I begin my Impromptus today with student activism (not a fan of) — then go on to sundry other issues: political, linguistic, and so on. See what you think, here. Let’s read some mail.
In a column on Wednesday, I had occasion to quote Bill Buckley, whom I once heard say, with tired frustration, “All I want in life is for my printer to work.” A reader in the Air Force informs me, “There is a meme among IT people about a printer that simply worked.” Ah:
On Tuesday, I shared a photo from a subway car (New York) — a photo of an ad (clever):
A reader writes,
I love Manhattan, and riding the subway is a big part of my New York experience. I’m also a clergyman, so, as you might imagine, I approve of an ad for a Bible app. Definitely a better way to spend time than doom-scrolling.
Yeah, I feel that. (Though some people would say that you can do some doom-scrolling in the Bible.)
In that Wednesday column, I had an item on — well, let me just quote:
A social issue, if you will: tipping. Tipping is terrifying, or can be. A lot of us live in perpetual fear of undertipping. And we may resent this perpetual fear.
A bit more:
I knew a kid who played on the University of Michigan football team. He was embarrassed by the tips his dad left at restaurants. He (the son) would contrive to leave a little more — maybe when the dad wasn’t looking. (This was in the days when we used cash.)
A tad more:
In a New York taxi cab, the screen allows you to tip by percentage: 20 percent, 25 percent, or 30 percent. Yes, 20 percent is the lowest. I have noticed this on restaurant bills, too.
Okay, a letter:
Years ago my wife and I along with our infant daughter were out to dinner with my parents at a Chinese restaurant. Our waitress was a Chinese woman, probably in her early twenties with a heavy accent. She was extremely attentive and polite and the food was excellent. My dad, always a high-maintenance chap, asked the waitress for extra this and extra that, which she dutifully saw to.
When the check came for about $60 (bring back 1991, please!) I reached for my wallet to leave a tip but my dad insisted it was his responsibility and he triumphantly placed a single dollar bill on the table. I’m sure his reasoning was that a tip was supposed to be a dollar and had always been a dollar because that’s what he left when he was in the Navy in 1952. He was completely oblivious to the notion that it was instead a percentage of the bill. I objected to the insulting amount but because he was a member of that elite cohort of people who could not possibly be wrong about anything anywhere ever he dismissively waved me away. My wife and I looked nervously at each other as we all got up to leave.
The story is so painful, as it unfolds, I can barely stand to paste it. Let me jump to the end:
My wife and I had arrived in separate cars and we both drove off as if we were heading home. I was thinking that I had to make this right with the waitress so as soon as my parents’ car was out of sight I circled back to the restaurant. As I pulled into the parking lot my wife pulled in from the other direction. She was thinking the same thing I was. We made sure the waitress got a very generous tip.
Tension City, as the first Bush used to say. My thanks to one and all.