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We ordered pizza last night, “the usual,” 2 large, original crust, one with pepperoni and pineapple and one with Italian sausage and bacon. Yummy. Only one problem: it took almost two hours for them to arrive.

Thanks to a series of problems – our ticket was misplaced, the wrong toppings were applied, new pies were made and delivery times were snafu’d – the “it’ll be there in 30 minutes” became 120 minutes, two hungry customers and a very apologetic pizza store manager. Because of the multiple woes, we were given the pizza pies gratis.

But we still tipped the driver. It wasn’t her fault. This brings up a concern I have about tipping.

When I have great, or even good, service at a restaurant, I tip well. When a pizza delivery driver brings me dinner, I tip well. When my barber makes me look half-civilized, I tip well. All of these are traditional service jobs. But all jobs have a service aspect to them, so why does the tipping stop?

When a furniture salesperson gets you a good deal on a couch and arranges quick delivery, where’s their tip? When the dental hygienist removes the gook from your teeth, where’s the tip? When the trash collectors come by first thing in the morning every Thursday, where is their tip? When the teen behind the counter at a fast-food restaurant takes your order and actually dishes up the correct items in a hot and timely fashion, where’s their tip? When the grocery cashier actually pays attention to what they’re doing and you don’t have to bag your own groceries, where’s their tip?

I think you see where I’m going with this. I don’t mind tipping for a job well done, but I don’t understand why it’s confined to the jobs it is.

Why not tip your blogger. Better yet, why not tip your underpaid public radio media relations worker? There’s a cause I think we can all get behind.

Done in by tech support

Here’s one of the many things that irk me: when a company screws up and makes you fix their problem. (I’m writing this as I’m on hold awaiting the second level of technical assistance.)

I had Internet service through a large international company whom we’ll call BT&T. I’m not going to identify them because of possible legal matters. Their service was fine for years. The price was reasonable. Then a few weeks ago, I canceled my landline phone service through BT&T, but kept Internet service. A week after that, they mistakenly canceled my Internet service.

This is where it gets irritating. I spent 1 hour and 9 minutes on a technical support phone call (on my day off) while a young man walked me through a zillion steps to re-register my computer because of their mistaken. We then tested the modem: fine. We tested the wireless connection: fine. We tested a few Web pages to make sure they’d load: fine. I thanked him for his patience and hung up. I restarted my computer and couldn’t connect to the Internet.

Let me tell you something about myself: I am not by nature a patient man. Patience, while a virtue, is a struggle for me. I need lots of controlled breathing and to focus on the short- and long-term objectives so my natural inclination to explode is overridden. Therefore, being on hold for waiting in the queue for the second level of technical support is not something I willingly or pleasantly do. I do it only because I need working Internet service. However, a cauldron of righteous indignation and barely controlled rage, martyrdom and resentment burbles underneath.

It’s not uncommon of me to leave doctor’s appointment if the physician is more than 30 minuets late. I don’t care if I’m bleeding profusely. My time is just as valuable as his. If he’s not startin,’ I’m departin.’ After once waiting 60 minutes past my scheduled appointment time and still never seeing the doctor, I left – angrily – and sent him a bill for 60 minutes of my time. He didn’t pay.

But back to being on hold.

The third technician of the morning was doing his level best to test the system. Nothing worked. Then my cell phone died. No wonder. I’d been on the phone with BT&T tech support continuously for three hours. 180 minutes of my life that a.) I’ll never get back and (more importantly) b.) NEVER FIXED THE PROBLEM. My tech ticket is now the property of the maintenance division. Who knows when they’ll be able to do anything about it? Probably Thursday sometime between 8 a.m. at 5:30 p.m. Could I please make myself available during that time?

I don’t care tech support is in Bangalore, India, or Bangor, Maine. They broke it, they need to fix it. Quickly. Permanently. On their dime. And yes, I would like to talk with a supervisor.

Summing up a life

A friend I haven’t heard from in more than 20 years sent me a note on Facebook recently. After updating her on marriages, kids, jobs, I said “here are some other points in my life over the last 20 years.”

