Results tagged “mondaymanners”

*Why yes—it is, in fact, Wednesday. And Monday Manners has been on hiatus for several months. But this seemed like an appropriate occasion to revive the post anyway.

Okay, so you're at the gym, minding your own business on the elliptical machine when the most foul-smelling human on God's green earth climbs on the machine beside you.

Dear Men of The Cave,

Last month's Ben Folds concert at the Electric Factory wasn't just disappointing because of how late the concert ran, or how uncharacteristically unenergetic Folds was. It was also disappointing because of just how rude several audience members standing near us were. The people in question—including one who reminded us more than a little of Danny Bonaduce—had apparently never been to a concert before. Or at least, they'd never shown up on time to a concert before. How else to explain the confused murmurs of "Who are these people? Where's Ben?" as the Miniature Tigers came onstage, followed by a very loud "Get off the stage!" from Bonaduce before the band even started their first song.

Chances are, if you're not unemployed right now, you know somebody who is.

I got my first cell phone ten years ago, and even then, it wasn't new technology. My parents had each owned a couple of Zack Morris phones back in the day, and seeing as Zach Morris last appeared on Saved by the Bell (the real show, not the college spin-off) in 1993—over fifteen years ago—it's safe to say that cell phones have been part of our popular culture for, oh, twenty years.

I am writing this week's column from El Paso, Texas, where I make an annual pilgrimage to visit my family, eat copious amounts of Mexican food, and exchange gifts.

I've been known to visit a strip club once in a while. I was actually at one on Saturday night—an excursion I'd been planning with a female friend and our significant others for quite some time.

Every weekday of December (except for December 25, that is), Phillyist will be counting down to 2009 with our highlights from the past year and our predictions for the next. If you have a list you'd like to submit, let us know!

I'd like to say that I'm an easy person to shop for, but I'm not. It's not that I'm picky, or that I have everything I could possibly want—it's that I rarely get around to making a list, so nobody has much of an idea what to get me. Besides, in my adult life I've discovered that (at least where family is concerned), I usually appreciate a gift that comes in an envelope (read: check or gift certificate) more than one in a box (read: another flannel nightgown). But, sometimes, when you're doing your more obligatory gift shopping (for your mail person, for instance, or your intern or next-door neighbor—those other people who are historically difficult to shop for) it would be inappropriate to give somebody a check, and a gift certificate seems either too impersonal or too transparent (enabling the recipient to know exactly how much you think your relationship is worth), so you're stuck having to buy... something. But how do you figure out the right gift in these situations? When you're buying somebody a token rather than making a sweeping gesture, what should you do?

Let's face it: the economy is in the shitter and there's not much we can do about it, other than go on with our day-to-day lives and hope that our places of employment will still be standing when it's all over. The front page of the paper is filled every day with the state of our savings accounts, with monsters of the industry no longer able to pay their employees, with sub-prime mortgages. This is not the sort of thing we want to think about, let alone talk about, so close to the holidays. And so it's time for a bit of a refresher course on what to avoid when talking to polite company—specifically, any talk of money.

I'm going to get right to the point today. I've covered related topics in Return to Sender, but for this week's Monday Manners column, I'm keeping things short, sweet, and to the point: don't honk at pedestrians and bicyclists if they're not breaking the law. Don't do it. Period.

As we feared but warned against, many of last week's post-World Series win celebrants got a little carried away (Pat Burrell, sadly, among them). Even Chase Utley couldn't act with complete decorum.

Wednesday was a great night for Philly sports fans. After a fifteen year drought, we'd made it to the World Series. Hurray!

This is not a column about politics.

Very few of us can afford to treat our friends to a meal every time we go out. (If you're among those very few, congratulations. Have you considered feeding the Phillyist staff?) And for the many of us who can't, there comes that dreaded time at every meal when the check comes and a question must be answered: "How do we want to do this?"

