The Budget Inn

Henry enjoying the Budget's pool

The Budget Inn is an embarrassingly accurate name for a hotel. I would know, because the Budget Inn in St. George, Utah is the hotel my family has been staying at for years. The funny thing is, the hotel is pretty nice, as far as economy hotels go. It has an indoor and outdoor pool, a playground, and a mini-fridge and microwave in suite. Budget nothing.

Last week I joined my family for a little vacation in St. George. We all enjoyed some good joking at Budget's expense. There is something inherently hilarious about a name as honest as The Budget Inn. Like, when Traci's father-in-law asked her if our parents had a place in St. George, and she had to reply that no, but they had a room at The Budget Inn. Or when we ran into a friend at McDonalds, and, declining to state the name of where we were staying, instead motioned vaguely across the street.

We encountered another example of a brutally honest name when we ate at The Cheesecake Factory in Las Vegas. My sister ordered their Weight Management Salad. Must they call it the Weight Management Salad? It's specific, sure, but it also conveys too much information. Like the clothing store aptly called Big and Tall. Surely there are gentler, more euphemistic options.

I don't know what's worse: honest names or ironic ones. There seems to be a hint of sadism in the persistent trend to give trailer parks uncommonly luxurious names, like Country Club Estates. It's all good and well to tell people you live in the Country Club Estates, until they come over for dinner.

Bubba recently accidentally signed up for a discount entertainment card called Big Fun. He was making an on-line purchase and realized afterward that he had also enrolled in a program which gives minimal discounts at restaurants where we never eat for a monthly membership fee of $10. It was anything but big fun trying to cancel our membership, as the number listed on the back of the membership card had very limited customer service hours. We still keep receiving checks in the mail from Big Fun, with a nearly invisible disclaimer stating that, if cashed, we will be re-enrolled in the program.

It is not fun to deal with Big Fun, nor is it fun to tell the waitress you'll have a weight management salad. When Romeo exclaimed that a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet, he may have been right. The Budget Inn by any other name would still cost as cheap. But a name change may spare its guests from bouts of mild embarrassment.

The Catapult

"Much madness is divinest sense, to a discerning eye", and so begins a poem by Emily Dickinson in which she illustrates the fine line that exists between sanity and lunacy. Certainly many brilliant ideas initially sounded like the product of an unsound mind: antibiotics, flight, the inter-web, the entire family of Ronco devices. Bubba has an idea of his own that has led to an on-going debate between us over which side of the sanity line it falls. His idea? The Catapult.

The Catapult was originally conceived among Bubba's friends (ie, the Clann) in high school. The concept is a little blurry and changes over the years, but the basic gist is a Clann owned restaurant/hang out that would cater to the college crowd and serve specialty donuts and hot chocolate (preferably Steven's Gourmet Hot Cocoa). A catapult would in someway be central to this dining institution, whether by design (the building would be in a shape of a catapult), by function (customers would receive their order via catapult), or some other yet to be imagined way.

Bubba is especially fascinated with the concept of food service via catapult. When I have, quite sanely, pointed out that this method of food distribution would be disastrous, he's suggested that other creative methods could also be considered. Alternative solutions include, but are not limited to, service of food by conveyor belt or the implementation of tube-technology similar to that of drive-through banking.

To whom does the discerning eye belong? I have always claimed to possess it, arguing that establishing a restaurant based on a novel means of food distribution is doomed to fail. But the opening of an "automated" restaurant in Germany may force me to forgo my claim. The restaurant, called Bagger's, is described as "automated" because it doesn't employ any servers. Instead, customers order their meals on table-top touch screens. Their orders are then moved from the upstairs kitchen to their tables via gravity operated ramps. Below is a picture of the joint, and I have to say, it looks pretty cool.

Maybe Bubba was right. Maybe one day the Clann will run a successful hip hang-out. Then I'll not only have to eat food served via catapult, I'll have to eat my words, too.

This American Life.

I must confess, I have become a little bit addicted to the radio show This American Life. Our friends Jenny and Matt urged us to listen to it several times, but Bubba and I thought to ourselves, "A radio show?"

Yes, a radio show. It is so good that I can seldom get through without laughing, crying, or both. I could go on, but instead I'll direct you to Jenny's blog post about the show: http://jennyselsewhere.blogspot.com/2007/09/this-americans-life.html. This post finally motivated me to listen to the show, and I have been listening to archived programs non-stop ever since. You can also visit the show's website at http://www.thisamericanlife.org/.

If you've never listened to the program, turn off the t.v. one night this week and try it out. I promise you will be entertained.

Stop talking and listen to yourself!

Henry, being 21 months old, isn't the best communicator. His vocabulary at the moment is pretty much limited to mama, dada, bubba, and animal sounds (he does a great snake). Recently, Bubba and I have grown frustrated with his attempts to tell us what he wants. Over the past week or so he's picked up the habit of saying "dis, dis" whenever we ask him what he wants.

To us "dis, dis" is meaningless. "Use words" we plead. "Talk to us, Henry." "Don't say 'dis.'"

And then, today, it suddenly hit me. I knew what "dis" meant. To demonstrate how I arrived at this epiphany, let me share a typical "conversation" between Henry and us, his parents.

Henry: Dis, dis.

Us: Do you want this? (picking up a package of crackers). Do you want this? (picking up his blanket). Do you want this? (picking up a book).

Henry: Dis, dis.

Us (frantic): Don't say dis. What do you want? Use words! Do you want this? (frantically pick up whatever remaining item is within arm's reach). Do you want this? (repeated again, exasperatedly).