•  Sober for 21 1/2 years.
• Much wider than I used to be. Gray in the beard. Too much cholesterol.
• Did I mention that I was going to be a grandfather?
• A buddy and I tried to make it as free-lance writers for a while. Didn’t work out. 
•  Can never retire thanks to crushing debt and a 401k now smaller than all but 4 molecules on the Periodic Table of Elements.
• My only brother died of cancer last summer. I really miss him. Yesterday was his birthday.
• Have had a few spiritual epiphanies over the last few decades. Consider myself a spiritual rather than a religious person.
• Got a chance to teach a college class a few years back. Wish I could do that full time.
• I make great pancakes.
• Wrote some humor columns for the local paper. A few were good. A few were ordinary. A few were brilliant.
• My “kid in the candy store” moments were covering three international Formula 1 races at Indianapolis.
• I’ve schooled my daughter on the Holy Trinity: the Marx Brothers, Monty Python and The Three Stooges. She’s a chip off the old block. My wife swears that in my previous life I was an old Jewish comedian named Shecky. I don’t disagree.

I’m comfortable with this epitaph.

Idle because of Idol

I’m exiled to the kitchen tonight, all on account of the prissy little Ryan Seacrest.

Tonight marks the beginning of my Tuesday and Wednesday night sojourn from in front of the TV to anywhere Randy, Paula, Simon and Ryan aren’t.

My wife loves American Idol. Loves it with a capital L. Loves it with a “put it on her recurring electronic calendar” passion. Loves it with a “call her sisters and discuss who got voted off the show and why or why not that was the right decision” dedication I wish I’d spent on any hobby I might have tried during the past 45 years.

The first few weeks are the worst. They spend a great deal of time making fun of really, really bad singers. If I wanted to hear bad singing I’d listen to myself in the shower or that nasally, whiny guy from Journey.

I thought we, as a culture, were supposed to celebrate high achievement, not mediocrity. But what do I know better.

We elected a president who couldn’t speak English. Utility infielders who hit .207 with 15 RBI are given multi-million dollar contracts. And reality shows are overpopulated with shallow wannabees desperately willing to scarp any shred of dignity they may had for their 15 minutes. And the shows only proliferate.

In Idol’s defense, they actually make the contestants perform a task, even if the task is preening. On Deal or No Deal, they just keep asking you the same question over and over and over again. Answering yes or no apparently takes a great deal of skill, because the show is still on the air.

What happened to celebrating smart? When – and why – did Who Wants to be A Millionaire become the standard of smart instead of Jeopardy? Millionaire asks you maybe a dozen questions, with half of them that wouldn’t be hard enough to be considered opening questions in a round of Jeopardy. And there is no buzzer. And there are no other contestants. And you can phone a friend. And you can eliminate some choices. And you can poll the audience. Seriously, WTF? Millionaire couldn’t carry Jeopardy’s jock strap.

Back on Idol, some blonde somebody or other is warbling her way through an a capella version of a Celine Dion song. Simon is scowling. Paula is stoned. The new gal judge is desperately trying to come up with a catch phrase and Randy is thanking his lucky stars that 4,636 people turned down this job and he was still on some producer’s Rolodex and was home to pick up the phone when the job offer came.

This is going to be a long spring.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Beppe Gambetta

You guys missed a great show last night. We went to see Beppe Gambetta, a flatpicking guitarist originally from Genoa, Italy. If he’s ever near your town, I urge you to drop everything and attend his show.

He played bluegrass, folk songs of Italy, the U.S. and Scotland, sacred music he transcribed for guitar and was captivating every single time. It was a small, intimate evening, about120 in the audience at a local Unity church. Tickets were the best $20 I’ll spend all month.

What made it so delightful was not only his playing but his irresistible charm. Each song brought a new story, and a lot of guitar tuning. Each story, joke (What do banjos and hand grenades have in common? When you hear them it’s too late), childhood reminiscence and musical explanation was delivered with wit, charm, a gracious smile and a delightful northern Italian accent. 

There’s also the wonderful dichotomy of watching an  Italian romantic put his full musical force into a Doc Watson lick and a Woody Guthrie ballad.

You will not have a better time at a concert than to see this wonderful man.

Check out his Web site, beppegambetta.com.

If you’re in northeast Kansas, I recommend that you attend any concert staged by West Side Folk.

See you there.

