Make Mine Mike

Man, April went by fast, but I did it. 30 days, 30 posts. And maybe 30 readers, total. Not bad.

And despite all the stories I wrote, I still have others I didn't get to, and may never will. Maybe next month...

Engagement Photo Session, or How to Pose Like the Schmoes

Walt Disney Will Probably Be Thawed From His Cryogenic State Before I Make it to the Front of the Line for Pirates of the Caribbean

Press Junket Junkie

Put Your Money Where Your Mouse Is

Yenta My Love

Tattooed Guyliner Dude in the Red Wife-Beater, aka Chef Emo

In this internetastic super-cyber e-commerce world, customer service seems to be a lost art form. Most of the time it's non-existent, but when it's good, it can help a business rise above issues like mediocre products or pricing its patrons into the poorhouse.

One of our favorite restaurants is Cafe Paradiso. The food is very good, though not significantly better Italian cuisine than all the other restaurants around. And it's never too crowded, but that's likely because their dishes cost more than their culinary counterparts. So why do we keep going? 'Cause they remember us, give us the best seat in the house, and cater to all our little food foibles without flinching. (E.g., all of Adelphia's sauces on the side, extra chili peppers on top of everything of mine -- sure, even the gelato.)

And everyone on the West side has raved about The Counter. It's just a fancy diner, and despite the gimmick of building your own burger, the ground beef and garnishes aren't so great to justify the half-hour wait. But I gotta say, they've got some of the nicest staff I've ever encountered. So I'll continue to customize my accoutrements at The Counter.

Then there's the counter-examples.

Months ago, when I was shopping for a new laptop, I went into Creative Computers in Santa Monica. There was a guy who worked there -- well, he wore the store's shirt and name-tag, but he didn't seem to be working there. He was surfing the Web on one of the big-screen computers, checking out the latest football scores. I sat at one of the laptops next to him, and he muttered, "You thinking of getting a new computer?"

"Thinking about it," I said.

And then he did nothing. A minute later, he got up and walked away.

Okay, I had to be a more aggressive buyer, I guess. I asked another guy if he could help me. I told him I was looking for a new laptop, but wasn't sure what to get.

He regarded me with utter disdain, sneering through his rotten Wailing-Wall teeth, and asked what I wanted to do on the computer. I explained that mostly, I do a lot of writing, and web surfing, but my last laptop was too heavy and slow.

He sighed. "Well, I don't know how to narrow it down, if all you want is a portable typewriter with internet access."

The derision was too much to take. "Wow, nice attitude," I said. "You guys really don't wanna sell me a computer."

I left and got much better treatment at the Mac store.

Oh, and then there was last weekend at Tengu. Adelphia had a gift certificate for $50, which we kept meaning to use, but rarely went to Westwood. Since we had spent all day at the UCLA Bookfair, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to use that certificate to savor some sushi & sake.

Adelphia checked with the bartender/waitress, to see if she'd accept the certificate that she'd held onto for years, and the woman said no problem.

After filling up on some good raw fish, we wondered if we had even used up the full amount. The waitress gladly checked and said our tab was up to $46.50. As I was wondering if we should order something else, the waitress said something she nearly regretted.

"I checked with my manager, and he said we can't accept the certificate. I'm sorry," she shrugged and turned to walk away. "Don't worry, you guys. Your drink is on me."

Oh, our one drink? I thought: what about the half-dozen dishes of raw fish, lady?

But Adelphia had the right response. "No. First of all, the certificate didn't have an expiration date. Second, in California, it's illegal to sell a certificate with an expiration date, or even if it has one, it's illegal to fail to honor the certificate with the intended services or cash value. Third of all, you agreed to honor it before we even sat down." Adelphia took a breath and said, "Please have your manager come talk to me."

The waitress didn't know who she was messing with -- someone skilled and experienced in the service business. Adelphia knew her stuff. And I knew there was no way in hell I was paying for this food. We were prepared to have them call the police, but it wouldn't come to that. The woman returned and said not to worry about it. I almost felt bad for the waitress and I still left her a $10 tip, but she and her manager's stupid service didn't really cost them anything -- the food had already been paid for years ago -- except any future business from us.

My fiancee's a teacher, constantly dealing with unruly students. So my recent stories about getting in trouble in my younger days were of particular interest to her. But I soon realized Adelphia didn't encourage these tales because she needed to understand the mischievous male mind any better... she just liked hearing about what a rotten kid I was.

When my mother was around, she told Adelphia about all the times she was called down to the Principal's office because of me. A bit of an exaggeration, but Mom reminded me of how I had to sit at the end of my bed for a month every day after school as punishment... for failing gym. Yes, I failed gym. No, not because I couldn't do a sit-up or got pummeled by the dodge-ball too often. It was because I supposedly fooled around too much. So what if I would take the chalk powder we used in gymnastics and turn my classmates into white ghosts? Or if I rolled up another kid in the gym mat? He thought it was funny too. In fact, it was supposed to be my turn to become a human burrito before the jerk-o gym teacher blew the whistle on us.

And then there was the time I had that pen. Mom casually mentioned it, but didn't say much more and I had nearly forgotten that incident. I must've been about five or six, I don't remember exactly, but I remember the pen -- it was one of those novelty pens where you turn it upside down and the ink bikini runs out, revealing a naked lady.

"Where'd you get that?" Adelphia said.

"My dad's office, after going with him to work one day."

"You stole it?"

"No, I think someone there let me have it. Maybe not, I don't know, I just thought it was pretty cool, that's all..."

"What happened?"

