Nothing neat about NEETs. (Pretty sad, really.)

The unemployment rate among American's 16-24 years old is running at about 9% - more than double the overall US average. While this is considered normal for this age group, it sounds like a very high number to me. It's roughly what the general unemployment rate was when I got out of business school in 1981, smack dab in a recession. And, take it from one who was looking for work at the time, 9% seems very high. 

I don't know what the unemployment rate was when I was in the 16-24 cohort. I was in school (high school, college, grad school) during most of that period, and whenever I wanted a job - summers, vacations, part time while in school - I found one. When I was 22-23, I worked as a waitress to fund travel. A few months waitressing at Durgin Park funded a couple of months driving and camping cross-country. Another few months waitressing at Durgin Park funded 5 months hitchhiking and camping/hosteling through Europe. At 24, I was doing crappy temp work which eventually led to a more or less real job and the decision to go to business school, which entailed taking courses in math, accounting, and economics so I'd look business-interested enough to get into a good B-school. (It worked.) 

Fast forward, and I'm a) old and b) mostly retired. I hang on to one legacy client and write their blog for them every two weeks. 

But basically, there's never been a time in my life from 16-74 (and counting) and beyond when I haven't been working (and these days, working is mostly volunteering) and/or in school.

Not so with the NEETs - those not in employment, education, or training - who make up a bit over 11 percent in the US (don't know how this squares with the 9 percent unemployment rate)  and about 20 percent of youth worldwide. 

I can't say that Iblame them. 

Young folks in the US have watched the middle class - especially the blue collar, factory-working middle class - crash down around their parents' ears. They're looking at a housing market (rental and purchase) that's pricing out even those with good jobs. AI is looming over even those with good jobs. Many are saddled with college loans that they'll be paying off the rest of their lives without ever making a dent in the principal. They're facing the existenial threat of climate change, and a volatile political environment. They're hooked on social media which, for all its many benefits, can be one big pool of anxiety, inertia, and just plain cess. 

Is it any wonder that so many aren't jumping for joy at the thought of working? That so many are grappling with mental health issues?

Gen Z are nearly twice as stressed out as millennials were at their age; More than a third of 18-24-year-olds are suffering from a “common mental disorder” (CMD) like stress, anxiety, or depression; And Gen Zers who are working are taking significantly more sick leave than Gen Xers 20 years their senior. (Source: MSN)

Anyway, it's pretty sad to think of these millions of young folks hanging around doing nothing - when they should be doing something productive, like working or learning or even (and I can't believe I'm saying this) earning money as influencers. Instead, I'm guessing they're sitting there with their phones, tablets, and gaming consoles, whiling away the hours on the biggest time-waster in the history of the universe: the Internet. 

Young men, especially, are increasingly disengaged, according to Julia Pollak, a labor economist at ZipRecruiter.

“The NEET trend is mostly a male phenomenon,” she said.

Pollak explained that’s in part due to declining opportunities in traditionally male occupations, such as construction and manufacturing, while “women’s enrollment in schooling, education outcomes, and employment outcomes have mostly trended upwards.” (Source: CNBC)

"Young men," you say?

That's comforting. It's not like they'll be happy to hang around Neverneverland with their fellow lost boys. It's not like they're going to become neo-Nazis or the like while scrolling through anti-[your favorite goes here] vids and memes, cooking up ideas on how to get back at [your favorite goes here] - and figuring out how they can get their hands on a high-powered weapon so they can play out their fantasies in the real world. Which may be the only time they enter that world. 

Again, I don't blame them for opting out of an over-rated real world. I admire those who are deciding to live a less aimless consumption, McMansion-crazed life. Who aren't buying into the corporate cutthroat or the corporate hamster wheel. 

But you do have to do something with your life. And doing nothing in your twenties isn't going to set you up with much of a platform for the remainder of your life. 

This is the time to figure it out. If figuring it out means trying different types of work, or going to school: great! If figuring it out means trying to go the creative route, even if you can't (yet) make a living at it: great! If figuring it out means traveling or volunteering: great!

Hanging around doing nothing all day: not so great!

I have no solution for this, other than get off your arse and do something. 

Good luck, NEETs. I think you're going to need it.

How 'bout them cowgirls?

Well, it's football season.

Not that I'm paying it much mind.

My primary sporting allegiance is the baseball in general, and the Red Sox in particular. So, until late October/early November, that's where my sporting attention will be paid. 

I do keep a vague eye on the other teams in Boston's Big Four - Bruins, Celtics, Patriots - and I do read the sports pages pretty regularly. (I also read the Irish sports pages, but that's another story.)

So I know it's football season. Mostly that's a meh/yawn. If and when the Pats return to their glory days, I will watch games, but, when it comes to football, I'm a total band wagon-er. 

If I pay little attention to the Patriots, I pay even less attention to their cheerleaders. Just now, however, I did pay them a tiny bit of attention, and checked them out on the Pats' website. The team has the requisite long-haired, long-legged, pretty young women - all named Megan or Mallory or Kayla - and, surprisingly (to me, anyway) a couple of good looking young men. 

