Author: Josh

“What’s the name of Tool’s guitar player?”

“Adam Jones.”

“He can rest comfortably knowing that he has job security.”

“…”

[flv width=”400″ height=”300″]http://www.maly.tv/video/20090222_PlasmaCarRacing.flv[/flv]

Maly walked into the office this afternoon, went straight to the bookshelf and pulled down the English/Spanish dictionary. She turned and sat down at her little desk and opened the book.

Witnessing this endeavor, I stopped and with a a chuckle, asked, “You going to read that book?”

“Nope. I’m checking my website.”

I found a photocopy of this article in a box of old frames at my mom’s house this afternoon. It’s a republished article written by Mike Royko in The Chicago Daily News. This article really resonated with my dad towards the end of his career and shortly before he died a little over two years ago.

Shortage of short Greeks ruining us
By Mike Royko
The Chicago Daily News published this column on Dec. 5, year unknown

The moment we sat down for lunch, I knew it was a mistake. It was one of those cute new yuppie-poo restaurants with ferns and a menu that listed calories.

I knew it was an even bigger mistake when five minutes passed before the busboy dropped the silverware and napkins in front of us.

About 10 minutes later, I snared a waitress as she was hurrying by and asked: “Is there any chance we can see a menu?”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “We’re short-handed. One of the girls didn’t show up today.”

When she finally brought the food it wasn’t what I had ordered.

“There are some problems in the kitchen,” she said. “We have a new cook.”

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll eat it, whatever it is. But what about the beer?

“Oh, I forgot, you wanted a beer,” she said. The beer arrived just in time to wash down the last bite of the sandwich.

When she brought the check, which was wrong because she charged me for what I ordered instead of what I got, I asked: “Who runs this place?”

“The manager?” she said. “He’s in the end booth having lunch.”

On the way out, I stopped at the manager’s booth. He was a yuppie in a business suit. He and a clone were leisurely sipping their coffee and looking at a computer print-out.

“Nice place you have here,” I lied. “Do you own it?”

The young man shook his head. It was owned by one of those big corporations that operates restaurants in far-flung office buildings and health clubs.

He also proudly told me that he had recently left college with a degree in restaurant and hotel management.

That explained it all. His waitresses were short-handed, his cook was goofing up the orders, the customers were fuming, and what was he doing?

He was having lunch. Or, as he’d probably say, he was doing lunch.

I don’t want to be an alarmist, but when this nation collapses, he and those like him will be the cause.

First, we had the MBA – especially the Harvard MBA – who came along after World War II and took over American industry. With his bottom-line approach, the MBA did such a brilliant job that the Japanese might soon buy the whole country and evict us.

But we’re told not to worry. Now that we don’t manufacture as much as we used to, we’ll be saved by the growing service industry.

The problem is that the service industry is being taken over by people like the restaurant manager and his corporation. They go to college and study service. Then they install computers programmed for service. And they have meetings and look at service charts and graphs and talk about service.

But what they don’t do is provide service. That’s because they are not short Greeks.

You probably wonder what that means. I’ll explain.

If that corporation expects the restaurant to succeed, it should fire the young restaurant-hotel degree holder. Or demote him to cleaning washrooms.

It should then go to my friend Sam Sianis, who owns Billy Goat’s Tavern, and say: “Do you know a short Greek that wants to manage a restaurant?”

Sam will say: “Shoo. I send you one my cousins. Jus’ got here from the old country.”

Then he’d go to Greek Town and tell his cousin, who works as a waiter, that his big chance had come.

When the next lunch hour rolled around, and a waitress failed to show up for work, Sam’s cousin would not sit down to do lunch. He would put on an apron and wait tables himself.

If the cook goofed up orders, Sam’s cousin would go into the kitchen, pick up a cleaver, and say, “You want I keel you?”

He wouldn’t know how to read a computer printout, but he’d get drinks in the glasses, food on the table, and money in the cash register.

That simple approach is why restaurants run by short Greeks stay in business and make money. And why restaurants that are run by corporations and managed by young men who are educated beyond their intelligence come and go. And mostly go.

