Secret Millionaires and Undercover Bosses

Have you heard there's a new reality television show called "Secret Millionaire"? The premise is that rich folks go live incognito amongst the needy for a few days, and at the big reveal, shower some money onto the poor wretches with whom they were cohabitating. Cue the swelling music at the end of the show, as the magnanimous millionaires climb back on their timeshare jets and leave the temporarily enriched wretches, once again, to themselves.

It is unfair of me to write this, I suppose, without having watched the show even once. However, I have made a pledge to stop yelling at the television set like it is a Hummer that just stole my parking space at the mall. So I'm judging this on website press materials only, and even those had me worked up into a lather. 

True, as these millionaires take what the show calls "soul-shaking journeys," viewers are exposed to dedicated volunteers, deserving organizations, and inspiring models of community involvement. Of course the monetary support provided by the millionaire to the soup kitchen or educational program or homeless shelter at the end of the show is a positive.

But why are we applauding the Secret Millionaires for applying a bandaid to a patient who is terminally ill, and then running away from the hospital? Unless what the millionaires are doing is going to effect long-term structural change that reduces the need for those soup kitchens or educational supports or shelters, I'd prefer to keep my hands folded in my lap, thank you. 

The show "Undercover Boss," which I actually have watched, bothers me for similar reasons. A C-level boss in disguise- it usually involves the shaving off or growing of a mustache, and the wearing of a baseball hat - shadows a few clueless employees to get an inside view of working conditions. (Note to all employees: if a guy shows up unexpectedly at your job and says he is a trainee or a contest winner and will work with you for the next 8 hours, don't bad-mouth the front office while he's hanging out with you.) Then he changes into a three piece suit and announces to his shocked and delighted audience of employees what he has learned. 

Inevitably, the boss contributes some money for one of his employee's kids to go to college. He covers the outstanding medical bills of another. And then there's some version of, "You guys who work the parking lots: from now on you'll have a port-a-potty, instead of having to hold it for your whole shift!" or some other tiny gesture that seems, really, like it should have been taken a long time ago.

I always worry that there is an employee in the crowd kicking himself, because if it had just been his day to work the 7-11 coffee pots when the big boss was there,  maybe his daughter's medical care could have been covered.

Perhaps the boss could have just spent some time with his HR team reviewing medical coverage provided to all employees, to figure out how they could improve it across the board. Now, that would garner some genuine emotion in the crowd shots. 

Since we seem to accept that in 2011, severe government budget cuts are inevitable to programs that help the poor, the long-term unemployed, the infirm, and children, but that tax breaks for the rich are sacrosanct, here's another thought. Let's set up a show called "Help Me! No, Really! Help Me!" It could be like a Dating Game between millionaires - and there are more of them in America than ever, according to a recent MarketWire news item - and the destitute. 

Through a series of vetting questions to contestants hidden behind a screen, one of the 8.4 millionaires in this country could choose a poor person to support, maybe covering car payments so the poor person can drive to his crappy minimum-wage-no-benefits-part-time job. Then the poor person could in turn make a series of tv and radio promo spots in which they talk about how awesome their patron is. It could be just like the Medici era, only without the art output.

Or - and I'm just spitballing here - some of those 8.4 million could think about throwing their energy and funds behind efforts that would soften the stark, black line between the haves and have-nots in America. Maybe encourage the lobbying organizations and politicians that represent their interests and live off their contributions to work with, not against, improved public education, universal healthcare, etc - the things that would make meaningful and lasting changes to the people who they're so purportedly interested in helping on Secret Millionaire and Undercover Boss. 

That might not be as "soul-shaking" for them as a network TV appearance, but I promise: the rest of us would feel it a whole lot more.

Ready for a Glee-ful Weekend

The big weekend is here, the one that we've been anticipating since last fall's school auction: we're co-hosting the annual neighborhood Cocktail Crawl. Since straightforward would be way too easy for an event as manic as our public school auction, there's another layer of complexity on top: each of the four stops on the tour has a TV show theme, and victims - I mean, auction bid winners - will face a challenge peculiar, and I do mean peculiar, to that show.

