Great Service! (and not-so-great service)

I like to be treated like a somebody. I do not like to feel like a nobody. Maybe even in another lifetime, I would have been a great emperor. I can just see it now: "Ladies and Gentiles, arise in honour of the great Russian aristocrat, His Royal Heinous, Cragov von Funstonavich!" Okay, okay, perhaps not that sort of lofty treatment, but I don't want to be treated as a royal pain, either.

My 'rant' (with my name attached, of course) has to do with my role in life as Joe Customer, or his cousin, Joe Consumer. I am ill and weary (that would be sick and tired) of trying to buy something somewhere from someone, and being treated like I have economic leprosy. What do I need to do to get reasonable, courteous service in store - walk in with twenty dollar bills sticking out of my ears?

I have found service in many different quarters – from trades to fast food to small ticket items – appallingly lax at times. There seems to be a dearth of appreciation for me, the so-called valued customer (well, at least that's what the ad says). Finding a clerk is hard enough; getting them to stop talking to their fellow-employee is another thing. And getting them to understand that the better they treat the customer, the more secure their job is is possibly the hardest thing.

But with the ongoing deterioration of our families, and by extension, our culture, this will increase more and more. If kids aren't being trained at home how to interact with people other than their own clique, how to serve others (other than themselves), or how to think outside the X-box, they become adults who do the same.

I meet some of them every time I get fries with my order.

Is this true in every store, with every trade? Hardly. If you run a business or ply a trade at which you work hard, take no offense. I am obviously not discussing (a portmanteau of 'dissing' and 'cussing?) you and yours. I'm probably talking about your competitor, so keep up the good work. For me, good service will win me over for life; the inverse, unfortunately, is also true.

I believe it is a proverb somewhere: No servee, no jobee.

A case in point is our recent run of malfunctions in our kitchen over the past few months (no, Horace, it wasn't my cooking). On the one hand, we faced the repeated extreme incompetence of the extended warranty representatives; but on the other hand, the overwhelming, refreshing service of an appliance shop (their spelling, The Appliance Shoppe) out of Redcliff.

It was refreshing for the following reasons: They came when they said they would; they were upbeat and courteous; and they knew their stuff. I also really like the idea that they were a father and son team. However, if I say any more, I may have to charge them for free advertising!

My point is this: We need to get back to the days of good service in every sector of our society. Even I can remember when that was the rule and not the exception. Whether you are a butcher, baker, or candlestick-maker, remember that the customer (read: consumer, client, homeowner) comes first.

It starts with me and mine; namely, I must train my kids to know the difference between being a server and a doormat, between initiative and ambition, between drive and being driven. During these tough economic times, which may be here for a while, it is timely that our children learn how to treat others.

No matter who we come in contact with, then, it is always good to treat everybody as a somebody.

Proudly Irish

For years, perhaps even a decade or two, I was in denial of my Irish heritage. I tried my best to convince people that my ethnic roots were Danish, that my name was actually a rough translation of Crag Fonstad. Somehow I felt a closer kinship to a sweet breakfast snack, rather than a bar of soap.

Why I chose Denmark over Ireland I have no idea.

The turning point in my ancestral journey is connected with the letters PC. I would be curious if anyone out there in newspaperland could venture a guess as to what those letters stand for? Politically Correct? Incorrect. President's Choice? Wrong choice. Personal Computer? Hit the "delete" key. Protestant-Catholic? How sacrilegious!

Try Perry Como.

I typed that slowly, so you can read it slowly, and in fact I will repeat it: Perry Como. Many of you will have no idea who and what Perry Como is, and many others may be reluctant to admit you do. The late Perry Como was a crooner - a mellow, romance-type singer - probably most popular during the '50s, '60s, and into the early '70s.

Mr. Como was doing a Christmas special in Belfast a number of years ago, and I saw the DVD recording of that performance. I remember thinking as clear as day, as if it was some sort of spiritual conversion, the following thought: He is singing to my people.

Now I suppose I have removed all doubt in your minds as to my sanity. Well, be that as it may, though I can assure you that I am not out of my mind. Eccentric, perhaps, but not crazy. While I recognize my Irish roots, there are a lot of things I don't know about the land of my paternal grandparents. Let me list just a few here: I can't name all their the counties, I don't know what their flag looks like, I have no idea what their national anthem is.

For that matter, I would also add that I have serious issues with the IRA (Irish Republican Army), the UDR (Ulster Defence Regiment), and the Fenians (an Irish militia of about 150 years ago). Spilling blood in order to get one's way is an evil practice. True democracy is the higher road to take. Regardless of what side of Ireland's quest for independence you come down on, you must admit that their violent history for the past forty-plus years is very shameful.

