Translating Thank You

I went to Home Depot today. I needed help.

Home Depot is notoriously awful when it comes to customer service or at least notorious for being difficult to find someone to help you in the first place. That's what happens in depots, I suppose. 

Eventually, I found a woman and asked her to help me. I needed electrical cord because I am repairing a lamp. I knew where the cord was but couldn't operate the large machine that stores all the spools of cord. She said that she couldn't do it either but would help me find someone who could. She looked down a few aisles and finally spotted the coworker she was looking for. She summoned me to her side and pointed him out. "He can help you. He can't hear well, but he's terrific." Casual, matter-of-fact, nothing more.

With this information I said thank you and began to pursue a small Asian man in an orange Home Depot apron down a long aisle. His back was turned and he was stocking shelves. When I reached him, I stood close to him, caught his attention and said aloud, trying not to over do it, "Excuse me, I need some help cutting lamp cord..."

The small man in the apron looked at me blankly and simply handed me a piece of cardboard and a pen. "Oh," I said to myself, perhaps even out loud, I'm not sure.

I thought for a moment how best and succinctly to jot down my query. I began to write a simple sentence that contained all pertinent information: lamp cord, white, 6ft, please, etc. He read my note. He nodded. He walked with me to the cord station.

As the gentleman operated the overly complicated machine that stored the spools of wire and measured out my 6ft of cord against the makeshift ruler drawn on the work desk in front of the machine I noticed a patch on the small man's apron: I speak ASL – American Sign Language.

It didn't take much time for him to find and access the right spool (lamp cord – white), or to lay it out on the work table, first a length of 4ft from one end of the table to the other and then an additional 2ft from one end of the table to a thick black Sharpie mark half way between the two corners, or to find his cable cutters in the pocket of his orange apron, or to neatly coil my 6ft of cord in a nice, round circle, or to label the cord with the proper amount so that I could be accurately charged at the register.

It also didn't take me much time to debate in my head whether or not it would be rude or tacky to quickly ask Google on my phone how to say "thank you" in ASL. I weighed the pros and cons. I questioned necessity. I calculated the amount of effort it would take and the time left to find my answer. I wondered if I would be able to execute it properly without rehearsal and if I would be understood. If my effort would be appreciated or ignored. 

I typed quickly. I pressed "search." I clicked on the first link. I read fast, keeping an eye on the gentleman's progress with my lamp cord. My eyes scanned a small illustration. I committed to following through.

As the small Asian man in the orange Home Depot apron quietly handed me a 6ft coil of white electrical cord I brought my flat hand to my mouth and then moved it forward & and down toward the man.

He did the same. 

BridesManning Up

I wrote this piece regarding my experience as a male bridesmaid for my friend's wedding. Another friend was kind enough to publish it on her website, not coincidentally named www.bridesmaiding.com

Here's the link: www.bridesmaiding.com/2013/12/bridesmanning-up-tales-of-a-male-bridesmaid/

Enjoy!

My Cab Ride With Daniel

I hailed a cab today. I just didn't feel like sweating in the subway and lugging two bags from the Lower East Side and Grand Central Station. I decided to treat myself to the ease and comfort (and usual silence) of a New York City cab. Money was not a concern. 

Hailing a cab used to be a signature skill and expression of true New York. You stepped off the curb, raised your arm high in the sky, stared down a garishly yellow Crown Vic and willed them to come to a stop at your side. A sailor's whistle or guttural "TAXI" were the ways in which each New Yorker made it their own. 

Today however, I flagged my cab via app. The aptly named app, Hailo, a wonder of modern technology, business creativity and unparalleled connectivity between customer and service provider. All new tech markets itself as the thing you need to solve the problem you have. Hailo is one of the few that actually does just that. Stuck in the rain and don't want to wade in the gutter for minutes on end to hail a taxi? Don't, use Hailo. Far out in Brooklyn and off the beaten path where cabs only appear occasionally? No problem, use Hailo. Broken leg and live in the middle of a residential block? Don't hobble your way down to the end of the block, just use Hailo. On my very first foray into the world of 21st century livery solutions, Hailo delivered me a cab in under 3 minutes, allowed me to pay with a pre-registered credit card, removing the need for any financial transaction in the cab itself, and even emailed me a receipt within seconds of hopping out at my destination. Truly a marvel of the modern era, Hailo has revolutionized an industry that is one of the city's oldest and most cultural landmarks. It's remarkable. However, the miracle of the day wasn't the ease with which I traversed Manhattan.In addition to a ride to the train station Hailo sent me an angel. 

Daniel Werber pulled up in a bright yellow Toyota Prius and immediately knew he was a different breed of cabbie. With a warm smile, Daniel welcomed me into his taxi and although he didn't actually get out and open the rear door for me I wouldn't have been surprised if the thought had crossed his mind. I clambered into the back and settled in, habitually stating that my destination was Grand Central Station to which Daniel replied cheerfully, "I know!" I had forgot that I entered my destination into Hailo, tapping out the full weight of Grand Central Station on my iPhone's keyboard, discovering that GCT actually has an address (it never occurred to me that in needed one…), a less impressive designate: 87 East 42nd Street. 