Since  some of our twenty-two high rollers are Normalarkey readers, I don't want to give too much away. But things will kick off at Survivor Island, hosted by our friends Jenn and Tom who, conveniently, have an extremely long, extremely steep driveway. (Whenever I drive our kids up it to pick up or drop off a child, my daughter shields her eyes with a forearm until I set the parking brake.) Have fun getting through whatever obstacles the faux Probst and his Aussie medic sidekick set up for you along the slope, winners.

After refreshments that carry on the Survivor theme (someone always feasts, and someone is always famished on that show, right?) the Crawlers will be off to the Mad Men house, hosted by Andrea and Neil. This year's party planning was a challenge for them, what with Don and Betty splitting up on the last season of the show. However, appearances are appearances and Betty will once again be greeting her visitors at the front door with a freshly ironed hostess apron and crispy beehive, while Don mixes martinis and grimaces in the background. The challenge revolves around advertising copy. Can you finish this jingle?  "Give me a break, give me a break, break me off a bit of that…" And no, it isn't "football cream."

Third stop on the route is Top Chef, where minivan-driving Dawn and her husband Patrick will be fulfilling hair follicle fantasies in a long black wig (for Padma) and bald cap (for Tom) respectively. The sous chef relay challenge will undoubtedly be made more interesting by the fact that the cheftestants will be at least two cocktails in at that point, hence the "no knives" rule.

Finally, the weary crawlers clomp on over to our house, which will be transformed for the evening into William McKinley High School, home of Glee. I'm not saying much about what we plan to put the revelers through, because my alter-ego Coach Sylvester will do it for me tomorrow night. With a bullhorn. And venomous wit. And sticks. Andrew will be appearing in a sweater vest for the second time in his life (last year's Crawl being the first.)

Why do I bore you with all these party details? Because this week, pink slips went out to one fifth of Oakland public school teachers - including two teachers out of 11 at our elementary school - in order to prepare for an anticipated loss of $30 million from state coffers, a loss of $900 in state funding per student. Given that California already ranked 43rd in the nation on per-pupil spending, we seem to be locked in a race to the bottom. Eat our dust, Arizona!

While there's a chance that teachers could be rescinded if a more favorable budget agreement is reached by May 15, there's no guarantee. And even if teachers are spared (and let's do all we can to make it so,) funding for other programs like art, PE, and computers are sure to be cut. Once again, parents are going to have to fill the gaps to fund quality public education in our city.

So take this Cocktail Crawl idea, run with it, improve upon it, make it your own (we've considered choosing shows from the '70s for next year's party. I am SO going to be Maude.) Turn it into a moneymaker for a local school - not a bad outcome on a night that is so absurdly fun.

And in gratitude to our Crawlers for opening their wallets so generously to bid last fall, I am leaving you a musical hint. This is the one Journey song that is guaranteed NOT to figure into your Glee challenge. Enjoy it, and the fact that while air guitar lives on, the mullet/sideburn combo worn by Steve Perry has mostly fallen out of favor. Except maybe in Arizona.

Friday's Music Moment: Procrastinating Do-Gooder Edition

This is it. If you haven't finished your holiday shopping yet, then what are you doing reading my blog? The thronging crowds and snappy clerks await!

Unless…I have a better idea for you.  One that truly embodies the spirit of the season, and helps needy kids to boot. It makes you look like a generous do-gooder, which I know you are, not to mention a supporter of groovy new (and sometimes old) music - that's what brings you to Friday's Music Moment every week, right?

Carolyn Said of the San Francisco Chronicle wrote a story last week about some young musicians and their friend Tyler Hester, a ninth grade English teacher at a charter high school in Richmond, CA. It's the kind of school where the library "consists of about 500 dog-eared paperbacks housed in a former bathroom," according to the article, the kind of place where even if you HAD a love of reading, you'd be hard-pressed to find a book with which to indulge it.

