Unmasking Day

This is me. Out for a walk early last April. When masks were recommended but not yet fully mandated. That came in early May of 2020.

I am wearing a primitive mask, fashioned - following instructions found on YouTube - out of a linen table napkin and rubber bands. None of the masks I'd ordered (in a frenzy) from Etsy had arrived yet, and my friend Joe hadn't yet dropped off a box of the blue "hospital style" masks for me.

Each day, I tracked the many Etsy vendors I'd ordered from. Everything was back-ordered. Shipping dates were vague - or well in the future.

I made another DIY mask, this time using a bandana and rubber bands.

My sister Trish got out her sewing machine and made me a couple: a nice red plaid and another using a remnant of the blue-butterfly-on-cream-background material my mother had used to make me a cute little cotton jumper when I was in college. Fifty years ago.

Trish drove the masks into Boston, and I had a masked, curb-side meeting with her and my niece Molly. I gave them a packet of off-brand Walgreen's toilet paper I'd managed to scrounge.

I kept checking on Etsy for the whereabouts of all the masks I'd ordered. For the black cotton knits with the ear loops. For the black cotton knits with the grey stripe down the middle. The white cotton ones with the double elastics that reminded me of the scratching bras I'd worn in high school. (My family didn't yet have a dryer. Those bras came off the line stiff. It was painful to put one on, until your body warmed it up.) Everything was backordered. Everything was delayed. I pictured Etsy-ers around the country frantically running their sewing machines to take advantage of the bonanza demand for masks.

On Amazon, I ordered a couple of gaiters for my brother, figuring they would be easier to get on, given that he wears a hearing aid. They weren't. I ordered boxes of the "hospital blues" for myself, my brother, my cousin. Some latex gloves while I was at it.

The Etsy masks began to arrive. And I now had some of the disposables. 

Even in the worst, early days of the pandemic, I took a walk every day. Most of the days, I recall as overcast and gloomy. 

No one was out. Just me and my homemade - and later Etsy - mask.

Other than on weekends, if it were nice out, there was no one on the Esplanade. It was a bit scary. I stopped walking there. No one was in the Public Garden, either. It wasn't as scary, but I mostly stopped walking there, too. Other than on weekends.

When I walked downtown on my infrequent trips to the grocery store, there was no one about, other than menacing men approaching me for money. I took to carrying a supply of five-dollar bills. I couldn't blame any of these guys for not wanting to go into a shelter. They had deathtrap written all over them.

On the sidewalk near Government Center, I didn't step out of the way fast enough, or in the right direction, for the hefty, late middle-aged man barreling towards me on a bicycle. We both swerved, avoiding a collision. He called me a "fucking ho." (He was a white guy, by the way.) Me? A "fucking ho?" Right.

I took to walking only on streets where there was a bit of activity. I paced up and down Charles Street, and when I was feeling more adventurous, I walked on Boylston.

There weren't many people out walking. Everyone had on a mask. When I made a rare sighting of a mask-less person, I thought to myself: out-of-stater, Trumpist.

I bought a nice mask at a gift shop on Charles Street: a scene of the Boston Public Garden. Almost too nice to wear.

I ordered a couple of Red Sox masks. One barely fits. They must have sent me kiddo-size by mistake. The other is high end - made by the same folks (47 Brand) who make all the ball caps.

As fall approached, I ordered a bunch more masks from Etsy: Halloween themed (jack-o'lantern, candy corn). Christmas/winter themed (snowflakes, holly, a fun scene of Christmas shoppers). One with a tri-color shamrock for St. Patrick's Day. 

On Zazzle, I "designed" and ordered some masks with the Christmas in the City logo and mailed them out to some fellow volunteers. (Christmas in the City is a Boston-charity that is primarily focused on holiday events for families living in shelters or otherwise in need.) I made a few more up, which one of my fellow volunteers "sold" in exchange for a donation to CITC, so we raised a bit of money for the cause.

Wearing a mask was a drag. I could breathe just fine, but no matter what trick I tried - a small wad of kleenex, a foam press-on nose strip -  half the time my glasses fogged up and I ended up taking them off. 

I yearned for the day when the mask requirement would be lifted.

Monday evening, I headed out for a little spin around the 'hood to top off my mileage for the day. I was halfway down the block when I realized I'd gone out without wearing a mask. I bolted back home for it. I didn't want anyone to think I was an out of towner, an anti-vaxxer, a Trumpist.

Boston, at least where I am, has been about 99.9999% mask compliant. It has been rare and startling to see anyone without a mask on. But things were starting to crack. I'd occasionally - but still rarely - see people, usually couples, about my age, going mask less on their walks. And they didn't look like out of towners, anti-vaxxers, Trumpists. 

Still, I remained cautious. Compliant. 

On Tuesday, the CDC announced that it was okay (if you were vaxxed, and I am!) to be outside without a mask on. Masks off! Immediately!

For some reason - power move? - our governor, Charlie Baker, decreed that the mask requirement wouldn't be lifted until Friday, April 30th. No reason given. No why it was medically important to wait until Friday. Just because.

But there really didn't seem to be any compelling reason to wait. So on Wednesday, I decided to venture out mask-less. 

It felt liberating. It felt good. It also felt a bit edgy, deviant. That also felt good.

It was rainy and gloomy when I began my walk. I barely passed a soul. Other than for a fellow about my age who walked by mask-free, his mask dangling from his wrist. "Feels pretty good, doesn't it?" I said. "Sure does," he replied, smiling. Later on during my walk, the sun was burning through. On the Esplanade I passed more folks without masks. Most were like me: old geezers who I assume were fully vaxxed. We all smiled and nodded as we passed each other. 

Some of the runners out were going mask-free, as well.

Who cares?

When I got back to Charles Street, where it's more crowded, I did put my mask back on.

Everyone was wearing one, other than this one 50-ish guy - beefy, florid-faced, sockless loafers: looked like a classic aging DB - who was swaggering down the street without a mask on. Trumpist, for sure.

The pandemic isn't over-over. We're still a long way, especially if the know-nothing anti-vaxxers persist in their stupidity and the covid variants take off.  And I'm going to be wearing a mask when I'm in a store for the foreseeable future. Maybe even beyond that. 

But it's starting to look like the beginning of the end. 

So happy to be able to celebrate Unmasking Day, even though I jumped the gun on it a bit. 

Robots? Human-ape hybrids? What do you want replacing you?

On the one hand, we have to worry about robots, chock full of AI, taking over and replacing us. Now, I guess, we'll also have to contend with the fear - that, admittedly, has been lurking there at the back of our minds for a good long while - that scientists, milling around their labs in their little white lab coats, have been up to no Petri dish good. And we were right to have that lurking little fear.

As I recently saw in the news, those wily scientists "have created embryos that are a mix of human and monkey cells." Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. Or aunt. Or something.

The embryos, described...in the journal Cell, were created in part to try to find new ways to produce organs for people who need transplants, said the international team of scientists who collaborated in the work. But the research raises a variety of concerns.

"My first question is: Why?" said Kirstin Matthews, a fellow for science and technology at Rice University's Baker Institute. "I think the public is going to be concerned, and I am as well, that we're just kind of pushing forward with science without having a proper conversation about what we should or should not do." (Source: NPR)

When it comes to that first question, I'm with Kristin Matthews. And not that I want to take part in a proper conversation, but I sure hope the scientists and ethicists, and the scientific ethicists, and the ethical scientists, are having that convo. 

