition, when we remember what schmucks we've been in the year past and promise to do better. Then we break our fast and eat. I'm not Jewish, but my wife Kathi is, so I ate along with everyone else.There are similar traditions in other religions, and for good reason—we are schmucks. Why? Because we're irrational—or, to be ...

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Happy New Year

Saturday was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement in the Jewish tradition, when we remember what schmucks we've been in the year past and promise to do better. Then we break our fast and eat. I'm not Jewish, but my wife Kathi is, so I ate along with everyone else.

There are similar traditions in other religions, and for good reason—we are schmucks. Why? Because we're irrational—or, to be more precise, we're driven by irrational desires and needs that often override the "better angels of our nature."

I see this every day at work. As a group we are generally smart, personable, hard working, and focused. Are we focused on a common goal? Sometimes; but a huge amount of the energy is devoted to seeking approval and recognition. We worry about where at the table we sit at a meeting, when we enter a room, who knows what gossip first, all of which reflect how close we are to some source of power.

In part we behave this way in an effort to be more successful—to get paid more and rise up the career ladder. More negatively, it is to avoid getting fired, because we need the salary to eat and live. Also, in the United States access to good health insurance is often dependent on one's job, and good insurance can mean the difference between life and misery or even death.

But our desire for approval and recognition in the public sphere runs even deeper than these very practical hopes and fears. At the heart of the striving and primping and jockeying for position lies a more essential hunger: the need to be loved and appreciated. No matter how big or small our public profile, everyone is subject to this desire. Unfortunately, in most settings we function under the principle that there must be winners and losers. To show one person love, we must show another less, and this leads to resentment, dishonesty, and grasping, greedy, demeaning behavior.

We are fighting forces that are much stronger than our individual wills. If we vow never to be a foolish, selfish, and dishonest, our overriding, unconscious need for love will soon subvert our resolve. A person can become so desperate for any kind of attention that he will make a complete fool of himself rather than shut up. A notable example of this was former San Francisco Supervisor Chris Daly, who made a New Year's resolution to use the "F" word at every meeting toward the end of his time serving the city. (One San Francisco resident was quoted by ABC News as saying "I think it's F'ing ridiculous and I am so glad he's almost out of here.")

But let's say you were to succeed in becoming a more highly evolved being, no longer subject to these base emotions—what then? You'd be pretty lonely. Having achieved a higher state, you wouldn't be able to find anyone to date because your higher consciousness would reduce the field of potential candidates to zero, though you could date yourself.

I think our best bet is to find a noble goal and cling to it. Some will find this in religion, some in parenting, some in their work. Whatever it is, we should do it with all our might, aiming for the right; but we must always remember that our calling isn't everyone's calling, and that our point of view is only that—no matter how correct or smart we think we are.

Earlier I used the phrase "better angels of our nature." I couldn't remember the source, so I looked it up: they were the closing words of Abraham Lincoln's First Inaugural Address, a speech he gave before the Civil War broke out:

"I am loath to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

We weren't. Angels had to step aside while men went to battle. People died, including the man who gave that speech. But even after the apocalypse, we are given another chance. A New Year. Let's be honest about what we've done wrong, and make new resolutions based in reality—rooted in self knowledge. And let's do better than Chris Daly.

San Francisco Weirdness

I live in San Francisco, which means I don't have to run away to join the circus, because it's already here. We even have the necessary educational infrastructure—the Clown School of San Francisco.This is a town that values diversity. We will accept just about anyone as they are, except for Republicans. A certain amount of eccentricity among the citizenry has always been the norm in San ...

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