Is a ‘thank you’ really so time-consuming?

By: DONAVON CAMPBELL

How long does it take to say “thanks?”

I timed myself. It takes me .53 seconds.

How about a “thank you?”

It took me .74 seconds.

And I didn’t even investigate the classic “thank you very much;” who has time to be that thankful these days?

I’m not saying this study was airtight by any means, but that’s not the point.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I went to see a movie. When the show was over and everybody was shuffling out of the theater, there was the usual clump of blurry-eyed people, most of them retracted well inside their own minds, deciding what they would say to their friends about whether or not the flick was any good.

Sheer volume made for a nice, steady flow of hands absentmindedly holding the doors open. The closest one door might creep toward shutting would be a six-inch pivot before another palm crept out of the darkness to slap it open again.

The issue came when the crowd had thinned between the theater doors and the front door of the building.

My wife exited first while I held the door. I saw another couple a few steps behind us, so I stopped and continued to hold the door open for another second or two.

The female of the couple approached the door, looked me right in the face and passed through without so much as a peep.

The male of the other couple is largely irrelevant for this story except that he performed adequately by using his forearm to brace the door while I released it and continued on my way.

But that woman …

I was held up for at least two seconds, had cut off a conversation with my wife and had totally halted our progress to our own vehicle to hold the door because I was taught it is a decent thing to do.

It’s a habit for me, and I will also admit that, at times, I may even be a little too nice or polite, and therefore I must also, in moments like those, lie in the bed I make.

Fine.

But this was well within the realm of acceptable niceness. Not to mention the woman looked me right in the eyes!

I was holding my own gaze because acknowledgement, or a growing lack thereof, of this menial kindness has become a major pet peeve of mine. I try not to make a habit of staring people I don’t know in the face in close quarters, but that is a whole other column.

I am now officially convinced that the lack of “thank yous” exchanged for actions like holding a door open or letting another motorist into one’s lane in traffic — this one requires a short, easy wave — is officially a problem.

I understand that there are exceptions to every rule and circumstances that may lead to an understandable breaking of the rules.

But for the sake of setting out some guidelines for all of those out there who, let’s just say, may not know, I will now lay out some of the rules I go by:

*If you are in a double door situation and the person ahead of you reaches the second door before you reach the first and holds the second door open until you reach it, say it.

*If a person stops a conversation (with another person, because heaven forbid we — I did say “we” — get off our cell phones) to hold a door for you, say it.

*If a person not only breaks stride but physically plants his or her feet to wait to hold a door for you, say it.

*And, for heaven’s sake, if someone coming the opposite way opens the door, sees you coming and actually steps aside to hold the door for you, I just don’t understand how someone can sleep at night without saying it.

These are just a few of the many times when it is prudent, in my mind, to say “thank you,” but if you are still confused, you can always play it safe by just saying it whenever someone is nice enough to pause his or her own day, even if only for a fleeting moment, to make yours slightly more convenient.

For anyone who would argue I’m getting bent out of shape over this, I agree. And for those who would ask why I feel I deserve a mumble of gratitude for such an effortless kindness, I would ask how much effort it takes to mumble that bit of gratitude.

Now, I’m not trying to step on any toes here, but I’m also saying I’m not above shutting a foot in the door — I’m going to snap eventually, people — so for the sake of, at least, my own sanity, and perhaps the betterment of western culture as a whole, remember” it literally takes half a second to say “thanks.”

(this column appeared in the Aug. 27, 2008 issues of Suburban Newspapers)

Sale’s OK, but Bud must stay my Bud

By: DONAVON CAMPBELL

I was lucky enough to do some backpacking around Europe in 2004 shortly after I graduated from Ohio State.

I wanted to see culture, I wanted architecture and fine art, monuments, churches and the history that envelopes them all; I wanted to experience another lifestyle.

I also, like most Midwestern boys in their early 20s, wanted to drink lots and lots of beer.

So, not long after my arrival in London, I found my way to a pub where I proceeded to share my distinctly American point of view, as well as a number of pints, with a group of fun-loving Aussies and Brits that happened to be staying in the same hostel.

It was not my first time in a drinking establishment and, even though I’d been surviving on meager wages while in school, I’d still managed to consume my fair share of Budweiser, Bud Light, Coors, Miller Lite and a number of other cheaper, domestic brews.

In short, I wanted something different.

Immediately my new found friends pointed me in the direction of Stella Artois, a cheap Belgian beer (at least across the pond) with good taste and of a high quality.

I liked the stuff, and while drinking it I got a kick out of what I perceived as the “Heineken crowd” — namely, sharp-dressed 20-somethings with loosened neckties who love they way that cold, green bottle advertises to the opposite sex, ‘I have money to spend and I don’t drink too heavily’ — bellying up to the bar to order … a Bud.

It seemed to have the same effect; sharp shoes, sharp tie and that dew-beaded, all-American bottle seemed to display quite the ‘I only drink imports’ vibe.

Let me backtrack a second by saying I too like Heineken and, when I can, I also enjoy a nice imported libation.

The point is, when I saw not long ago that Anheuser-Busch was being sold for $52 billion to Belgian-based brewing company InBev, I wasn’t quite sure how to feel.

I like Stella Artois, one of the headlining beers produced by InBev, so I didn’t feel any animosity towards the company, yet I have to admit I like the idea of the “great American lager.”