I understand the importance of organ transplant. I have a cousin whose husband got about twenty bonus years out of life thanks to his heart transplant. A close friend's cousin was kept alive for about the same number of years with a double lung transplant.  My father died in his fifties of kidney disease. Perhaps if kidney transplants were more of the norm back then, and there'd been a kidney out there with his name on it, he'd have gotten a few decades more, too.

Demand for organs outstrips supply, and plenty of people die while on lists, waiting for some unlucky person to get killed in a car crash and have their organs harvested. So, yep, there's definitely a need for more organs. 

And I realize that just mucking around with a few cells suspended in agar (or whatever they suspend cells in nowadays) isn't necessarily going to end us up with Zira and Cornelius from Planet of the Apes. Nobody's  - at least nobody that we know of - is trying to create a hybrid human. Yet.

Such mixed-species embryos are known as chimeras, named for the fire-breathing creature from Greek mythology that is part lion, part goat and part snake.

Sure, there's part of me - a fully human part, I must say - that wouldn't mind seeing something that was part lion, part goat and part snake. But part human, part monkey. Not so much. That little DNA mix is a tad bit too close for comfort. Then there's another crazy killer virus to worry about if, say, the monkey had been in touch with a carrier pangolin or a bat.

Nonetheless, I'm sure that, from a scientific perspective, this fiddling around could produce something valuable. Still...

But this type of scientific work and the possibilities it opens up raises serious questions for some ethicists. The biggest concern, they said, is that someone could try to take this work further and attempt to make a baby out of an embryo made this way. Specifically, the critics worry that human cells could become part of the developing brain of such an embryo — and of the brain of the resulting animal...Another concern is that using human cells in this way could produce animals that have human sperm or eggs.

And if one of those boy monkeys with human sperm ends up meeting up with a girl monkey with a human egg, say by swiping right on Tinder, the rest could be a mighty gruesome history. 

Of course, we all know it's going to happen. Not in the well-run, supervised labs at universities or the NIH or the CDC. But in some crazy rogue lab somewhere, staffed by crazy rogue scientists.

Maybe it's just me, but I'd rather be replaced by a robot than by something that's half human/half ape. (Now that I think of it, when I look around at some of the folks out there, maybe half ape wouldn't be half bad.)

So much to worry about, so little time.

Tis the season for the swag bag

On Sunday night, the Oscars ceremony was held. 

In keeping with tradition, I didn't watch it.

Even when I was in my film-going prime, the Academy Awards have never been all that interesting to me. The one year I remember watching was the year "Spotlight" won, which made me happy. But not so happy that I'd turn the Oscars on again. Even before we had the word 'meh' in our vocabulary, I was pretty much 'meh' on the Oscars. Too long. Too self-indulgent. Too self-congratulatory. Meh. And it's even meh-ier because I see so few movies. 

I just looked at the list. Most of them, I'll get around to seeing. Eventually. But a couple I've never even heard of.

What I do like looking at, however, is what's in the annual swag bag - the rich-get-richer goodies given to the nominees for the primo awards (best actor, actress, and director).   

The bag is stuffed - by marketing firm Distinctive Assets - with gifts valued at $205K (down by $20K from last year; talk about austerity). Stuffed with stuff that nobody actually needs (and that plenty of people just plain don't want), but it's a pretty good way to get some publicity for your products and services. (One year "Amy Adams was photographed wearing the “Strong is the New Skinny” T-shirt the day after her bag was delivered." ) And if you ask the company that puts them together, the swag bags serve a higher purpose.

“We did want the bags to feel like they had a bigger purpose than just, ‘Here's a bag full of free stuff,’” said Distinctive Assets 49-year-old founder Lash Fary, whose marketing company takes pains to make it clear the Academy has no association with the freebies. “So all of the bags that we've been doing have been from female-owned businesses, black-owned businesses, disabled entrepreneurs and companies who give back — even ones that you wouldn't necessarily think give back.” (Source: Forbes)

Side note: who names their kid Lash? Especially if your last name is Fary. 

What's in there?

• Little munchies like cookies and nuts
• Workout sessions with a celebrity trainer I've never heard of, unless you count my having heard of him in a previous post of a swag bag of yore
• A liposuction treatment
• Project management for the giftee's next home reno project
• High end covid masks
• An intravenous, immunity-bolstering vitamin infusion
• Antioxidants
• Breast health supplements 
• Candles made using essential oils (but of course: they don't call them oils essential for nothing)
• An acupuncture disc "which uses soundwaves instead of needles to promote healing" (and which I might actually look up; too bad I'm not nominated for anything. Wait until next year!)
• 24-karat gold vape cartridges 
• CBD sleep capsules
• Hemp salve (might be good in combo with that acupuncture disc!)
• A coffee table book called the "Don't Cookbook", which includes a QR code you can scan to find out which nearby restaurants can deliver avocado toast to your door. (Higher purpose alert: "A portion of the proceeds from each sale benefits restaurant workers affected by the pandemic.")
• Fancy tequila, bourbon, and vodka infused with "23-karat edible gold flakes." (What? No 24-karat edible gold flakes available?)
• For non-imbibers: tea
• Three pairs of sneakers selected by a personal shopper (selections chosen on the basis of a "style quiz" you've taken).
• A sweatshirt. Socks.

Most of the things in the bag are hang-around-the-house stuff. But there are two getaways in there: a four-night stay at a fancy SoCal spa, and a three-night stay in a lightkeeper's cottage (converted into a boutique hotel) on an island off the coast of Sweden - nicely socially distanced, this one!

Among the more eclectic gifts: A PETA emergency hammer to save dogs trapped in hot cars; the Poetry for Neanderthals game from Exploding Kittens (which comes with its own 2-foot inflatable club for bashing opponents); Tractive, a GPS location and activity tracker for pets; and the Muse S: The Brain Sensing Headband sleep tracker. And, in a nod to one of the media's latest fascinations, a non-fungible token. AdVenture Media and Taillard Capital will drop an NFT into each nominee’s gift bag that authenticates a piece of digital artwork to be auctioned off with proceeds benefiting a charity of the nominee’s choice. Funds raised from the sale of a Chadwick Boseman tribute NFT will benefit colon cancer foundations. The actor, who died in August at the age of 43, is nominated posthumously for a lead actor.

I'm not sure whether the Oscars are in-person or virtual this year, but the swag bags are being delivered via Postmates. 

I've got to say that some of the goodies look pretty good. But spare me the NFT and the "Brain Sensing Headband sleep tracker." I'll sense my own brain, thank you.

And in case you're wondering: giftees have to pay taxes on any gift they accept. 

Hurray for Hollywood!

Software quality assurance, anyone?

By now, most of us are familiar with convictions being overturned and innocent people being released from prison. The stories are often quite dramatic, and the ones I've seen generally involve those who've been incarcerated for a good long time for violent crimes. They're sprung because the real perpetrator makes a deathbed confession; a key witness admits they lied; it turns out that the police and/or the DA's office fudged evidence (i.e., lied) to close a case or because in their gut they were sure someone was guilty and made the evidence fit their theory; or, increasingly, because DNA evidence proves their innocence. 