Henry (pointing): Dis.

Sometimes it's instructive to shut-up and listen to yourself talk. Instead of pleading with Henry to "use words", I should have been using words. Words like blanket, crackers, book. How can I expect him to distinguish among these items when I use the same word to describe them all?

I recently listened to an episode of This American Life where a father, suspecting his son is doing drugs, decides to tap the phone. The father records dozens of his son's phone calls, which confirm his suspicions to be true. When the son discovers his father has learned of his drug use, he fears the punishment. He is surprised when all his father requires of him is to listen to all of the taped phone conversations. And, oddly enough, that's all it takes to change the son's behaviour. He said that listening to himself on the recorded conversations made him embarrassed - he hadn't realized how stupid he was being - and he changed.

Conventional wisdom says that the key to being a good conversationalist is to be a good listener. We usually assume that this means listening to the other person involved in the conversation. We seldom think about listening to ourselves, to what we are saying and how we are saying it. It's not such a bad idea to stop talking and listen to what you're saying. You may find you have something to teach yourself.

The Problem with Selflessness

We've all at one time or another, when feeling down and depressed, received the advice to do something for someone else in order to feel better. It's a conundrum really: to find happiness for ourselves, we must lose ourselves in the service of others. The equation selflessness = happiness appears to be circular instead of linear. I'm being selfless precisely because I want to be happy. Isn't that the very definiton of selfishness?

Is it possible to perform a purely selfless act? Can we do something for another without receiving a benefit ourselves? Can we do anything selfless without being selfish?

Let's examine a conventionally perceived selfless act: raising children. People (parents) wax on about the selflessness involved in bearing and rearing their young. If the individual tasks of parenting are broken down and examined individually, parenting begins to look very selfless: changing a diaper, giving a bath,preparing a meal, laundering an outfit. The performance of these tasks in and of themselves does not scream selfishness. Except, in most cases, said parents chose to bring a child into the world because they believed the child would bring fulfillment to them, that having a child would, in short, make the parents happy. One could argue that having children is in fact selfish, narcissistic even, creating a miniaturized version of you to ooh and ahh over, and (hopefully) care for you when you're old.

I suppose I started mulling over this self-ish-less issue tonight because Bubba asked me a question: What would I do if I were the only person on earth? (This is a twist on the "alone on a desert island" scenario, except with access to all material goods and without the hope of being rescued or running into hot, scantily-clad natives). Bubba, of course, had ready answers that involved rummaging through people's homes and learning how to fly an airplane or navigate a boat across the Pacific. But I couldn't think of anything to do, because I was struck by how utterly pointless a life without anyone else would be.

It's hard to imagine acting without self interest. It's equally hard to imagine acting without the interest of other people. Even self-absorbed acts seem oddly dependent on other people. Would you worry about your looks if there was no one to see? Could you run a one-man rat race? Would you be motivated to create - sing, write, paint, dance - for an audience of none?

Alone on the earth, it would be hard to be selfless. There would be no one to lose yourself to. And, I suppose, perhaps no way to really find yourself. Alone on the earth, I fear I would tire of being selfish. For my own self-interest, I would want other people to care for, laugh with, love and serve.

My own self-interest requires the interests of others.

Do you see the problem with that?

Our day at the beach

What's the best remedy for winter doldrums? A day at the beach seems like a possible antidote. We decided to visit the Indiana Dunes and Lake Michigan on Saturday. It was a balmy 32 degrees, and when we arrived at the lake Bubba and I just laughed. What were we expecting? Warm sandy beaches and clear blue water? I don't know what we were thinking, because instead of a beach we got a frozen tundra. Even still, we wandered the lakeshore and found it had a kind of austere, brilliant beauty.

Winter Doldrums

The problem with winter is it's cold. And dark. It snows. Your skin gets dry and cracks around your knuckles. Hair darkens. Skin pales.

The problem with winter is you're not on the open road, driving home from a summer vacation. Winter can't produce a memory as palpable as this: suntanned bare feet on the dashboard, Good 'n Plenty and lukewarm Lemon Propel rattling in the console, singing along out loud to James Taylor or Counting Crows or Tom Petty. You gaze out of the insect-splattered windshield while I make tiny Xs over the mosquito bites on my legs. My body is exhausted, but in that good, worn, tired way that only comes from a day spent in the water. There is an irritating tightness on my shoulders from sunburn and the slight indentation of swimsuit straps. The landscape is mountainous and arid and empty, the sky impossibly high and open, and we fill the time with idle games of 20 Questions and I'm Going to Grandmother's House. We've forgotten what the N item on our list is, but are certain of Mongoose and Lima Beans.

We stop at a convenience store as the sky bruises into a purplish darkness. The air smells of gasoline and fried food and is just cool enough to raise goosebumps on bare arms and legs. Our flip-flops smack against the blacktop and make dirty half moons on the store's just mopped tile. Ice cubes thunk and clunk into 64 oz plastic cups and the refrigerated cases buzz and the till bings open and shut. The sounds are familiar and oddly comforting. Restrooms are bravely visited, snacks are selected, and then florescent lights are replaced with headlights on the highway.

We are quiet in the car now, the yellow and white lines of the road in stark contrast to our wandering, scattered, patternless thoughts.

That's the problem with winter: you're not on the open road, driving home from summer vacation, the freedom of your undecided life ahead tempered by the safety of the straight, even road vanishing into the darkening horizon.