We're coming to you today from San Diego, which is currently experiencing the tail end of that big, big storm that hit Southern California yesterday. I, having the foresight to drive down here on Thursday, did not have to spend even two seconds on the freeway in it. My house-sitter back in L.A. reports that it dumped many, many gallons of H2O on my neighborhood but did no noticeable damage unless you count the opening of a few new Great Lakes that were formerly busy intersections.
Yesterday before the San Diego part of the storm commenced, I went out to buy a few things for myself and some friends here and my "to do" list concluded with a swing through some McDonald's to get a sack o' burgers. Now, you'd think that finding a McDonald's would be, like, the easiest thing in the world for a G.P.S. I told mine to search for some, it made a list of several thousand and then I told it to direct me to the closest one, which it said was 1.8 miles from where I made the request.
1.8 miles later, I found myself puzzled, driving down a street lined with hospital buildings with no Golden Arches to be seen. Then I noticed a sign which explained it: My G.P.S. had brought me to Ronald McDonald House.
So I told Henrietta — that's what I call the Lady in the G.P.S. when I have her voice enabled — to take us to the next-closest McDonald's and eight minutes later, I was in one, waiting to order. Ahead of me was a gent in his twenties who wanted to order eight Chicken McNuggets.
The young lady behind the counter explained politely to him that they sold McNuggets in quantities of six, ten, twenty, etc. They didn't sell eight. The customer said he wanted eight. Six was not enough. Ten was too many.
With the patience of Job or maybe a Bernie Sanders supporter, she explained how on the little keyboard where she enters orders, there was a key for six, a key for ten, a key for twenty…but no key for eight. He argued back that eight was a better number — and what would be even better would be if McDonald's had a per-nugget price and one could get the quantity of their choice. "In America," he proclaimed, "too many times 'they' make decisions for you."
"That might be wonderful," she said. "But right now, I can only sell you six, ten, twenty…" The fellow seemed genuinely to have the idea that this teenager in a paper hat could remake Corporate Policy or that convincing her of the wisdom of an eight-pack would lead to its introduction at McDonald's around the world.
I finally had to step in and tell the guy that the Ghost of Ray Kroc couldn't get a box of eight here and that he should reconsider if after all the time he'd spent filibustering this matter, he wasn't now hungry enough to down two more. He finally decided it did. If he hadn't, I'd still be there, probably being just as obnoxious complaining that they should have opened a second register.
But I got back to the hotel before the skies opened and there was a lovely opening ceremony last night for the San Diego Comic Fest. I'd tell you more about it but I'm due downstairs. More later.