We see on the news a video of release day: the joyous family meeting their loved one at the prison gates. The newly freed person learning how to use a smart phone, an ATM, a keyless car. There's often some compensation for wrongful conviction - but never enough to make up for a decade, or two, or three, or four away from family and friends. Away from life.

There must be some instances, but I can't recall any convictions being overturned in a white collar/financial crime situation. 

But a big one has just taken place in the UK. 

For the past 20 years UK Post Office employees have been dealing with a piece of software called Horizon, which had a fatal flaw: bugs that made it look like employees stole tens of thousands of British pounds.

This led to some local postmasters being convicted of crimes, even being sent to prison, because the Post Office doggedly insisted the software could be trusted. After fighting for decades, 39 people are finally having their convictions overturned, after what is reportedly the largest miscarriage of justice that the UK has ever seen. (Source: The Verge)

In total, over the period between 2000 and 2014, more than 700 Post Office employees were prosecuted. Dozens went to prison. Many lost their jobs, their marriages, time with their kids, and money, as they scrabbled around, remortgaging their homes to repay the losses that were not their fault. One man accused of stealing £100,000 committed suicide. (And damned if his replacement wasn't also found to have had is hand in the till, too.)

All caused by bugs in the system, which the PO had purchased from Fujitsu.

Finally, those who were caught up in this nightmare are having their convictions over turned, having their good names restored, and being paid damages. 

It's amazing to me that, during this period when the Horizon system was playing "J'accuse!", no one bothered to take a good, close look at the software to see whether the reported discrepancies were actual. 

There's also something called "software quality assurance" that doesn't seem to have been used here. 

These days, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about software quality assurance, but years ago - make that decades - I worked for a software company which had an automated test tool as its main product. So I did have to spend a lot of time thinking, writing, and talking about software testing. Boring, but necessary.

So I can state with some authority - because some authorities just never expire - that Fujitsu should have done a better job testing their systems. And the UK Post Office should have done rigorous acceptance testing to begin with, and have torn this software apart looking for bugs once all these faux discrepancies began showing up. 

Anyway, rather than check on whether the software was working, the Post Office dug in, arguing that "the errors couldn’t have been be the fault of the computer system."

And get this: that was "despite knowing that wasn’t true."

There is evidence that the Post Office’s legal department was aware that the software could produce inaccurate results, even before some of the convictions were made.

Wow. I don't know how litigious the UK is, but can you imagine the law suits that would be flying in The States if this happened here? 

And we thought Louis DeJoy was bad news. 

Teddy Ballgame got some NFT ballgame going. Or not.

In 1999, the baseball All Star Game was played at Fenway Park. The highlight of the game was Ted Williams, not quite -  but almost  - metaphorically rounding third and heading for home base on his last legs, coming onto the field, driven in a golf cart. It was quite a scene, especially when all of the current players spontaneously swarmed around Teddy Ballgame to say a few words. Or just to get close to such an iconic and legendary baseball player.

The moment was somewhat clouded by the fact that Ted wasn't wearing a Red Sox cap. (His entire career was with the Sox.) Instead of navy blue with the big red B, Ted was wearing a cap bearing the logo of his son John Henry's business, an internet services provider that went belly up a couple of years later.

Ted went belly up a couple of years later, as well, but not before John Henry had his father spending his final years autographing baseballs for John Henry to sell.

(Then there was the weirdo thing where John Henry and his sister Claudia had their father's dead body sent to a cryogenics facility in Arizona to be put on ice while awaiting science and technology to reach the moment when the bodies in deep freeze could be thawed back to life. Ted's situation was made even weirdo-ier in that his dead body was decapitated, and head and body are being stored separately.)

Sadly, young Williams only outlived his father by a couple of years, and died of leukemia at the age of 35.

And now John Henry's sister has taken up the mantle of making a profit off of their late, great father's memory. Claudia Williams has gotten an artist to create a series of nine (Ted's player number) non-fungible tokens (NFT's - digital representations of a work of art, video, etc.). She's using the same artist, Andre Maciel, that football star Rob Gronkowski employed to create his NFT's, which last month sold for a cool $1.6M.

What's up for auction over on TedWilliams.com are those NFT's the different Ted-related art works. 

"My life's goal is to keep my dad as relevant and inspirational as ever," Claudia Williams said last week in a telephone interview from her Florida home. "I want to leave his legacy behind when his last surviving child is gone." (Source: ESPN)

I may not have much by way of a life's goal - if it finally shows up, it'll be too little, too late - but I can hear my father laughing his arse off if he thought that any of his kids had a life goal of keeping him "relevant and inspirational." That is, of course, largely because my father wasn't Ted Williams, and he only had to be relevant and inspirational to his children. And as long as we're alive, he will be - even if it's not exactly anyone's life goal. 

It's probably also worth mentioning that, as long as baseball is played, Ted Williams will always be "relevant and inspirational" even if Claudia Williams sits back and does nothing.

As I noted, there are nine NFT's - they look like baseball cards - and, for eight of them, there are nine copies. The other is a one-off which comes with additional goodies, including an autographed bat and a 3-night stay at a house in Vermont where Ted once lived. 

"It's all about inspiration and honoring my dad," she said. "I am very much my father's daughter: I do not do squat if I don't feel passionate about it."

Without sounding too cynical, I'm guessing that Claudia thought it might not be a bad idea to cash in on NFT mania. Maybe she found inspiration from Rob Gronkowski's NFT success. Perhaps the thought of making a lot money without having to actually do squat other than lining up the artist evoked a bit of passion in Ms. Williams. 

She may well find herself a tad bit disappointed. 

The auction started on April 19th and ended on the 24th. When I looked at the auction website on Friday, it struck me that, when it comes to NFT's, Ted Williams is apparently no Rob Gronkowski. Some of the NFT's had zero bids, or bids as low as $2.31. The big prize - the one that included the stay Chez Ted - had been bid up to $1,115: a far cry from the estimated value of $8K.

I grew up a Ted Williams' fan. In my first game at Fenway, in July 1960, I saw Ted - in his final year - hit a homerun. It was a complete and utter thrill. (For a short while, I even kept a Ted Williams scrapbook of articles I clipped out of the sports pages. I was, of course, too lazy to keep up with anything, and quickly grew tired of this "effort.")

Anyway, as a fan of Teddy Ballgame - and as a Worcester girl - if I were to place a bid in this auction, it would be on a limited edition NFT of Williams' debut in a Red Sox uniform, which occurred in April 1939 at an exhibition game played at Holy Cross College's Fitton Field. 

My father was both a baseball fan and an excellent (semi-pro level) baseball player. He took in a lot of games at Fitton Field (and also at Fenway Park; he and one of his uncles would regularly drive into Boston for night games when they were something of a rarity). So I wouldn't be surprised if he was at this game. (Alas, there's no way to find out.)

"Daddy was so about cutting edge," [Claudia Williams] said. "When he learned about something new, he embraced it. He might say, '... I don't know the first thing about this NFT, but I think it's great.' But he would learn about it, and he would love it."

Well, I know the first thing about NFT's, and that's about as far as it goes. So I know that, unless I bid using bitcoin, I can't participate in the auction. Alas! I certainly have $2.31 to spare on one of these new-fangled EFTs. Unlike "Daddy", I am not, however, cutting edge. 