The legacy of George W. Bush

Katrina
The waters rose up
Burying the Big Easy
With ineptitude

Iraq
Premises are false
Intelligence was faulty
Too many were killed

Torture
With waterboarding
The Constitution was drowned
In Guantanamo

Taxes
The rich get richer
Everyone else pays for it
Bankrupts a nation

9-11
After the planes hit
We chased those who attacked us
But invaded Iraq

Looking toward 2009 in haiku

January
Starts with a hangover
Then endless snow and cold temps
Winter never ends

February
Black History Month
The shortest month of the year
Who came up with that?

March
In like a lion
Then drinks a lot of green beer
Leaves like a lamb

April
The blossom of spring
Renewal brings hope for year
Tax Day takes it away

May
Time to mow the yard
Watch out for the dog poop, oops
Sneakers ruined again

June
Graduation time
Eager youngsters heading out
To be crushed by life

July
Time for vacation
Wish I could romp in the surf
No oceans nearby

August
“It is not the heat”
Hell yes it is. It’s damn hot
Happy Birthday, Phil

September
School back in session
Children learning the three R’s
When not texting friends

October
Leaves turning color
Roving bands of costumed kids
Demanding sugar

November
Savor Thanksgiving feast
What do cranberries do all year
But wait for their fate

December
Happy Holidays
Another trip around the sun
Time to do it again

Inevitable signs that Christmas is over

The radio begins playing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Kwanzaa.”

Same candy aisle but sign changes from Christmas to Valentine’s Day.

There is a buzz in the air about The Meineke Car Care Bowl game.

Shoppers pass each other on the streets, saying “Happy Boxing Day.”

Hallmark has a new line of “I know you’ll return this gift, but think of me when you do” cards.

Scrooge throws open the window and shouts to the boy below, “You, you there. What day is it?”
“Why, it’s President’s Day, sir.”
‘Then I haven’t missed it! The spirits have done it all in one night.”

There is a 24-hour marathon of that delightful holiday classic movie, “It’s a Wonderful New Year’s Day Hangover,” in which Jimmy Stewart’s character, George Bailey, shoots Ralphie’s eye out.

The stores are already decorating for Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

Top 10 Reasons Why Barack Obama Will Make a Better President Than I Would

10. Constitutional Law. He taught it. I’ve heard of it.

9. He can use a BlackBerry. I cannot figure out something as simple as how to answer a phone call on my wife’s “CrackBerry.”

8. His wife actually wants to be First Lady. My wife grew up the daughter of a politician and wants no part – however tangential – with political life.

7. Barack has a plan to put three million people back to work. Phil likes to take naps.

6. Obama promotes wind energy. Wilke is full of hot air.

5. He’s skilled at using lofty, soaring rhetoric. I struggle to pronounce aluminum.

4. He’s not vengeful. If John McCain had said all those nasty things about me, and encouraged others to do so as well, at the end of the campaign I wouldn’t have invited him for tea and counsel. I would have cut off all funding for Arizona as punishment.

3. Obama can juggle multiple crises. Wilke often forgets his own children’s names.

2. Barack endorses a “team of rivals” concept. Phil would like to see his rivals keelhauled.

And the number 1 reason Barack Obama will make a better president than me,

He has a plan to get out of Iraq. I have a plan to get out of vacuuming the living room.

She’ll be ready in a minute

I am impatient. That doesn’t dovetail well with the long lead time my wife needs to get ready to go out.

Does starting the car to let her hear my impatience work? Of course not. She can’t hear it over her hair dryer.

She’s beautiful and when she’s finished “putting on her face” she’s stunning. But I’m downstairs with the car running waiting to get going, like a getaway driver waiting for bank robbers. I’ve been in DMV lines that have moved faster.

She has a drawer for nothing but eye make-up. I’m not making that up. The tabletop of her vanity is as crowded as a-Wal-Mart parking lot the morning after Thanksgiving.

This is a woman who says she’s not very detail-oriented. Yet she can differentiate between 27 different shades of dusty rose-colored lip blush. And she owns them all and knows – among the clutter – just where each one of them is.

She is a woman who agonizes over her choice of shawls the way a fat person agonizes over a dessert tray. Just pick one, they’re all nice.

Nine times out of ten, she allows herself plenty of time to get ready. Deep breathing exercises and meditation help me get through those. That tenth time is rough. Much pacing and eye-rolling and hand-wringing is required.

And when she appears, like Venus on a clamshell, I smile and we go out and have a lovely time. Made all the better because I have a gorgeous woman on my arm.

I am also easily distracted by shiny objects.