"It was no big deal," I said. Adelphia just kept looking at me. She wouldn't let this go. I shrugged. "I brought it into school for show-and-tell. So what? It certainly made kindergarten more interesting."

My sister and I were talking -- we each spent part of the weekend separately working with kids, and it got us thinking about the juvenile mindset... and that perhaps we were the same when we were their age... but different.

Specifically, the way we dealt with punishment. We both agreed that getting punished by our parents almost never taught us a lesson. Today, we see the error of our ways, but back then, Mom & Dad laying down the law just made us go through the motions of correcting our mistakes, though in our hearts we believed we were right.

Here's the differences in us as kids: I never understood why my sister was so resistant to accepting that we got in trouble. No matter what caused a fight between us kids, when our parents were fed up, they'd send us to our rooms -- now! But Julie had to fight it. Had to argue that she didn't do anything wrong, that Mikey started it (very often true). And at first, I relished her compounding her punishment by arguing her case... but then started to feel bad for her. I started to mutter, "shut up, shut up, you're only gonna make it worse..." until Julie doubled or tripled her sentence with my infuriated and impatient parents. The punishment was inevitable -- why try to fight it? Any surprise that today my sister's a lawyer?

My sister questioned why I got myself in trouble so often. Specifically, I had chores to do, but never did them, which always got me punished. Julie said, "You knew you had to do 'em, why not just do 'em? Why add a punishment to the chore? I never understood that." To the best of my recollection, it wasn't defiance -- I wasn't some kind of conscientious objector to taking out the trash. I just kept forgetting, or putting it off. And no punishment in the world seemed to get through to me.

My sister said, "Nothing got through to you?"

"Almost nothing," I said. "Not until Mom started tearing up my MAD Magazines."

"Oh yeah..."

"That was just cruel."

Adelphia: Do you wanna watch "Top Chef"?
Michael: Eh.
A: C'mon, the show's got good food.
M: So? I can't eat any of it.
A: And a hot host.
M: You mean...?
A: No, not Giada diLauren-tits.
M: Hey, don't disparage my other girlfriend. I don't let her talk shit about you.
A: Yeah, right. Anyway, "Top Chef" has got Padma Lakshmi.
M: "Lox Schmear?"
A: Lakshmi. She's Salman Rushdie's ex-wife.
M: Salmon's Lox Schmear?
A: Just watch, will you?
M: How did she get that scar on her arm?
A: I don't know. Maybe the same way Tina Fey got the scar on her face.
M: Really?
A: Why not.
M: Fine, I'll watch. But I already tried "30 Rock" and there was no Lox-shmear-Fey cat fight...

Four features of a frustrating Friday:

1. I took some work for the money, and honoring that commitment, had to pass on a fun short-term gig that just came my way.

2. This same job I’m doing may screw up the timing and impede my chances for a creative long-term gig.

3. The “Lost” podcast with Jay & Jack used to make my morning run more entertaining, but lately I can’t help but notice these guys aren’t the most knowledgeable fans, unlike The Transmission people, who didn't put up a podcast yet. Okay, so Jay & Jack didn’t know that “The Tempest” was most likely a reference to the Shakespeare play, not the ‘80s video game. Fine, they mispronounce the home state of one of their callers -- it’s “Ill-i-noy”, not “-noise”. Or calling Tunisia “Ton-YOU-see-ah”. But when they Googled Ben’s alter ego, Dean Moriarty, and only came up with Sherlock Holmes’ nemesis, and not Kerouac’s On the Road character, their poor research skills was Ill-a-noying in my ears.

4. Listening to fan feedback while exercising, I could try to call myself an athletic, intellectual enthusiast, but let’s face it -- I’ve become a total “Lost” geek.

My friend Dan is a rare type in LA. He never flakes. In fact, he’s the most diligent dude I know. If we make plans, Dan’ll call two days ahead of time to confirm, then e-mail the day before, then again that morning, and call twice more beforehand. By the time we hang out, I’m almost sick of him.

We do actually hang out, though. I’ve known other people like that -- follow-up-fanatics -- who typically don’t show up. I think they’re just trying to find an excuse to flake. Checking in as a way to be checking out.

Dan’s just a super-thorough guy, and super-nice, too. How can I complain about constant confirmations a couple of weeks ago when it was all about my birthday? He wanted to make sure I was still available for him to take me out to eat and give me a gift. Hey, if there’s a free lunch involved, call all you want. E-mail. Text me. IM. Use semaphore and smoke signals, just gimme my swag.

And I was happy to reciprocate the generosity for his birthday last weekend. But Dan said he was going out of town, back to Jersey to be with his family for the occasion, so he suggested we get together when he got back. Specifically, yesterday – Wednesday. Which meant I’d get multiple messages on Monday and two hundred more on Tuesday.

But I didn’t hear from Dan all week. I had left him an e-mail message listing our favorite restaurants and greasy spoons as choices for his birthday lunch -- or would he prefer I fly out to his hometown, which is near the Sopranos stomping grounds, and we go to Satriale’s Pork Store? No answer.

I tried to contact Dan several times, emulating the uber-e-mailer. But the roles were hardly reversed, because when he floods my inbox, I always respond.

This started to freak me out. Something had to be wrong. Plane crash? Illness? Alien abduction? Paulie Walnuts?

Late last night, he finally wrote me back to reschedule, saying, “Sorry, I was traveling all day and was incommunicado. Did we say we were having lunch today? I must’ve mixed up the dates.”

I was relieved, but I was also right. Something was wrong. Aliens replaced Diligent Dan from Jersey with the Familiar Flakiness of La-La Land.