And I'm guessing that most of those who are enamored of Ted Williams aren't either. I suspect most of those who are collectors with an interest in Ted Williams memorabilia are old school. They'd like a physical baseball card signed by Ted. A shirt he wore in a game. Etc.

With luck, Claudia Williams will at least earn back what she paid the artist. But I'm thinking that she ain't going to get rich quick on this one. Maybe an NFT of Ted's cryogenic head? Maybe the cryogenic head itself?

At some point, I'll check back and see how the auction shook out. But I'm guessing this auction ain't got much game. 

A head-turning urn

Terrible picture, but that tiny green Connemara marble urn, flanked by that pretty little pinecone lidded vase and the Russian nesting doll I've had since college (50+ years!) holds a bit of my husband's ashes - the bit that went on a flight into space, which was one of his final wishes.

Most of Jim's ashes are resting in an ash plot in Mt. Auburn Cemetery, where my ashes will be joining his at some point - I'm hoping in the more-or-less distant-y future. Although I visit my parents' grave a couple of times a year, I've only visited Jim's ash plot a couple of times in seven years. That's because a bit of him is with me, in my living room, on the mantel, where I see him/them every day.

In addition to his space shot on my mantel, Jim's ashes have been around, scattered, teaspoon at a time, in a bunch of places that were on his request list. These include the graves of his parents and his aunt and uncle, Central Park, Galway Bay, and Sky Road in Connemara. I have a small amount in my credenza in a plastic container that I want to scatter in the remaining places on Jim's bucket-y list. As it involves a trip to Paris, I really do hope to get around to it at some point.

Anyway, I'm not averse to talking about/dealing with the death of loved ones. It does not creep me out to have Jim's ashes nearby. On the contrary...

Still, I was weirded - if not creeped - out by an article I recently came across on Cremation Solutions, a company that sells all sorts of, well, cremation solutions (i.e., things to do with those ashes). The company's product portfolio includes all sorts of urns - marble, stone, ceramic, glass, wood - many of them quite lovely. Some which look a look like my Connemara mini. 

I am not, of course, weirded, let alone creeped, out by any of this. But I was by one of their offerings:

...commemorative urns shaped like the severed heads of deceased loved ones.

The Vermont-based company, which specialises in memorial events and cremation products, has made the containers using 3D imaging techniques that combine a number of different photographs. The full-sized urn is around 28cm high, and can hold the ashes of an adult. There is also a smaller 15cm “keepsake” option that fits just a portion of the ashes.

The Vermont-based company informs customers on its website that the urn does not come with hair although it can be digitally added or wigs can be used. It writes: “Personal urns can be designed to look like anyone. We just need good pictures. We prefer one picture from the front and one from the side. Complexions can be adjusted in the final stages and customers get a chance to proof the results.” (The ur source for this is a vintage - 2012 - article from UK Wired, but I saw first saw the mention on Print Media Centr)

Don't know how I missed this one back in the day, other than to say that in 2012 I was not yet in the market for an urn.

Anyway, the urn doesn't actually have to be personal-personal. "You just need good pictures" of anyone: Barack Obama. Meryl Streep (with or without a wig). 

Ah, no thanks. But to each his/her/their own. And I laud this company for all they do to help folks out in what's always an awful time. 

Jeff Staab is the owner of Cremation Solutions. He told UK Wired:

"I came up with the idea because as a whole products and services are becoming more personalised and if you look through history, the Romans and Greeks had memorials made out of brass and they were popular for hundreds of years."

But the businessman said that the urns looked almost too real, adding: "I don't sell a lot of them, they look so real. They are also very expensive but I cannot help that, I would like to sell more."

He said that he didn't find the urns creepy but admitted that he doesn't have a loved one made as an urn, and maybe if he did and had to walk by it, he would. He described them as "really good sculptures" saying one customer -- although still alive -- was currently designing his own urn. "He wants it to be black and white and he is having glasses put on it. He also wants his hand out holding his chin like Rodin's sculpture The Thinker. This man's wife and family have had input into it and they are looking at send copies digitally for them before it is made because once it is done we cannot change it."

Somewhere around here - unless I finally gave it a toss - I have a plaster dental mold of my husband's uppers and lowers. If I still have it, that's plenty weird and creepy enough for me. Much as I loved my husband, I would most decidedly not want a full-sized bust of his head staring me down. Plenty of photos of Jim in my living room. That and my tiny urn that holds his space shot ashes will do me just fine.

We are family! I got all my firearms with me!

It's easy to lose track. 

I know that the mass shooting at the Indianapolis FedEx was just a few days ago. But was the Boulder, Colorado, King Soopers store rampage before or after the Atlanta spa murder spree? 

Sandy Hook? Las Vegas music festival? El Paso Walmart? Emanuel AME Church in Charleston? Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School? Sikh Temple in Wisconsin? 

All a million years ago. All a blur. 

Unless it was your child, your father, your sister, your friend who was murdered.

So you don't need me to tell you that there are too many guns in this country in too many hands that shouldn't have guns in them.

, 

Personally, I'm not interested in having any firearm to have or to hold, but I'm not a 100% anti-gun person.

If you want to hunt, hunt.

If you want a handgun to "protect" your family, it's on you to make sure that your two-year-old doesn't end up shoot-to-killing your five-year-old when he finds it under your pillow.

But, yeah, way too many guns in this country. Way too many AR-whatevers that you really don't need to bag a deer, let alone "protect" whatever it is you want to protect. 

And what are we to make of families who don't bond over rooting for the home team, board game night, or quirky senses of humor, but who all get together over firearms. 

As in this beautiful family, three lovely little girls, all dressed up as if they're posing for a Christmas card, armed to the hilt. Not with cute little Hello Kitty pink pistols, or even kiddo deer slayer rifles. But toting weaponry that wouldn't have been out of place in Fallujah. 

One might think that this is a parody photo. Something straight out of The Onion. But, no, it's the shot (sorry!) featured on the front page of Haynes and Sons Guns, a FAMILY store, in the State of Washington. Not to mention in the State of Lunacy.

When do these parents anticipate that they're little girls will need to use these weapons of war? Are they getting geared up for the possibility that some latter-day Emmett Till, some little Black boy - which is what Emmett Till was, however grown up he may have thought he was - wolf whistles at one of them? Maybe some Trayvon Martin's packet of Skittles will look like a gun to the girls' father, and he'll have to jump into better-safe-than-sorry mode. Maybe Tamir Rice, sitting in a park goofing around with a toy gun, will look really threatening.

Because, let's face it, while there are plenty of guns (and gun deaths) in the Black community, it's hard to separate out America's love affair with guns from the issue of race.

White privilege, white nationalism, carries a gun.

And some of those guns were no doubt purchased at this Washington FAMILY store. (The EMPHASIS is theirs.) As their tagline says, We Are Family.

What a marketing angle. Why bother appealing to hunters and home owners when you can aim (sorry) at families. 

So let me be clear, we, as a family, welcome your family to join us. We welcome husbands, wives, girlfriends (never at the same time as the wives LOL), sons, daughters, and babies to come to our home. We will never ask you to leave your children outside, or your wife (unless she is opposed to this current gun purchase;). We have seating for all, and will do our best to accommodate your entire group. We even have a soft kiddie chair so the kids can be part of the action. We can even get them their own kid sized water and will make a cup of Cocoa if so desired.

