Roger Loring doesn’t give a
big cahoot if the menu’s changed, so long as it doesn’t take half
a day to reach a live human voice.
He’s back, badass as ever!
So badass Loring is that I’m going to repeat his latest book’s
title so I can hyperlink it to his Amazon book page so he
doesn’t come after me with his nine-iron for leaving out an
important marketing tool. Here, then, with no further ado: LISTEN
CAREFULLY as OUR MENU has RECENTLY CHANGED. There!
If that won’t mitigate the retired high school teacher’s
potential rage should he detect so much as an imagined nuance of
inattention to details in this review, I’ll trade my keyboard
for a mega-screen TV and cede the word-slinging game to the pros. I
might even start calling him “Rog,” buy a growler of my
neighborhood brew pub’s seasonal beer, and invite Loring to watch
October’s mad basketball playoffs. Oh, the hell I would. I’d
pass
on hoops, maybe catch
a
few Packer games—unless, o lort. he’s a Vikings fan, and
I’d just as soon not even know that,
at least until this review is posted.
Having
embedded
a pretty
big clue above
identifying
perhaps Loring’s
all-time
favorite
sport, I
await breathlessly for the questions to arrive.
Not
giving
a hint
in this paragraph, as I
wish to
mildly
rebuke
readers who’ve been
merely skimming up to now
without seriously noticing
the review’s
clever
wordsmithery,
and also to encourage those who might have overlooked the hyperlinked
title of the book under discussion (I’ve italicized the word
hyperlink as
a courtesy to the many
of my Luddite cohorts
possibly baffled by this unfamiliar word among the many they may find
in the baffling new digital society Roger Loring’s latest
book—title hyperlinked above—lampoons for baffling so many of us
in certain age groups who’ve yet to discover the welcome face of
His Amazing Highness Mayor Google presiding over there next to the
bar).
Taking
a giant leap of faith, I’m assuming no one who’s read this far
has any doubt about the meaning of the book’s title, even those
trusting souls who listen patiently to the endless recorded messages
requiring of them to push this or that button on their phones, always
with the hope each button will deliver them to the coveted live human
voice, but only to find in many if not most cases they’ve been
routed to the exit door and a replay of the endless mechanical loop
starting the whole process over again. Here’s Loring’s frank
opinion of what are called Automated Phone Systems (APS):
“I feel that the now widely accepted model for business customer
service—and I don’t want to be too harsh here—is annoying,
stupid, intolerable, heartless, self-serving, impractical, and, in
case you missed it, annoying. And to make sure you get it I’ll say
it one more time. Automated answering systems are annoying.”
And
he’s not just whining. He fights back, gives these Scroogey
corporations a dose of their own inhuman
parsimoniousness.
If
you’re calling Loring from a heartless, penny-pinching,
indifferent, etc. corporate office, here’s what you can expect to
get:
“You
have reached the Loring residence. This call would be monitored for
quality assurance if Roger cared about quality. He doesn’t. If you
would like to hear this message in English, press 1. To hear this
message in Spanish, press 2. To hear this message in Chinese,
Russian, or Pig Latin— what are you thinking? To hear the Mormon
Tabernacle Choir’s rap version of this message, press 3.”
This
being the title story is also the first in the book, leading the
first of three sections organized by general topic. The first section
is titled Welcome to My Life. In the interest of encouraging you to
buy the book, thus averting a nine-iron furor from its author, I
shall give you mere tidbits as enticement, such as this quote from
the story Clearing the Clutter:
“The only two items that thrift shops refuse to accept nowadays are
encyclopedias and leisure suits.”
Taking
a snarky swipe at a younger generation, Loring opines, “Young
people today pretty much judge the value of something by whether it
fits into a USB plug or can be downloaded.” Personally
I think that’s a tad harsh, but I’ll not so much as consider
raising a stink over it.
My
favorite title in this section, The Long Goodbye, also had me nodding
like a bobblehead during descriptions of the difficulties his
wife and her family exhibit trying to disengage from a long phone
conversation or a visit in person to the Loring household. Because of
gender implications with this topic, I shall tiptoe quietly away and
let you figure out for yourselves what it is all about and whether it
should be reported to the Commission Investigating Suspiciously
Incorrect Troglodytian Gender Outrages Before They Reach Debate
Status on Facebook. Perhaps to balance the political implication of
The Long Goodbye, Loring has added Cook, Grill, Whatever. Do You Want
a Beer?
This
section also includes If I Ever Write a Detective Novel, This Will Be
the First Chapter, which I read and was crushed to find at the end,
in all capital letters:
TO BE CONTINUED. . . (BUT PROBABLY NOT BECAUSE I HAVE TO CALL PEOPLE
TO SEE IF THEY WANT AN EXTENDED CAR WARRANTY. THAT’S MY DAY JOB.)
And leaving fortune cookies in mailboxes, I suspect. . .
The
book’s second section deals with the media, the mere word of which
upsets me so cruelly I shan’t even give you any of its titles.
Except one:
An Abundance of Pundits, if only for the rhyme.
The
third section is about sports, aptly titled The Thrill of Victory,
the Agony of Defeat. Its stories include Loring’s personal history
as a young athlete and confessions of his attempt to recapture some
of that youthful prowess in his more mature years, such as today.
This
is the place in my review to revisit the admonition I delivered up
top to those who may still be wondering what is Loring’s all-time
favorite sport, the answer can be found by closely scrutinizing this
story, titled Old Guys Playing Basketball. Once
you’ve figured that one out, answered the question you had up top
because you merely skimmed the second paragraph of this review, you
qualify for the bonus answer to the question of a second sport Loring
expounds upon. You can answer it yourself by reading I Can Hit That
Shot, which starts out, “There was a time when I seriously
considered turning pro. Okay, I just had a dream about turning pro,
or maybe it was a hallucination. Whatever it was, the truth is that
my **** game was never at a level where I should have considered,
dreamed, or hallucinated about being a pro. In fact, I should never
have been allowed to buy **** c***s.
So
there you have it. If you guess both sports correctly you can proceed
to the story titled Trash Talk—something I must point out I have never
done, and am still in a low-level state of sub-hysterical shock to
see such words in published book.
It
just now occurred to me in my low-level state of sub-hysterical shock
that I have not yet revealed the titles of Loring’s first two
books. This might well be a residual effect of seeing the words “In
your face, chump” or “You can’t guard me, chump” on a
respectfully printed page. The books? Ah yes. The first one is
WHY
MEN DON’T ASK for DIRECTIONS,
which I am still afraid to read. The second one I’ve not only read
but reviewed, and I’m hyperlinking the title (without feeling the
need to italicize hyperlink, assuming you all are up to speed on that
one) for your convenience. Here then is I
DON'T TEXT WHILE DRIVING, WALKING, or
STANDING STILL..
One
click and you're there!
For links to more short-story collections, click SHORT STORY WEDNESDAY.