The Laurel and Hardy film “Perfect Day” is a masterclass in irony. In about twenty minutes, it captures the unraveling of a well-intentioned Sunday outing. The boys and their wives are dressed and ready for a relaxing picnic. But the car won’t start. Tempers flare. A next-door neighbor gets into a petty feud with them over a minor inconvenience. And soon, the day spirals into a comic disaster. By the end, the idea of a “perfect day” is in tatters—replaced by sputtering engines, shouted insults, and the defeat of good intentions.
I couldn’t help thinking about this film recently, during a trifecta of mildly annoying but thoroughly ordinary stops around town. I was at the Gardenia Restaurant in Los Gatos, where I was told “Perfect!” by the hostess after merely confirming my reservation. Then it happened again at the Wells Fargo Bank— “Perfect!” said the teller as I handed over my debit card and entered my pin. And again, at Chase, same word, same moment: “Perfect!” after I simply endorsed a check.
Three times, in three different places, I was praised for completing what amounts to unremarkable acts. Nothing about these interactions was perfect. But the word seems to have become a default reaction to any act of basic cooperation. And somewhere around the second or third “Perfect,” I could feel frustration rising—just as Stan Laurel’s did when the car wouldn’t start for the fifth time.
Language matters. Words carry weight, and when we overuse them, they become meaningless. When everything is “perfect,” nothing is. Just as the title of that old comedy became an ironic joke by the end, so too does the word “perfect” start to sound hollow when tossed around like confetti.
Rather than lose my temper, as I felt I was on the verge of doing, I asked myself: What would it take to actually make something perfect? What would a truly “perfect” day in Los Gatos look like—not in the sarcastic Laurel and Hardy sense, but in a real, tangible way?
Rather than lose my temper, I asked myself, ‘What would it take to actually make something Perfect?’
It wouldn’t hinge on whether the hostess remembered my name, or the teller gave me a compliment for filling out paperwork correctly. A more perfect Los Gatos would start with the community, with the small, real actions that improve the quality of life here in lasting ways.
For instance, imagine if more of our local businesses—restaurants, banks, boutiques—prioritized customer service not just in the form of cheery clichés, but in real attentiveness: learning customers’ names, remembering preferences, going the extra step to make people feel seen. That would be a step toward perfection.
Or picture a scenario where the traffic on Blossom Hill Road moved more smoothly because people were considerate at crosswalks, and cyclists shared the road responsibly. Not perfect in the utopian sense, but noticeably better.
What if our public spaces—parks like Oak Meadow or Vasona Lake—were not just maintained, but enhanced with more seating, better lighting, and community art? What if there were more benches where seniors could rest on their walks, more shaded areas for families picnicking under the sun, and more accessible paths for everyone?
Or take the neighborly feud in “Perfect Day”: it’s easy to scoff at how quickly things escalate over something trivial. But it’s also a mirror. In real life, how often do we let a little noise, a parking spot dispute, or a garden fence become the reason we stop speaking to someone? What if we actively worked to restore neighborly trust? Small block parties, community cleanups, casual get-togethers—they’re not magic bullets, but they chip away at the disconnection that allows small conflicts to turn into big ones.
Let’s make “perfect” mean something again. Not by overusing it, but by striving toward it—not in glossy, unattainable ways, but through collective effort and care. Los Gatos is already a beautiful place to live. We have the backdrop: the redwoods, the charming downtown, the walkable streets, the historic homes. Now we just need to write better scenes. We need to be better co-stars in each other’s stories.
So the next time someone at a counter tells me “Perfect!” because I managed to hand over a credit card, I’ll smile and take it with grace. But I’ll also keep quietly pushing for a little less irony, a little more intention. After all, “Perfect Day” may be a comedy, but in real life, we deserve something closer to the real thing.