...we are a family friendly business. What we do offer is a chance to hold every gun in the shop until you find one you like. What we do offer is the opportunity to make every moment with a gun a learning opportunity for the little ones, and sometimes the big ones too, just look on the back of our business cards...We want you to feel comfortable, and we want you to come back.

I'm all for "the little ones" learning gun safety. If there are guns in the house, this should be mandatory. But why would you want your "little ones" to get comfortable around high-powered weapons?

A few years ago, some local guy took his eight-year old son to a gun show in Westfield, Mass, and the kid ended losing control of the Uzi he was playing with and shot himself to death. At about the same time, a nine-year old little girl out in Arizona lost control of the Uzi she was firing and killed her instructor. Hard not to think this was something of a righteous hit. Who puts this sort of weapon in the hands of a child? Who uses children holding these serious weapons as an advertising come-on? Just insane.

...We are a gun shop, and while we are family friendly, we ask that you keep a close and watchful eye on your little ones, you wouldn't let your child run loose in a liquor or knife store, so please watch them closely.

...All of my children were, under very close supervision, shooting by the time they were 3 or 4. As soon as a child can remember the rules of firearm safety, he or she should be able to handle, with supervision, any firearm they can safely maintain. 

3 or 4? Did I just say just insane? Let me say it again: Just insane.

You can't trust a 3-year-old not to run with a popsicle in their mouth. You'd trust one with a firearm? Yikes!

Also, I will note that this shop doesn't sellno assembled ARs. No:

We will only be selling harmless AR Upper and Lower Receivers...We will be selling upper and lower receivers, and if you decide to buy a combo for a discount and later assemble the two, that is between you and the Lord...Please respect our wishes to no longer sell this deadly and evil weapon, and only to sell harmless receivers. Thank you for your support.

Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. Ho, ho, ho. 

Clever? Not really. Freaking dangerous. 

It almost goes without saying that this FAMILY gun store makes sure we know that they believe that Donald TRUMP is "the True and Rightful President." And no surprise that this image is used on their website. 

WWJD? 

Sure, he went into the temple and gave the moneychangers the heave ho. But I really don't think that the man who said "Blessed are the peacemakers" would be shouldering a high powered rifle. And he wouldn't want any children of God, like those three beautiful little girls, carrying them, either.

Really, enough is enough.

Matchy tatchy

Last Saturday, my sibs (absent our West Coast bro) and I had a post-jab reunion at my place - the first time we've all been together since my brother's (Boston bro's) retirement party, which was held a few days before Massachusetts's March 2020 pandemic shutdown. 

For Saturday's occasion, I had a medium-dark blue tablecloth on my dining room table. I was wearing a medium purplish-blue top.

Although the medium dark-blue of the tablecloth and the medium purplish blue of my top were nowhere near the same color - other than being in the blue family and not clashing - I was painfully and wrongfully accused by my sister's of deliberately going full-tilt cra hostess and coordinating my outfit with my table. I guess it didn't help that my plates are white-with-navy-trim bistro plates. Or that the napkins were blue, too. 

But the thing is - as my sisters well know - I wear blue. A lot. Even my glasses are blue. And I have a lot of blue in my home. A lot of blue. Including the chair that my sister Kath was sitting on when she and Trish made their accusation.

As they well know, I am absolutely not - never have been, never will be - a table dresser. 

But table dressing is, it seems, a thing. 

Hostesses with the mostestess are wearing dresses the go with their placements, table cloths, napkins, plates. Some are going fuller tilt, with vases, pitchers, and even wallpaper. 

There are now, it seems:

...a raft of fashion brands offering suites of homeware, and particularly tableware, that are not only analogous to their ready-to-wear options but in many cases feature the same prints and colors. This trend—we’ll call it “table dressing”—has been percolating for several years, with e-commerce hubs such as MatchesFashion and Moda Operandi investing increasingly in homewares that parallel their fashion offerings. (Source: Wall Street Journal)

Not surprisingly, Instagram has encouraged this ultra-coordination trend, and now there are folks out there who have gotten into fully curating - such a great word (not!) - their tables. 

As rising temperatures and vaccination numbers make the prospect of hosting small gatherings a reality, table dressing’s IRL appeal continues to grow. The scope for synchronization is expanding, too. You can pair Edie Parker’s vermilion acrylic coasters with the brand’s Cherry Bomb earrings; set the table with La DoubleJ’s pineapple-motif plates while wearing the line’s parallel-print crepe de chine swing dress; or coordinate Off-White’s arrow-logo-emblazoned bomber with its logo-patterned table runner.

Not everyone curating and Instagramming is going full matchmaking. Some are striving for "more nuanced dialogue."

Now that I think about it, my mother may have been ahead of her time. When she hosted holiday dinners, she got out her cream-colored tablecloth and napkins embroidered (by her very own hand) with pink roses with green stems. Her "good" china, used for holidays, had a sweet pattern of pink roses, and her silver had roses on the handles. She didn't dress to match. She didn't wear pink clothing. Her dress would have been dark, and coupled with a "fancy" apron - a way "more nuanced dialogue" than making sure everything perfectly matched. 

While ahead of her time in terms of everyday hostess consumer-ing, she was in good, high-falutin company. 

Around the turn of the 20th century, Frank Lloyd Wright designed modernist dresses for clients to complement their new homes, and Gloria Vanderbilt’s patchwork housecoat deliberately accentuated her famous quilt-patterned bedroom.

There's no end to what you can match up: coordinate your napkin rings and the bow for your hair; match your hydrangeas with your shoes; match your earrings to your finger bowls. (For the record, on Saturday, I was wearing silver earrings. If I'd really been in to table dressing, I'd have worn blue. So there.)

Nell Diamond is a big proponent of table dressing (and, yes, Sweet Caroline, I first read that as Neil Diamond):

...she suggests pairing Hill House Home’s newly released bubble-gum-stripe dress with botanical table linens in deep pinks and reds. “[Coordinating] your outfit with the tablescape allows you to curate the whole mood and transport yourself,” she said. “It allows people to daydream a bit more.”

Mood!

Anyway, my mother - so fashion forward with her curated table dressing - had a term for  over-the-top matchery: matchy-tatchy. While things, she felt, should "go" with each other, too much made it matchy-tatchy, and that was to be avoided at all cost. 

Anyone dressing to match their wallpaper to match their salt-and-pepper shakers has got way too much time on their hands. And it doesn't seem to me that anyone who'd do this doesn't have a lot of trust in their own taste and judgement. They are matchy-tatchy-ers. Blech!

As for me, next time I have anyone over for dinner I'll make sure NOT to wear that purplish-blue top. But the tablecloth? Hell, it's the only one I have: it stays.

Live free or dying in your flying car

Years ago - as in when I still owned my rust-bomb of a 1981 Civic - we were driving back from a weekend in Maine when we ran into a big old traffic snarl on I-95. Now, I'm not exactly sure where this big old traffic snarl happened - New Hampshire or Maine - but, for now, I'm going with New Hampshire.

What was snarling up traffic was a small, Piper Cubbish plane that had landed on the highway.

It was quite a sight. I'm just sorry we didn't see it make its landing. (Sorry/not sorry: that might have been plenty scary to look up and see a plane speeding a few feet over the car roof.)

