Wanted: Converts with a Conscience

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I was watching an episode of Counting Cars (it’s fascinating, even if I don’t understand half of what they say). This guy was getting a tattoo of the Second Amendment inked over his right shoulder. He mentioned he’d like a tandem car, one with  flags, slogans, Constitutional snippets and a Minuteman, flexing like a Mr. Universe contestant,  sneering over the hood. The guy wanted it to be the muscle of all muscle cars. Up to $120,000. He should have included at least a teeny thank-you to the First Amendment, which gives all Americans the right to be stupid.

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Still, should a passing pigeon decide to bless you with a liquid-marshmallow breakfast on your Corvette hood, there’s not a gun in the world that will shoot that holy water from the sky.

But I have a right, as well. And, as an ordained minister (credentialed in Arkansas, for god’s sake; you really haven’t heard of Google, huh?), I herby announce the birth of Aesopism. So I guess our Holy Day will be May 2nd (4:32 p.m., Pacific Coast Time).

Like the bible, torah and koran and tipitaka, there shall be an Aesoptic Sacred Text, The Fable of the Sun and North Wind. Unlike those insomnia-fixers, ours shall be simple.

It is a well-known Aesop fable, but our religion shall also be accurate. The text is below:

The Sun and North Wind had a bet over who was stronger. To settle the wager, they tried to remove a man’s cloak. The Wind blew as hard as it could, trying to whip it, force it off the human. But the harder it blew, the tighter the man clung. The Sun slowly warmed the man until he removed the cloak.

That’s it. The only Aesopian code of conduct.

Should the believer choose (choice underscores all preachings), there is an Optional Dining Grace: “Blessed Whatzit, thank you for today, and please let us chew your bounty with closed mouths.”

We accept all faiths, creeds, colors, sexes, genders, life choices and hairstyles. Animals, too, and all shall be eligible for the Aesopian highest order:  The Sinning-But-Trying.

Being forward-thinking, we shall have a slogan, perfect for bumper stickers: “Like religion, without the dummies.”

There shalt be but One Commandment: Thou shalt not selfie.

Our gospel and chorus are below:

Armed And Really Pissed

 

Next week, I turn 50, a more passionate goal than I care to admit.

And as I’ve neared that marathon tape, I’ve found myself upbeat, centered, ready to tackle the next 50 a more wizened, patient soul. A better man.

Then the American Association of Retired Persons had to try to squat on the moment.

The card arrived last week, though I’m still, technically, 49. I have no idea how they figured out my birthday. They never sent a card before.

But there It was. In my mail, red as a railroad crossing and sealed with the care of an American Express Platinum card. My buddy Dan, born a week after, sent a smoke signal warning. His arrived the same day, and he texted what loomed.

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I guess I knew It was coming. But, as a boy, I remember thinking: “That’s an old people’s card. You don’t get that unless you’re a hundred. Or at least born in the olden days, like before 1965.

And I began to wonder: Do people apply the moment they are eligible, like 16-year-olds do with a driver’s license? Or is it an admission of wrinkles, a truce with Father Time? Not necessarily a defeat. In a way, the card could say: “You made it. You survived this merciless world and daytime TV for a half century.

And at what point does our wisdom clash with ego? Eventually, it seems, the pragmatic must overcome the proud. Millions of Americans decide that, while having to admit we qualify for a senior’s advantages, that is a pretty good discount at Motel 6.

So I started looking into statistics. What’s the typical age of an enrollee? A member?

Not surprisingly, there are few hard numbers. When you Google AARP, you’re inundated with analytics and advertisements about the benefits of just a $19.99 annual fee. As a reporter, I realized I could simply drop a note to the folks at AARP and ask. I had the address, postage paid, right there on the return envelope.

Then I remembered I had ripped into the paperwork into fine shreds, and sheared the card in half. If I could, I probably would have clipped It into 49 shards.

Ok, I overreacted. But I’m just forty nine. Blame it on the rebellion of youth.

A Rose(Bowl), By Any Other Name

 

The interesting thing about having the email address sbowles@gmail.com is that you realize how many people are named Bowles.

I used to think the surname weird, if not unique. God how I wished my ancestors had dropped the “e” in my last name. I can’t tell you how many times people have read my name and queried aloud: “Scott…Bowels?”

But apparently that’s not a unique lament. I get many emails not intended for me, but for someone with a slight variation on the address, like s.bowles. But in the ethernet chatter, the character(s) get dropped, and I’ll get an email meant for a Sally Bowles, or Stuart Bowles.

Normally the errors are humorous, if not a frightening statement on the human condition:

Sally, thanks for signing up for fat camp.

Stuart, thanks for your interest in penis enlargement pills.

But today it took a briefly menacing turn. At 7:25 a.m., I got an email from a guy named Mat Krotki, the president of PDG-GUS, a wheelchair manufacturer that touts its corporate humanity toward the disabled. But his email betrayed little humanity. I looked through the thread and saw that he meant to send it so s?bowles@gmail.com (I don’t want to add to the world chaos).

Dear Steven Bowles :

Your invoice for the decuctible on your recent claim appears below.
Payment is due upon receipt.

Thank you for your business – we appreciate it very much.
Mat M. Krotki | President | PDG-GUS

bad

I didn’t know what to make of it. Steven? Was that a clerical error? I do face some insurance issues, but I was up to date on my deductibles. Though it’s hard to keep track of all the forms and bills, probably intentionally.

The follow-up email growled:

Hi Steven,

This invoice is severely past due.
This will be my last written attempt to collect payment of this invoice.
If you choose not to respond, you  will leave us no choice but to escalate
our collection action to another level.
I look forward to your timely response.

Thanks
Mat M. Krotki | President | PDG-GUS

worse

When I realized the emails weren’t meant for me, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I got pissed. Then I came to peace.

The anger came from the letters’ corporate tone. The first email had the obligatory polite predicates: “Thank you for your business.” “We appreciate it very much.”

The second showed the business’s and man’s true colors (which usually expose themselves in rain, not sunshine). “This will be my last notice.” “If you choose not to respond, you will leave us no choice but to escalate…” Not even a period at the end of “Thanks.” (Sorry, the word nerd in me won’t allow intentionally poor grammar.)

The peace came when I realized I could turn this into a personal lesson. That how, when you act in haste, anger, greed, from your power perch — when you act from a dark place — you can make small mistakes that balloon into something you wish you’d noticed more. That little things, if left unguarded, have aspirations to go big.

Still, Mat Krotki (love that name) had such an aggressive tenor to his note that it got under my skin, even if it weren’t intended for my flesh. He could have said something human, like “Please get back to me, Steve. This is important.” Instead, the guy had to include a passive aggressive addendum: “I look forward to your timely response.”

So I sent him one, at 7:43 a.m.:

Wrong guy, dickhead.

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