The musicians, Jack Conte and Nataly Dawn, have a huge-on-Youtube band called Pomplamoose, and they decided to help their college buddy and his students by encouraging their 200k plus YouTube fans to donate books to the school. In return, donors get a free download of Pomplamoose's latest album.  The response has been phenomenal, with donations to the school coming from all over the world. As of this writing, 7,354 donors have given 9,898 books and counting. It's been so successful that they've expanded beyond the original school site to donate books to public schools all over Richmond, a city where only 55% of students test proficient in English at the end of elementary school, and where in some schools 99% of the student population is poor enough to qualify for free or reduced price lunch.

Check out Said's article for the full story, but suffice it to say that tales like this refute all the nasty rumors about members of the Digital Native generation being apathetic and me-centered. I'm kind of intrigued too by this whole phenomenon of a band that exists only on YouTube. Do they even tour? Do they even have to? Evidently they made their mark when Hyundai bought their jingle for a car ad, but since I pretty much never have a chance to watch TV this time of year I haven't seen it - I apologize if everyone in the world is already sick of Pomplamoose.

As for me, I want to hear more than just the snippets of "Deck the Halls" in the video below, so I donated a couple copies of "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou to the school. Why not pour yourself a nice eggnog, choose a book or two to donate in someone's honor, and spend the rest of the day listening to your new Pomplamoose Christmas album?

Happy Holidays to all my readers - thank you so much for making Normalarkey a part of your week. It's the best present I've had all year (I mean, besides the Jean Nate and the Christmas Tree sweater.)

Manly Motivation

My husband has been a serious cyclist since high school, getting more regimented about riding once we moved to northern California, where world-class cyclists train on the roads just a few miles from our house. When he first began riding with a local bike club more than ten years ago, he would come home and tell me that the guys - no women in this group - suggested he needed to lose weight, buy a new bike, and get better bike clothes if he really wanted to be any good.

"They sound awful," I'd tell him. " You don't need to go out with them again."

"Are you kidding?" he'd respond. "It was awesome. They're picking me up tomorrow morning at 5:30."

I had completely missed the point, that the secret coagulant to male bonding is a healthy dash of insult. It's what the Brits call "taking the piss" - cutting someone down to size with humor, the more sarcastic the better.

Over the past decade I've come to trust and cherish Andrew's bike buddies. Like the Marines, they never leave one of their own behind with a flat or a dropped chain, and they goad each other into achieving things they'd probably never even attempt on their own. An annual highlight is when they all ride in the Gran Fondo race in Santa Rosa, which was held last weekend. Pro cyclist Levi Leipheimer leads 6000 riders over 103 miles of gorgeous Sonoma County roads, with 8,500 feet of climbing, all of it to raise money for local charities.

I am a bad wife. Last year the house that we stayed in during the race was so nice that the other bike wives and I never left the deeply upholstered chairs around the infinity pool with a view of the vineyards to cheer on our men. So sue me.

But this year one of Andrew's cycling buddies, Paul, has the quintessential cyclist injury - broken clavicle, thanks to a SuperShuttle van that decided to use him as a hood ornament a few months back. He offered to take us to a spot where he knew the cyclists would be coming by slowly and could use some encouragement - Coleman Valley Road, which starts right next to the Pacific Ocean and seems to climb straight up to the clouds.  