Maybe not soon, but surely someday, that little scenario will play out a bit differently. And if it's going to play out, it'll probably be in New Hampshire:

...which last year became the first U.S. state to make flying cars road-legal. Per House Bill 1182, also known as the Jetsons Bill, roadable aircraft require no

inspection. So long as the machines pass muster with the Federal Aviation Administration and their owners pay a $2,000 registration fee, their pilots can drive them to an airport on public roads, then take off in them.

As an instrument of personal freedom, the Jetsons Bill is at home in New Hampshire, where license plates read “Live Free or Die.” Motorcyclists in New Hampshire can ride without helmets. Adults in cars have long been allowed to eschew seat belts. And now, New Hampshire’s spirit of liberty drives a nascent (and sputtering) flying car movement whose visionaries see wondrous things on the horizon.

Colburn says the Jetsons Bill “opens up interesting possibilities for leisure trips to islands.” He adds that the legislation could particularly aid businesses whose clients are spread far from urban centers. “The time savings in a place like New Hampshire, where the mountainous topography makes for some very indirect and lower-speed driving trips could,” he says, “be substantial.”

Laurie Garrow, an urban and regional air mobility specialist at the Georgia Institute of Technology, says the Jetsons Bill positions New Hampshire to become an industry leader. “I can see a lot of developers going there to test roadable aircraft,” she says, in part because they could find plenty of routes with minimal traffic. (Source: Bloomberg)

I'm a bit disappointed to see that this looks like when you're on the highway, you're a car, and that when you're a plane, you'll be taking off and landing from an airport. Bor-ing! Still, it's a start.

The real, problem, however, is that flying cars have been having a hard time getting off the ground, production-wise, since way back in the early part of the 20th century. That's when innovators, perhaps inspired by Tin Pan Alley tunes like "Come Away with Me, Lucille, In My Merry Oldsmobile" and "Come, Josephine, in My Flying Machine, We'll Go Up, Up, Up" started playing around with mashups.

Oh, there are companies trying to come up with vehicles that both hit the road and get their wings, but there's not much merchandise on the market. 

There was Massachusetts-own (but Chinese-owned) Terrafugia, which had been taking $300K orders for its flying car, the Transition (a "roadable aircraft"). In January, the FAA  blessed the Transition with an airworthiness certificate. In February, the company announced layoffs - and said that they were no longer focusing on flying cars. (You can still see their roadable aircraft on their website, which has not yet caught up with their new strategy.)

While Terrafugia may have crashed and burned, there's still Pal-V, a Dutch outfit that produces the  Liberty ($390K), which the EU Aviation Safety Agency has certified. It's still not legal to fly-drive it, however. But the good news is you can buy one using bitcoin. Samson-Sky of Oregon is another competitor.

Also on the horizon - not my horizon, but someone's - are the eVTOLs (electric Vertical Take-Off and Landing vehicles), a.k.a., flying taxis. 

They function more like helicopters and won’t ever travel on roads.

EVTOLs, which are expected to be approved by the FAA sometime this decade, will be electric-powered jitneys of the air. They’ll drop down onto urban landing pads and whisk paying customers on pricey short hops — from downtown Manhattan to the Hamptons, say. Unlike roadable aircraft, this version was conceived during this century to meet the demands of the 21st century city. They’re green, if short-hop flights for wealthy consumers can be deemed green, and they’re expected to be lucrative.

Personally, whether they're landing on the street in front of my house or not, I'm not looking forward to looking forward to all these fly-boys (and -girls) taking to the skies. It'll be bad enough with all those Amazon drones delivering raisins, and sneakers, and baby grand pianos, let alone all these fly-by-nighters (and -dayers). I know they'll all be equipped with sensors up the yin-yang, but I anticipate both midair collisions at altitudes low and high, and plenty of things dropping from the sky with a thud.

There are additional problems. Even though flying cars are still under development, they already have an outspoken critic: Kevin DeGood, author of a 2020 white paper, “Flying Cars Will Undermine Democracy and the Environment.” An infrastructure policy specialist at the Center for American Progress, DeGood argues that flying cars will allow the super rich to wall themselves off from social problems that he feels demand “collective action” — for instance, alleviating poverty and climate change. The flying car, he adds, represents the “technological apotheosis of sprawl” because it will enable the airborne elite to settle far from cities and “unleash development of pristine lands.” These lands, DeGood stresses, “provide essential environmental services related to air and water quality as well as carbon sequestration.”

The "technological apotheosis of sprawl"? Swell!

They'll all be living free, and we'll be dying thanks to their f-ing roadable aircraft and flying taxis. 

On the second annual 'meh' Patriots' Day

I LOVE Patriots' Day. Always have, and I (hope I) always will. It's one of those peculiar and particular holidays, invented in Massachusetts and celebrated in very few other places. I first wrote about my affection for it in 2008. And here's a good summation about why it's my kind of holiday. Last year, I was somewhat optimistic that by 2021, we'd be back to normal. But, no, we're now into our Second Annual 'Meh' Patriots' Day. May it be our last!

The Boston Marathon, which has ALWAYS been run on Patriots' Day - way back in the day when we actually observed the holiday on April 19th, rather than on the long-weekend-friendly third Monday in April - is (tentatively, as pretty much everything is still tentatively) scheduled for next October. It'll be run on the 11th, on what we're still calling Columbus Day. (At least I think we're still calling it Columbus Day. I hope that it gets renamed at some point. I'm all for calling it Immigrants' Day, but Indigenous Peoples' Day seems to be winning out, which is fine by me. Just get it done.)  

Whenever it's held, the next Boston Marathon will be run without my friend Jake Kennedy, founder of Boston's iconic Christmas in the City organization. Jake was a 38-time Boston-er who died of ALS on October 13th. 

April. October. Patriots' Day is just never gonna be the same without Jake. (Among other things, he hosted an after-party at his PT business where a lot of runners showed up, a lot of non-runners showed up (as in me), and we raised money for Christmas in the City.

I have been a Boston Marathon spectator plenty of times, mostly back in the pre-everything-is-a-big-deal era when you could stroll over to the Finish Line about two minutes before the finish and see who won. Then stroll out to the packed but not insane Eliot Lounge for a beer and where you were apt to bump into the winner in the bar. Those were the days...

Another thing that won't be happening as usual is the re-enactment of the Battle of Lexington, which is the reason we celebrate Patriots' Day to begin with. As it was last year, this year's battle will be virtual.

My preferred Patriots' Day thing to do is watch the Red Sox play. This is a morning game - start time 11:10 a.m. - "scheduled" (as if baseball game endings can be scheduled!) to end when the competitive runners are thumping through Kenmore Square, just down the street from Fenway Park. In truth, thanks to how big the Marathon has gotten - and thanks to the intense security that's sprung up since the Marathon Bombing in 2013 - it's a complete, rip-roaring pain in the butt to walk home from Fenway after the game. You have to walk about two miles out of year way to walk two miles...

Still, it's a fun game to be at and I usually try to get tickets.

Last year, I had tickets, but game called on account of pandemic.

This year, the Sox (Red) are playing the Sox (White), and there will be fans in the stands. But the limit is 12%, which means there'll only be around 4,500 folks rattling around "America's Most Beloved Ballpark." And I won't be one of them. 