Daniel immediately began to expound exuberantly on the merits of the new technology that had brought us together. He explained that we would never exchange money! He said that I was able to track his cab as it approached my location! He informed me that the partnership between the Taxi & Limousine Commission and Hailo was quite strong, despite the fact that they had spent a year and half in litigation before the app was allowed to be used in the five boroughs. 

After the initial exchange, our conversation turned my personal. Daniel mused on the fact that Hailo was just an extension of good customer service practices and that while a remarkable tool can improve access to a service it was up to him as the driver to make good on the trip. He breezily mentioned with a hint of resentment that when Hailo sent my cab request to his phone he had been waiting for a friend in a café around the corner. He had meant to turn off his availability but had forgotten to do so and as such immediately called his friend and canceled their rendezvous. His commitment to me, an unknown entity with a relatively meager fare (just $16.21) took precedence and he wasn't going let his forgetfulness get in the way of my trip to the train station. 

Impressed with his sense of duty and general outlook on life I pressed him for details on his background. Somewhere in the short conversation we had already entangled ourselves in I had picked up that he had only been driving a taxi for a mere 10 months and his command of the English language as processed through a stereotypical eastern european accent was indicative of a university level education and a life beyond the dashboard and windshield of Yellow Prius Taxi 4P22. Daniel confided that before he hit the streets on four wheels he had worked for a bakery in Brooklyn and before that a few other odd jobs that kept him afloat when he first moved to America.

It wasn't until he mentioned that he was originally in "entertainment", a non-surprise from my loquacious and exuberant new friend. He had originally gone to university in his no-longer-a-country origin of Yugoslavia — now an amalgam of states, each independent and mired in their own conflict of national identity — and studied film production at university with a focus on writing and producing. A creative storyteller after my own heart. 

Stuck in traffic, blocking the box but without taking a breath, he then led me along his timeline to the ten years he spent living in Israel. Although we didn't quite go deep enough into the specifics of what led him from the homeland in which he was born to the homeland of the Jewish people, anyone with a cursory knowledge of the Eastern Bloc's cold war history can guess what drove this man and his family to exercise their right of return. 

Realizing that my time with Daniel was short, I quickly recounted my similar background and interests. My film degree from college with a focus on producing that has also since gone unused. My many trips to Israel and my family's deep connection to the Jewish state. Daniel beamed at our kindred trajectories. He asked where I lived when I spent 6 months in Israel. I told him that I spent my time there on the campus of ORT Braude College in Karmiel. He nearly shouted that his two children had both attended Braude and that he knew Karmiel well. In fact one daughter was now married to a man who's company is located in Karmiel. I was floored by our mutual connection to this relatively small and unassuming city in the north of a country so small that you can practically see from end to end on a clear day. He told of his children and grandchildren who would be visiting with friends in Tel Aviv this weekend and his longing to join them was paralleled by our mutual astonishment that in the space of 10 minutes, two men with a love of theater, film, technology, kindness, customer service, commitment, Israel, Karmiel, ORT Braude College and good conversation had had the opportunity to meet at all. 

I thanked him for his hospitality, did not have to pay him as Hailo had already taken care of that, wished him well on his journey of life and hopped out of the cab. As I closed the door Daniel and I exchanged a final smile and diverged paths once again. What a remarkable ride.

Letter to the Manager of the Father's Office Bar/Restaurant

Dear Office Manager,
I recently tried to take a few friends to Father's Office to partake in your fairly famous burger and shopping cart of fries. I myself live in Santa Monica and frequent your establishment on account of your tasty fare and substantial beer selection. Although we don't love having to snipe for tables, we often put up with the hassle because your offerings are among the best Santa Monica has.

Unfortunately, my friends were unable to share the Father's Office experience. In fact, we didn't even get in the door. Not because you were filled to capacity. Not because anyone in our party was underage. Simply because my friends are from another country. They are from Canada and although they provided driver's licenses to the bouncer to prove they were of age, they were denied entrance on account of your policy that an international license is not sufficient.

After we declined to go all the way home to pick up their passports and then return to Father's Office, this event still aggravated me to no end. This policy is ridiculous in the strongest sense of the word. A Canadian driver's license is a government issued document and just as official as a passport. In fact, with a Canadian license my friends are even permitted to DRIVE in this country. That they were turned away from your door is unfathomable.

Tonight, we are returning to your establishment, passports in hand, a full week after we were here last, due to the fact it took that long for my resentment to subside. Tonight we'll comply with your policy but I sincerely hope that you will consider dropping this asinine formality. Thank you for taking the time to read my letter and for providing Santa Monica with an excellent restaurant destination.

Sincerely,

David Klein

Columbine RPG documentary

I went to college with Danny Ledonne, the creator of the video game Super Columbine Massacre RPG and also the writer and director of the forthcoming documentary Playing Columbine.

DeNiro: A Good Source of Riboflavin

300

by the Latino Comedy Project