So if you are ever approached by a stockbroker who wants to sell you shares in any of the giant service corporations, tell him not to bother showing you the annual report. Just ask him one question.

“Is it run by short Greeks?”

If he says no, leave your money under the mattress.

My dad framed this article. I really wish he was still here with us. I have so many questions that I still want to ask him.

We just got back from a weekend at mom’s place. We left on Friday for Grandma’s around 5:30 p.m. and although Maly was well behaved in the car, she was really anxious to get there. We pulled into the driveway right at 7:30, ran in to get mom and then we loaded into the car again to head over to Crossroads for fried catfish.

After eating, we headed back to the house and tried to put Maly down after cleaning up. I think she was a little too excited to be at her Grandma’s house and didn’t want to go to bed. She wanted her mom, grandma and me to all tell her stories. We think she finally fell asleep at 11 p.m.

The grown-ups stayed up and chatted and watched TV. Maly woke up at her usual time on Saturday morning. My mom and I got up with her and I tried to let Elise sleep in a little bit. Most of my day consisted of repairing a wooden arbor for my mom’s courtyard, spreading mulch and playing with Maly.

Later that evening I cooked steak au poivre for the girls. After dinner Maly was pooped and no problems conking out.

On Sunday Elise let me sleep in. Once I woke up we all had breakfast and it was back to the arbor again. Elise and Maly walked over to the fenceline to watch the neighbors horses. We all took a break, went inside and played memory with Maly. Mom grilled pork loin medallions on her George Foreman grill for lunch and Maly went down for a nap shortly after.

Once Maly got up, she and I played with R/C car on the side patio, then it was time to get ready to go. We headed out around 5:30 and Maly did pretty well until we were about half an hour to our house. She to us she missed her grandma and wanted grandma to hold her. It was really sad to see Maly miss her grandma so much, fortunately she was quickly distracted by the iPhone and the reminder that she was going to get home soon and get to play with her cats.

So, it was a fun yet fast weekend.

We’re all sitting in the living room watching Charlie Brown’s Valentine’s Day special. Maly chimes in and asks some important questions.

“Grandma, what’s your name?”

“Janice”

“Mommy, what’s your name?”

“Elise”

“JOSH!, what’s your name?”

“…”

Yesterday I turned 33 years of age. Thirty-something. The same age as Jesus, so I’ve been told. Thirty two was a little ho-hum. I think 33 is going to be THE age to be this year. It’s hip, it’s in, it’s the new 25 except with more defined love handles and thicker, coarser ear hair.

This year there was no planning. I decided yesterday morning during the drive to work that I just wanted to go out for steaks for dinner. I texted Elise to tell her we had reservations at 7 p.m. at III Forks. Then I pretty much forgot that it was my birthday for the remainder of the day. I even missed 2:51 p.m., the exact time that I was born. I haven’t missed 2:51 p.m. in I don’t know how long. I didn’t even realize that I missed it until much later in the evening.

Jenny was kind enough to come over and watch Maly for us so Elise and I could go to dinner. Dinner was okay. Elise had the 8 oz. filet cooked medium. I went for the 10 oz. medium rare. We shared a bottle of wine (don’t recall the name) and just talked. A couple times during dinner I lost hearing in my left ear, so I would just look at Elise and nod as I pondered the sensation of the left side of my head feeling like it was under water.

It was nice, just her and I out alone, although the majority of our conversations were about the Zombie Eater. That little kid is our world, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. We’re charged with preparing her to make her way, understand, discern, interact and change the world. I think that’s what most parents want to do.

We were home by 9 p.m. Jenny hung out with us for an hour or so before going home. Elise got Guitar Hero World Tour for me which I’m hoping to spend substantial time with this weekend.

All-in-all, good birthday. Thirty three is going to be a good one.

Oh, and “33 and the Thunder Chief” is what I always heard in AC/DC’s song “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap”

Elise had to take an class at her church tonight so it was Daddy/Maly night tonight. We got home after dropping Elise off and I made dinner for Maly. She ate as I was preparing my own dinner. She finished her dinner pretty much before I really started making mine (I’m totally out of practice in the kitchen).