I believe that the Olde Towne Team will be wearing their normal red and white jerseys today, but over the weekend, they'll be donning a mashup of baseball uni and Boston Athletic Association (the organization that runs the Marathon) color scheme. I am not a fan of that yellow and blue...

Instead of heading out to AMBBP this morning, I'll be working in the kitchen at St. Francis House. I will be wearing a blue and yellow jersey (not yellow and blue), and a Red Sox cap. Celebrate! (I'm celebrating my return to volunteering at SFH. Volunteers were furloughed last March. While some started making their way back last summer, the geezers like me are just finding our way back now. I've done a few shifts in the kitchen, and later this week will return to my old regular gig giving out toiletries in the Resource Center.)

Usually the swan boats are back in the Public Garden for Patriots' Day, but this year they're holding out until May. 

I walk almost every day through the Public Garden. I missed the swan boats last year, and I'm looking forward to their return.

So it's not all terrible, but it's still going to be a pretty 'meh' Patriots' Day. 

But things ARE getting better. 

Wait until next year!

The last of Bernie Madoff

It would have been more poetically just if Bernie Madoff had shuffled off this mortal coil on April 15th (the once and future tax day). But he dreamed (perchance) about his last Ponzi swindle or Palm Beach swankery on April 14th. And that's it. The last of Bernie Madoff. He died at a North Carolina medical facility run by the Federal Bureau of Prisons. After pulling off the biggest Ponzi scheme in U.S. history, in late 2008, Madoff was turned in by his sons. He's been in prison since 2009. He outlived both of his children. One died of cancer, the other killed himself.

Pink Slip has devoted plenty of virtual ink to Bernie since he first came onto my scene in December 2008. 

My first Bernie-related post  - Bernie Madoff: "People make mistakes"? - opened up with a quote that left me slack jawed. It was from a retired broker who knew Madoff. "I think very highly of him," this jamoke told the Wall Street Journal, "People make mistakes." Given that the magnitude of Madoff's scam was well north of $50B, I'd say that "People make mistakes" was probably the understatement of the year back in 2008.

I really got crankin' on Bernie in 2009, which was a banner year for Madoff posts. In February, I wrote about some interesting revelations about the scam, which included the gem that one of Bernie's victims - dah-link! - was Zsa Zsa Gabor. 

Another pair of victims: artists Madeline Gins and her husband Arakawa. The couple were conceptual artists who had dedicated their lives to the notion that you could outwit destiny, i.e., not die, if you lived in an environment that was architected to be unstable and uncomfortable. As it turns out, Bernie outlived both of them. Arakawa died in 2010. (Gins said at the time, "This mortality thing is bad news.") She died in 2014. I hope they felt that living in instability and discomfort was worth it. In any case, I'm pretty sure that Bernie Madoff was not responsible for their deaths.

Although I don't believe she was part of Bernie's scheme, his wife Ruthie sure did benefit from it. The couple had luxe home in Manhattan, Montauk (Long Island), Palm Beach. Ruthie had all the beautiful clothing, furs, and jewelry a gal could want. That Bernie, he was a good provider. But I do have some sympathy for her. Bum for a husband (in her word, a "villain") and - far worse - outliving both of her children. Before Bernie went to jail, they tried to futz around with their finances and squirrel away $70M to take care of Ruthie. The futzing didn't work. Most of the money was clawed back to give to the victims of the scam. She ended up getting to keep $2M, and last I heard she was living modestly in Connecticut.   

If Ruth Madoff thought that 2009 started out pretty rotten, it got worse. In August, it was revealed that Bernie had been cheating on her: a twenty year affair with the CFO of Hadassah. 

Did I mention that the bad year got worse? Yes, I did. And it got even worser when their earthly possessions were put up for auction - everything from Bernie's Cartier and Rolex watches to Ruthie's golf shoes to the couple's personalized Post-it notes. Her pricey silver, china, and glassware. A dozen sterling saltshakers (salt included) and her ceramic cow creamer. (Hey, I have one of those.). 

The auction went over quite well. Bernie's fancy Mets jacket that was supposed to go for $720 went for $14.5K.

Bernie's Hofstra College Class of 1960 ring brought in $6K. The pre-auction estimate was $360.

Ruthie's diamond dangle earrings went for $70K per pair - pre-auction worth was set at $9.8 and $21.4K.

I'm sure that Madoff's victims were delighted to see so many items bid up, up and away. 

In 2013, news emerged that while Bernie Madoff was running his scheme, his company also had a wild, anything goes expense policy. And not just for Bernie. Some of this nearest and dearest employees were allowed to charge anything on their corporate cards. I guess money's no object when it's not yours to begin with.

To celebrate the fifth anniversary of the outing of his scheme, Bernie spoke with the Wall Street Journal. In the interview the dear man blamed his investors (they were "'sophisticated people' who should have known better") for his misfortunes. Them and  banks. ("He insisted banks knew about his fraud and were complicit in the scheme for years.") What a prince that Bernie Madoff was. 

Although I've used his name in throwaway references plenty of times, I haven't written about Bernie Madoff in years. But he had been a good source of blog fodder. 

But that was then, and this is now. 

As far as Pink Slip is concerned, this, I'm guessing, will be the last of Bernie Madoff. No great loss.

Many brave hearts are stuck on board their merchant ships

Q. How often do I think about the merchant marine biz?

A.  Unless a container ship gets stuck sideways in the Suez canal, or I spot a cargo ship in Boston harbor, like, NEVER.

And while I haven't been thinking about them, a lot of them have, thanks to the pandemic, been having a pretty awful time of it.

Roughly 400,000 seafarers were stranded on ships around the globe at the peak of the “crew-change crisis” in late 2020, according to the International Maritime Organization; now, about 200,000 are stuck. Some have been at sea for as long as 20 months, though 11 months is the maximum time allowed by the ILO Maritime Labour Convention.

 The situation threatens to grow more dire in the coming months, industry experts say, as mariners desperately try to access coronavirus vaccines, their situation complicated by a web of complex logistics and workplaces often situated thousands of miles offshore.

World leaders have called the crew-change crisis a humanitarian emergency. It is also a cautionary tale about essential but oft-ignored global supply chains. Industry officials told The Washington Post there’s been an increase in severe injuries and mental health concerns — including suicide at sea — as mariners have yearned to leave their ships and return home. (Source: Washington Post)

Working on a cargo ship is a tough, demanding, sometimes dangerous and almost always thankless (as in invisible) task.

Yet they're the ones making sure that the sneakers, gizmos, electronics, and COVID masks that we're ordering on Amazon - with the expectation that they'll arrive the next day - get to the ports from where they're hauled around the country to Amazon warehouses. And then ferried last mile by delivery van to our doorsteps.

And lest we forget. It's not just consumer end-products that make up the maritime cargo. It's raw materials, parts, partially-finished goods. Everything that makes up the supply chain.

There aren't a ton of Americans plying the merchant marine trade. Out of 1.7 million worldwide merchant mariners, as far as I can find, there are only about 70,000 Americans. Still, it's a reasonably okay job. The pay's better than burger-flipping - or working in an Amazon warehouse.

But we're talking rough conditions, and, with the pandemic, conditions that are potentially sky-high dangerous. We know how viruses super-spread around cruise ships. Same goes for merchant ships. The wrong employee walks up the gangplank, and it can be covid city. Thus the caution when it comes to keeping them on their ships and not working around on shore leave. 