True story: toward the end of my freshman year of undergrad, I decided it would be much more fun to spend my summer working outside for one of Philadelphia's many tour companies, rather than in an office or restaurant. I talked to a couple of people I knew who'd worked as tour guides in the past, and they told me that most of the companies had probably already finished hiring for the seasons, but that it wouldn't hurt to make some calls and ask if they were looking for more applicants. I spent a few afternoons that week researching the different companies online and making calls. The companies that didn't have phone numbers listed, I emailed. My approach to the email was no different than my approach to the phone call: I introduced myself and asked if the companies were hiring and, if so, how to submit an application. I tried not to be too formal and I did my best in both cases to convey both my competence and my warmth—a winning combination, I thought, for any tour guide.

On Saturday evening, Ross and I went to see our last Live Arts show of this year's festival, Jérôme Bel's The show must go on, which was presented at the Kimmel Center. My review of that show is forthcoming, but for the purposes of this column, now, suffice it to say that it's one of those shows that you either "get" or you don't. And while most of Saturday night's audience was willing to go along for the ride, there were a couple of assholes in the audience who seemed hell-bent on making everyone as miserable as they were.

For better or for worse, Phillyist isn't my day job. A quick glance at my bio will tell you that I work at a local communications firm. That means I do a lot of things, but most pertinent to this week's column, I do press outreach. I want people in the media to talk about my firm's clients. Not just newspapers and television stations, either. We want people to blog about our clients.

Let's face it: in this day and age, most (if not all) of us are signed into some sort of instant messaging service while we're at work. For better or for worse, this world of 24/7 connectivity has us chatting the day away, often while we'd be better off just getting our work done.

This week's Monday Manners will be a quick one, but that doesn't make it unimportant. In fact, I'm surprised it hasn't been covered yet. (Or at least, if it has, I cannot for the life of me find it.) The simple theme is this: if you screw up, say you're sorry.

Sometimes, you get invited to a party that doesn't ask you to RSVP. But those are few and far between. More often than not, hosts of parties want, nay, need, to know who will be coming.

I've used this column before to emphasize that one should not call into question the ethnic, religious, sexual, or racial identity of a person just because he or she doesn't fit into a stereotypical mold. Jews can be naturally blonde, gay men can play sports (just ask John Amaeci), and not all black people have to speak or dress like rappers. It's the twenty-first century. Get over it.

I take public transit to work every day. I often take it home, as well. Once in a while, I'll hop on the bus—but more often than not, I'm underground, first on the Broad Street Line and then on the El. And my intra-city commute gives me ample opportunity to observe bad behavior.

After five months of unemployment, I'm happy to say I'm now in a job that was worth the wait. I love my job; I love the people I work with; I love my office. We occupy the entire floor of an Old City rowhome. There are no individual offices—we work in one big room and the ideas and conversation (and, admittedly, gossip) all flow freely. There's always music on, the decor is hip yet homey, and communal lunches or happy hours aren't uncommon. Even the most stressful days at work are mitigated with lots of laughter. I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Although I frequently lament abuse of the English language, I'm also the first to admit that the internet has a language of its own. I'm not talking about L337, I'm not talking about LOL, and I'm not talking about the bad grammar that permeates most MySpace profiles. I'm referring to the language of hypertext, which makes it possible for us to write sentences like: "Don't be that guy" and "Her attitude toward adoption reminded us a little of a certain famous actress" without having to say what it is to be that guy "that guy" or who the "certain famous actress" is. When read aloud, such sentences make very little sense (unless you've got a PowerPoint presentation screening behind you). But online, not only do they make sense, they're becoming the status quo.

Usually, I'm all about following the rules of standing in line. But last week I was reminded of one particular instance in which it's really, really okay to cut in line, and when, beyond that, people should let you: when you're about to hurl. Whether you've had too many margaritas or the raw bar isn't sitting well with you, you should be proud of yourself for even making it to the bathroom. But on a particularly busy night at the bar, restaurant, or club you're at, making sure you didn't vomit on your waitress's shoes is only part of your problem. You may be in the bathroom, but now you have to reach a toilet.

I hate the Post Office. Not the actual organization. I should be more specific. I hate going to the Post Office. It's not that the clerks are often unnecessarily unfriendly. It's not that I wish I could just email the contents of the heavy box I'm holding and save the paper. It's that the people who visit the post office often... suck.

I just got an email that really annoyed me.

I don't necessarily advocate stealing somebody else's unprotected wireless internet connection. Because that is illegal. And telling you to do something illegal on Phillyist could get us into a lot of trouble.