Good Enough

A few years ago, my son moved to Los Angeles for work. Not long after settling in, he hit me with a very specific opinion: “Dad, LA is the city of Good Enoughs.”

Now, that could’ve meant a lot of things—relationships, job effort, driving habits—but he clarified. “People do just enough to get by. Like the garbage cans. Every Tuesday night, they’re wheeled out to the curb just enough to irritate the garbage man. Then, after collection, the cans are dumped back just far enough to not block traffic—but left scattered in a way that makes bringing them in a total pain. It’s like a delicate balance of not caring and minimal effort by both sides.”

At the time, we laughed about it—classic LA. But lately, I think that vibe has now come to the Midwest.

Take last Friday. My wife and I were walking to the Cubs vs. Sox Crosstown game when I noticed a white Ring camera on the front of a black house. The white solar panel and white wire was flung across the brick like someone was chased off the ladder mid-installation. It wouldn't take much effort to yank the whole setup down before ever being seen. And yet…it was there. Good enough.

Once inside Wrigley, my wife was chatting with a customer service guy. She had tried to reach our season ticket rep last week but never heard back. The guy shrugged and said, “Yeah, they’re all like that.” All like what? People paid to talk to customers but don’t talk to customers? Did we just skip the part where that’s a problem? Are we cool now with reps just…existing? Like modern-day scarecrows—technically there, but not doing much?

Then today, our daughter texted from the Admiral’s Club at the airport while waiting for an American Airlines flight. She was stuck in an elevator that was dropping a foot, then freezing. No one panicked. No one reported it. She was the only one who walked over and told a staff member, who responded, “We’ll have someone look at it.” No follow-up. No, “Hey thanks for letting us know about the death trap.” Just a calm acceptance of malfunction. The other passengers apparently figured, “Well…it got us this far. Good enough.”

Now, I’m not judging. I’ve lived long enough to know that full effort isn’t always possible. I’ve definitely mailed it in once or twice. Or twelve times. This blog, for example, is being written from the passenger seat while rolling down I-43, running on a head full of cheese curds and Honey Ham Sticks from Renard's and Miesfields.

But it’s wild how “good enough” isn’t the exception anymore. It’s kind of…standard. Wires left dangling, reps not calling back, elevators lurching around like carnival rides—nothing seems fully buttoned-up these days. And oddly, we’ve all just learned to go along with it.

Anyway, I was going to wrap this up with something thoughtful. Like a call to raise the bar or maybe a metaphor about garbage cans and society or something clever like that.

But the signal’s getting bad and I think we’re stopping for gas as this Shark is swimming with a full bladder. So... yeah. This blog’s probably...good enou—