And then she disappeared. I peeked around the hallway and saw that the bathroom door was closed and the light was on. I just assumed she was tending to business as she’s been learning to do so the past week and half. And by business, I’m only referring to front-end business at this point.

The house remained virtually silent for about five minutes. I was predisposed still by prepping my own dinner. I finally walked to the bathroom door.

“Hey, everything all good in there?”

“Yeah! Water really hot.”

I opened the door to find Maly with a hand full of suds and only the hot water running.

“Oh, sugar, that’s because you’ve only got the hot water running”

“I went poo poo and pee pee.”

“…”

“And now I wash my hands”

“You pooped?”

“Yeah…”

“In the potty?!?!”

“Yeah!”

“All by yourself?!!”

“Yeah!”

“AND YOU WIPED YOUR ASS?!?!… uhhh, ahem, I mean, you wiped your, err, butt by yourself?”

“Yeah!!!”

“What? Seriously? You wiped yourself? Not just the pee pee, but the poop, too? You wiped your butt?”

“Yeah!”

And the celebration began. I told her how proud I was of her. We danced a little jig. We chased each other around the kitchen and screamed and laughed. Finally, after ten minutes, she stopped in front of the stove and said, “Daddy, hoewdge me.”

I obliged. I lifted her up into my arms as she put her two fingers in her mouth and then nestled her little head down on my left shoulder.

“I’m a big girl.”

5:45 a.m. Maly had awaken half an hour earlier after apparently having a bad dream. Elise went into her room and rocked her back to sleep. I dozed during that time. When Elise came back to bed, I decided it was a good time to get up and go for a bike ride at the Veloway. I got up, brushed my teeth, got dressed, all the while trying to be as quiet as possible, but Elise kept stirring and, at one point, quietly yelled at me to either shut the bathroom door or turn off the bathroom light. I eventually made it to the garage where I had to open its door and back out the Jeep, which I’m sure woke Maly up. I semi-gracefully pulled the bike down from its ceiling hooks only to find that both tires were flat. I grabbed the Schwinn Airdriver 1000 to pump up the tires and found that the Schwinn Airdriver 1000 is a useless piece of airdriving crap. My only alternative at that point was to fire up the air compressor, which would do a great job of waking up the entire block.

So, no bike ride this morning. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Last night I was giving Maly a bath and I was trying to wash her hair. She’s hit or miss if I can get her to wash her hair. I started to get her hair wet when she freaked out and started screaming and crying. I left the bathroom for a minute and came back with a loose plan to distract her:

“Hey, Maly! Who is my mommy?”

“Huuuh?”

“Who is Daddy’s mommy?”

“Grandma!!!”

“Yeah! That’s right!”

“And who is Daddy’s daddy?”

“Grandpa!!!”

“Yep!”

“And he’s with Jesus.”

And that’s when I had to leave the bathroom for another minute to shed a couple tears while reveling in my lineage and my little girl, sitting in that bathtub, for whom I want to live forever.

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[flv width=”500″ height=”375″]http://www.maly.tv/video/20081216_PMOpageant.flv[/flv]

I was pleasantly surprised to come home from work this evening to find a package from the Czech Republic on my desk. My email pen pal, Radek Janíček sent us a beautiful Christmas card with a photo of snowy courtyard among Prague architecture, as well as a “Traditional Czech Cuisine” cookbook and two DVDs, “S čerty nejsou žerty” and “S tebou mÄ› baví svÄ›t”, which should be, um, interesting. I’m thinking about watching them while we’re in Des Moines with Elise’s family next week (with English subtitles, of course).

Elise and I are very excited that Radek and his wife, Jana, are expecting their first child early next year, so we’re going to make sure to load them up with Texas goodies once the baby is born. With a cowboy hat, 5 lbs. of extra spicy beef jerky and a can of Copenhagen, they’ll be Prague’s new trendsetters!