I mean, “This Bud’s for you,” right? Doesn’t the “King of Beers” just ooze with blue collar royalty? The stuff originated from St. Louis, saturates Super Bowls and sports a red, white and blue label! Its huge brewery in Columbus is turning 40 this year.

Still, is one beer company that different from another? In today’s world of technology, high speed travel and international marketing isn’t it only a matter of time?

Budweiser is already across the pond, and many points further, and imports are popular in the states as well. While I’d like to see an American company maintain American employees and, culturally, its American identity, isn’t it doing just that by selling out?

America is capitalism, and $52 billion is a whole lot of capital.

So far, signs point to InBev keeping the internal infrastructure of Anheuser-Busch the same. And let’s not be naive enough to think that Anheuser-Busch doesn’t have its own fare share of international assets.

Business is business, and I’m fine with that.

What worries me is; beer is not beer is not beer.

Micro-breweries have grown more popular as the “big boys” continue to saturate and, to some extent, homogenize the marketplace.

Variety is the spice of life and the most unique spices often come from regions and countries with a specific set of topographies, climates and soils. These circumstances create local ingenuity and local ingenuity creates local fare and local fare plays a large part in forming local culture and different cultures create variety and variety is what makes the chicken wings of life spicy.

See what I’m saying?

Let these companies make their money — what is too much money is a whole other column — but don’t take over and change too much.

It was truly a blast to observe the cultural flip-flop I witnessed while in that pub in London.

Let “This Bud’s for you” mean “This Bud’s for everybody,” but just make sure that a Bud is a Bud is a Bud.

(this column first appeared in the July 28, 2008 issues of Suburban Newspapers)

Still looking for a good day on the fairway, Pub. 7.2.2008, All papers

 By: Donavon Campbell

The game of golf sounds simple enough. Hit a little dimpled ball resting on the ground at your feet with a metal club.

The ball doesn’t move, the player doesn’t move; just concentrate, take a deep breath and hit it. Simple, right?

I’ve spent a good part of this spring and early summer actually learning the game. I know the rules: birdies, bogies, eagles, par, etc. I know you don’t cough or pass gas or answer your cell phone when someone is about to take a swing.

But how do you play the game? How do you hit the ball correctly and, hopefully, far?

I’d played the game between five and 10 times in my life coming into this year and enjoyed it, but this year I got “the bug.” One of my friends, a decent golfer who grew up with the game, gave me a jovial warning: “Dude, it gets deep.”

What he meant was, once you get started actually trying to get better at golf, it never stops.

He was right.

I’ve taken lessons, during which my swing was completely reconstructed. It went from a straight-armed, stiff-wristed, horribly awkward thing that even my wife, who doesn’t play a bit of golf, said looked “unnatural.” Now, at least, it looks decent — the swing, I mean, not necessarily the results.

I’ve spent a couple hundred dollars at the driving range working on “releasing my wrists,” using my legs and “keeping my head in the shot.”

Oddly enough, I learned swinging a golf club has very little to do with using your arms. It’s in the hips, the feet, the shoulders, the wrists and hands, but if you’re using your arms, you’re doomed.

But slowly and surely, my swing improved. The muscle memory started forming, my stance starting feeling more natural. I even called a buddy to go to the range with me so I could show off what I’d learned.

Soon I was out on the course again. My scores weren’t any better, but occasionally I hit one of those “moon shots” that just effortlessly fly off the club and land with a heavy thud on the fairway.

And just when I thought things were coming around — boom. Or, should I say, whiff.

I suddenly find myself using my five iron to putt down the fairway while two elderly women tap their feet impatiently behind me in their rental cart.

They played through on the next hole.

All the while, I was left to wonder what had gone wrong between my brain, my hands, the club and the ball.

I was in the midst of hitting these horrible, limp noodle shots when I got an invitation to participate in a media golf outing at the Ohio State University’s Scarlet Course. It was part of a media day in conjunction with the upcoming Nationwide Tour event to be held later this month.

I accepted. I’d never played on a course nearly as nice or half as hard — and for free? I couldn’t pass it up.

Perhaps I should have.

Despite giving myself an ample handicap, I still shot an astronomical score. The course was beautiful and challenging. In my foursome were two gentlemen with very low handicaps and one other who was still much better than me.

The poor fools.

Those guys waited and waited while I clubbed around the grounds like some muppet neanderthal — all big swing, but the power of a sock.

Needless to say, it was both a wonderful and a bottom-just-dropped-out experience for me. I walked away having played a course worth talking about, but having played it so badly I didn’t want to talk about it.

However, after a few days off and some time to let the sunburn on the back of my neck heal, I decided to get back to the drawing board.

Or perhaps, I thought, it is time I got some clubs. So I used some cash I’d hoarded from an early summer birthday and went out and got fitted for just the right set of clubs.

They were beautiful, brand name and sparkling in the Sunday evening sun of a twilight round — I had to take them out as soon as I got my hands on them.

They felt great. I’d hit them well at the driving range where I purchased them and took my lessons. Nice and easy was the way. I wouldn’t have to try and power through my swing anymore I had the clubs to do the work.

And when I teed off, I was thinking, “Nice and easy; it’s just a ball sitting on the ground. It’s not moving. I’m not moving. Just hit the ball with the club.”

I hit the ball well. I hit the ball hard. And I watched as it went soaring off into the treetops far to the right, crackling out of my life and adding two strokes to my score right off the bat.

Oh well. At least I’m getting the most golf for my money.