My dad's parents came over to the New Country – as opposed to the Old Country - at the turn of the century (that would be about 109 years ago, Horace). They established a home in Winnipeg, Manitoba, before common sense prevailed and they moved out to Vancouver, British Columbia. All I really remember about them is that they talked funny, and by the mid-'60s they had both passed away. I was really young at that point, so I really never got to know them, much to my regret.

Today is, of course, St. Patrick's Day. I am celebrating it by eating some soup from last week: Seven days of food without refrigeration will turn anything green. And speaking of St. Patrick, he wasn't all that Irish: A recent book I read documented his Roman-British roots. As you likely know, what we call modern-day Britain was once controlled by the Romans. Patrick was taken to Ireland as a young man, but escaped back to his homeland. He later returned as a missionary, now with an adopted name in an adopted country.

So I am Irish and very happy to admit it. I think technically I should be wearing orange and not green, owing to the Protestant-Catholic differences. But I am not that different: One might say that, while I am a not religiously Irish, I am ethnically Irish (though two generations removed). (Which one reason why I speak of "them" and not "us.")

I don't know how you are going to celebrate St. Patrick's Day this year, but here are some suggestions: Have a shower using Irish Spring soap, drink some Irish-cream-flavoured coffee, watch John Wayne's "The Quiet Man," and eat a potato or two.

Then sit back and relax on that Irish summer lawnchair. You know, Paddy O' Furniture.

Sports, Occasionally

Although this is not a sports column, I do work up a sweat doing verbal gymnastics betimes. But March is such a "sporting" month, I just couldn't help adding my shrewd insight to the nutty world of athleticism. When I say "nutty" I don't mean peanuts, because athletes today are not playing for peanuts and tickets on game day aren't mere peanuts, either. I mean "nutty" as in what Mr. Oxford defines as "mad" (informal).

Where do I start? Baseball, with its spring training gong show and obscene salaries? Basketball, with it appropriately-named "March Madness" at the college level or sweaty arrogance both between the lines and between the sheets? What about professional football and its free agency chaos? I could talk about hockey, perhaps the least crazy of the big four professionals, and comment on its legalized fisticuffs - but I won't.

Some of you may want me to include golf, but I think I'll restrict my comments to sports.

Others may want me to speak to lacrosse, soccer, and curling issues, and perhaps someday I will. I sincerely see those as true sports, especially because so much is demanded of the individual to make the team succeed. The whole, then, is only as great as the parts that comprise it. My take on them is that they involve playing with others to truly be a team, but they rely so heavily on individual ability – more so than the big four (three paragraphs north of here).

But back to the nut gallery: One of the nuttiest stories to come down the wire (a cool journalistic term for 'news source') is that of the twenty-five million dollar man (not). I speak specifically of Manny Ramirez, formerly of the Boston Red Sox, and now of the Los Angeles Dodgers. This story has three sets of morons: Moron A is the management that offered him the money; Moron B is the agent that advised Manny what to do; and Moron C is Manny himself, the one who who turned it down. (Breaking news: We can all rest at night now, as Mr. Ramirez has just settled on a two-year contract for a mere $45 million.)

Now, I don't know for sure, but I believe Ramirez did not turn it down because he felt it was "unconscionable." (Mr. Oxford tells me that that means "not right or reasonable.") No, I believe he turned it down because it was not enough. Twenty-five million dollars is not enough? Enough for what? For whom? I can think of companies that could survive on that kind of money.

The greater obscenity is that is was a one-year contract.

If I could add another moron to my exhibit, I was add Moron D, another name for Joe Public (meaning sportswriters and fans). I don't hear their hue and cry. With over 500,000 of our American friends shown the door in January alone, with Massa Obama adding more zeroes to the national debt, as if doodling with the nation's future on scrap paper, this clown - who spends merely half a year swinging a stick at a small white ball - dismissed what is arguably the richest contract offer in sports history.

Then I also read last week where the Washington Redskins offered a $100 million contract to a former Tennessee Titan defensive lineman. (I'd reveal his name, but I am protecting him from perhaps some of my more ambitious readers who may want to claim him as their long, lost uncle.) My, oh, my: There's more money pouring out of every part of Washington these days...

On the one hand, there are lay-offs, foreclosures, bankruptcies galore across the nation, while on the other hand, there seems to be higher and greater salaries offered to professional athletes. I don't know which of the major four is worse, but after seven million dollars a year, who's counting?

Parents, don't raise your kids to be hardworking tradesmen or farmers. Get them into sports, any and every sports: The difference will be in the dough – as in the bread line or money in the bank.