I've never felt the urge to call a hill ugly before - especially not one covered in tall, golden grasses with a view of the Pacific - but this was u-g-l-y . Here's a video from last year's ride - if you skip to 4:53, that's exactly where we stood to watch the cyclists making the grueling climb. It was hot, and a bit windy, and by the time the cyclists reached us they had already gone 75 miles. Most of the riders were staring straight down at their handlebars in prayer position, appealing to whatever power would help them finish the climb. My nine year old daughter was walking uphill faster than a lot of the cyclists were riding it, and the cyclists' entreaties for her to give them a push were only half in jest. 

photo: Louisa Tallarida

I come from what I once heard actress Jamie Lee Curtis refer to as the "Good Climbing Johnny!" school of encouragement. She was deriding parents who praise everything their kid does, including how they scale a backyard jungle gym. But I figure in life I'd rather cheer some effort than sit silently by expecting greatness. So I stood roadside yelling things like "Looking strong!" and "Way to go!" and "You can do it!" Even if the riders looked like they were going to have a coronary or had been training for the previous six months by lifting meatball subs to their mouths, I at least said, "Hey, nice jersey!"

It didn't seem to do much. When I said, "Hey, you're almost there!" many of the cyclists snapped "No, I'm NOT!" and then I felt ill-informed and kind of mean.

Paul, however, knew what these men really needed to hear. "Levi is only a half-hour ahead of you! Of course, he's only riding with one leg - his bad one!" he'd yell. If they were wearing a cycling jersey with a college logo on it, he'd immediately shout "Go (whatever that college's main rival was)!" A race photographer pulled up and Paul began  to call out, "Hey, what are you complaining about, if this hill was hard they wouldn't have sent a race photographer out to take your picture here!"

That nonstop flow of insults seemed to work better than a Gu shot at kicking the rider's energy up a notch. Some even got enough of a second (third? fifth?) wind to hurl insults back at Paul. "Easy for you to say, standing there by the side of the road!" shouted the lead rider of one weary-looking bunch.

"Yup, that's me, just standing here drinking a nice cold Pepsi!" he roared, tilting back the can dramatically as condensation dripped down his hand. That whole group of overheated riders shot by, rocket-fueled by pique. Paul knew exactly what he was doing.

I can't pretend to understand the male penchant for insults-as-encouragement, but I'm sure I can emulate it. And as for you three-speed riding, flabby whiners with substandard alma maters, when you see me midway through the Coleman Valley Road climb next year, I am going to motivate you like never you've never been motivated before.

Friday's Music Moment - Let Them Knock by Sharon Jones

Travie McCoy may want to be a billionaire so he can end up on the cover of Forbes Magazine (what up, Oprah?) but I have a different plan. When I'm a billionaire, which should be soon, I'm following in Big Daddy Hellman's footsteps.  That's Warren Hellman, San Francisco private equity investor, philanthropist, and banjo aficionado.

Seems about nine years ago Warren decided he'd like to do a little banjo jamming. But when you're a rich guy, "jam session" takes on a slightly different aura.

Hellman basically rented Golden Gate Park and threw the inaugural Hardly Strictly Bluegrass music festival. Now in its tenth year, it's a generous gift from Mr. Hellman to the city and to roots musicians everywhere. Six stages in Golden Gate Park and wide open to the public, not even a penny to attend to see artists like: Elvis Costello, the Indigo Girls, Richard Thompson, Patti Smith, Jenny and Johnny, T-Bone Burnett, Conor Oberst, Trombone Shorty, and Jackie Greene. Mr. Hellman takes the stage himself on Saturday morning with his band, The Wronglers; here's hoping he gets the heartiest round of applause all weekend.

As for me and my people, we're going Sunday. I've got a tentative agenda scheduled, some emerging artists, some banjo, some rockabilly…but the last slot on Sunday night is killin' me, Warren! Everyone I wanted to see most is playing at the same time! Do I hit The Avett Brothers, of "Kick Drum Heart" and  "I and Love and You" fame? Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings? Or Emmylou, who probably has the most recognizable voice in the entire music industry (and for whom, Hellman has said, the festival was created)?

Choices, choices. In the meantime - let's enjoy Ms. Sharon and her band  from a live performance in France. She is sassy, she can belt it, and my goodness, but she has her priorities straight. Let 'em knock on your door this weekend, friends -