For the life of me, I can't see why the government isn't doing everything they can to vaccinate anyone and everyone stuck on a ship in an American port. 

It's not just physical, mental, and financial (many mariners can't join their ships, so are going without pay) health that's being impacted.

Maintaining licenses and certifications is essential in the maritime industry, and this hinges on in-person instruction and hands-on experience with equipment. But the International Maritime Organization has been offering waivers during the pandemic as maritime academies have halted classroom instruction and workers have not been able to leave their ships. Without proper certification, workers are unable to get new jobs.

Poor bastards!

At least there's not a war on. During World War II, the U.S. Merchant Marine suffered higher casualty rates than any of the uniformed services. U-Boats were after those convoys crossing the Atlantic, and they managed to sink an awful lot of vessels. Meaning that there were many brave hearts asleep in the deep.  

That was then. This is now. And some of the shipping companies are trying to make things a little better for the men (and women) at sea: bonus pay, goodies on board, improved Internet access so families can zoom. But it's all starting to wear pretty thin.

Honestly, after reading this piece it's amazing to me that our supply chains (not to mention our consumer, Amazon-ordering citizens with their vast, wide-open maws) haven't suffered all that greatly during the pandemic. So caps off to the seafarers out there.

Meanwhile, I couldn't help smiling at an anecdote in the article about one ship captain. Brian Mossman claims that he's read Moby Dick nearly 200 times. 

...he revisits the Melville classic nearly every voyage, because each time reveals something new about the people who take to the sea: people like him and the two dozen merchant mariners on his crew.

I guess this makes up for the fact that I wasn't able to make my way through it even once. (I have seen the 1950's movie version starring Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab. And I did read the Classic Comic. Twice. Once in grammar school for fun. Once in college when I couldn't make it through the book. I might have read the Cliff Notes, too.) Call me Ishmael, but I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have made it as a seafaring woman. I can't even stand the thought of a cruise during which I could eat and drink to my not-so-brave heart's content, and lounge around my cabin reading novels other than Moby Dick. Imagine having to work, and not being allowed off the ship for fear of covid. Sheesh...

Pockets

I was part of the first big wave of women entering the business world. The general advice was along the lines of to get along, go along. To fit in. To man up.

Among other things, this meant keeping your response to a bit of eye-rolling in the face of especially boorish behavior. At Wang, I was the only woman on a team dedicated to creating a strategy for the financial services industry. I was sitting, the lone woman, at the table when one team member dramatically announced that "Wall Street is a prone woman, legs spread, ready for Wang to penetrate." My response was eye-rolling - of course! - and a mild tut-tut along the lines of "Oh, Michael, stop being such a pig." But I didn't make a big fuss. After all, I was one of the guys.

In general, we were coached not to take too much of a women's approach. Not to use "weak" words like "I think" or "I feel", but to be more emphatic: "I know." Or skip the preface altogether and just flat out state "this is the way it is."

Don't ever admit that you were at fault, or that you could have done something differently. Sign of weakness! And the men will all be happy to let you take the blame. Here's where the guys really like the passive voice: "it happened" (not "I did it").

And, of course, if you were a "professional woman", you were expected to dress the part. I.e., like a man. (Women in clerical positions were encouraged/expected to dress like sexpots, however.) So most women, at a certain point in time, dressed more of less like men. (Only our menswear suits had skirts, not pants.)

During the days I was in workplace drag, I certainly didn't look like this. My hear wasn't curly. I wasn't a supermodel. No one (except the "clericals") wore perfume to work. And I sure didn't have a royal blue phone. But that floppy bow, that white shirt, that suit sure as hell could have been mine. Except for the pocket. Unless it was after I went to the tailor to have them added in, because women's suits sure didn't come with them.

On the one hand, some of the menswear suits I had were gorgeous. I had one near-black charcoal with a hot pink window-pane plaid. Another medium blue suit had a subtle fuchsia and teal stripe. (Sounds awful, but the fabric was beautiful.) I had a lovely taupe suit with an Eisenhower jacket that I wore with a teal silk blouse with a built-in bowtie. I had a cute little purple and black checked suit, that sounds Pinky Lee-ish but was quite nice. (Our suits might have been what I called "penis envy" in design, but we did have a bit of color leeway.)

On the other hand, the style of our suits was generally pretty clunky. And none of the skirts came with pockets.

Now, back in the day, I paid a ton of money for my suits. My cheaper suits I got at Brooks Brothers or Jos. Banks. They weren't cheap by any standards, but they were cheaper than the "Friedman of Boston" suits I had in my closet. (I'm not sure if that's the right name, as I can't find any reference to them on Google.) They were beautiful made, wore like iron, and traveled perfectly. Was I really paying $400-500 dollars for a suit in the mid-1980's? Yes, I was.

And none of them came with a pocket in the damned skirt.

Anyway, one of the best classes that I took during my career was on presentation skills. It had excellent tips that I always followed when giving presentations - and I gave a ton of presentations over the course of my work life. But one of the most critical takeaways from this course was the suggestion that women have pockets put in their skirts, as putting your hand in a pocket makes for a natural pose and keeps you from waving your hands all over the place.

Off to the tailor I went, with armfuls of skirts to be altered.

Soon enough, the day of the menswear suit came to an end. There was more freedom to wear separates, or a dress and a jacket. Pantsuits replaced skirt suits. (And most suit pants did have pockets.) And the tech world I inhabited went full-on casual. Dress up only when seeing clients.  

For a while, I hung on to my suits, pairing the skirts with sweaters, and wearing the jackets with slacks (or, on weekends, with jeans). But my power suit days were over, and soon enough those suits all ended up in the donation bin.

Fast forward, and the lack of pockets in women's clothing is still something of a problem. Most of my pants, which are mostly jeans, sweats, and khakis, come with pockets. But not all. (Eileen Fisher, can you hear me calling?)

And I guess it's the same for clothing for little girls, too. And one little girl's not having any of it.

Kamryn Gardner wanted a way to keep her hands warm and have a convenient place to stash small toys and natural treasures like interesting rocks.

Now the 7-year-old from Bentonville, Ark., is getting local and nationwide attention for convincing clothing retailer Old Navy to consider her request to stop making girls’ jeans with pockets that are sewn shut.

“They were fake pockets,” said Kamryn. “It bothered me that they weren’t real pockets.” (Source: WaPo)

So Kamryn wrote Old Navy a letter.

“I wrote to them because I would like a place to put my hands and a place to hold my stuff,” said Kamryn, a first-grader at Evening Star Elementary. “I want my pants to have real pockets like my brother’s pants.”

Kamryn heard back from Old Navy - seriously, who could resist this kid? - thanking her for her advice, and sending here a few pairs of pants and shorts with pockets.

Old Navy already had some styles of pocketed pants for girls, but they told her they would keep her feedback in mind when they're coming up with new products.

Good for Kamryn!

Although I had written plenty of customer complaint letters in my day - including one to Cracker Jack about too few peanuts in the mix (they sent me a carton of Cracker Jack boxes) - it never would have occurred to me to write to Brooks Brothers or Friedman (?) of Boston to ask them to start putting pockets in their skirt suits.

Just going along/getting along, I guess.

Anyway, Kamryn Gardner has spoken up! You go, girl!