The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders (or, the DCC) also have the requisite long-haired, long-legged pretty Megans, Mallorys, and Kaylas. But unlike the Patriots, DCC is decidedly not co-ed. 

And, having watched the Netflix America's Sweethearts documentary, I know a lot more about the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders than I do about the Pats' squad. After all, the DCC are America's sweethearts. And the Pats' cheerleaders, alas, are not. (Let's face it, no group of women from New England are going to be called anyone's sweethearts, no matter how pretty, leggy, and sweet they are.)

Anyway, America's Sweethearts is riveting. It follows the women from trying out for the tryouts to making the team to marching on field to the tune of AC/DC's "Thunderstruck," shaking their booties, shaking their poms, showing off their assets - both naturally and unnaturally (all those "blondes?" come on!) endowed assets in their white cowboy boots, skimpy white shorts, skimpy blue blouses, and skimpy starred and bedazzled white vests. 

The first couple of takeaways, once you get beyond the obvious prettiness, are that these women - it is so damned hard not to call them girls! - are exceedingly hard working and amazingly talented. They're incredible - and incredibly athletic - dancers. 

They're also a pretty educated and intelligent bunch, with off-the-field accomplishments. Most seem to have degrees in dance, communications, or business, but the recently retired lead cheerleader, Kelcey, was a pediatric RN. And one of the women trying out was an orthodontist. 

I was expecting there to be a lot more bitchier, cliquiness, and backbiting showcased, but for the most part the cheerleaders come across as decent, and supportive and fond of each other. I thought they'd come across as phoney, nasty sorority girls. While I'm guessing most of them were sorority girls, they come across as genuinely nice. (I could have done with a bit less of the cloyingly sweet and unimaginably naive Reese, but other than that...Not that we'd ever be besties, but I could imagine having a convo with most of them. Many came across as very self-aware and funny.) Maybe the bitchery was edited out, but that's how they came across to me.

The one problema sweetheart was Victoria, who didn't seem to have any friends on the squad and whose efforts to demonstrate leadership - she was a veteran hoping to be tapped as one of the leaders of the lines - were unsuccessful. Victoria was a legacy - her mother had also been a DCC - but she just didn't seem to easily fit in with the other girls cheerleaders. She wasn't as pretty (to my eyes, anyway). She didn't have any post-high school education, which set her apart. She tried to damned hard. It's not that the others shunned her, exactly, but...

Victoria was also open about her mental health issues. She'd taken some time away to get healthier but, in the end, when the boss lady, Kelli, delivered the crushing news that she wouldn't be considered for a leadership role, she decided to turn in her poms. (Last I heard, Victoria was in NYC, living her best life and trying to make it as a Rockette.)

Much of the drama - beyond who was going to make the cut, and what was going on with Victoria - was provided by the focus on women who run the squad. Boss-lady Kelli is an alum who's run the show for years. She comes across as a bit too hardboiled, a bit too drill sargenty, a lot too arbitrary. (I don't make the rules. I just make them.) Kelli's there on the sidelines - and studying the "game films" afterwards - looking for every hair out of place, every smile that's not gleamy enough, every step a nano-second off. But that may well be what she and her minions need to do to keep the cheerleaders looking purdy and high-kicking to perfection. 

Then there's the boss-lady's boss lady, Charlotte Jones, the 60-ish daughter of owner Jerry Jones. Charlotte has the plum nepo position of being in charge of the Dallas Cowboys brand. And those sweethearts are a big part of that brand. I found Charlotte even less likable than Kelli, but that may because she's tainted by being the daughter of the outrageously foul and unlikable Jerry Jones. 

It's very hard to watch America's Sweethearts and not come away feeling a tiny bit disheartened by the retro, sexist nature of the entire enterprise. Couldn't we have cheerleaders who were just a notch or two toned down on the sexpot-tery? This is, of course, countered by the fact that the cheerleaders are a) very talented; and b) doing something they love doing. What could be more feminist than that?

Well, I'd like the situation a lot more if the DCC were a bit better compensated for their work. It's hard to get a handle on what they do make. And the Dallas brigade, because of their worldwide brand (thanks, Charlotte, I guess), do get to make more compensated appearances than other NFL cheering squads. But they still don't make a lot, and all seem to juggle their cheering work with full time jobs that pay the bills.

Not to mention that all that high-kicking, strutting, and doing the splits takes a toll on their health. They may not end up with CTE like their male comrades (and no, they're not allowed to date players) taking a brain-pounding on the field, but many do end up with orthopedic issues galore.

I've never been to an NFL game. And it's not on my bucket list. So all I'm ever going to see of America's Sweethearts - or New England's Non-Sweethearts - in action is going to be whatever I glimpse while half-paying attention to a game I have on in the background.

But I did enjoy the behind the scene look at what goes on with the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. 

As Texas troubador George Strait sings, how 'bout them cowgirls?

Check, mate!

When it comes to wasting time, I take a backseat to nobody.

Sure, I try to be productive - if productivity has any meaning when you're retired - but it's not all reading great books, rewriting my final wishes, keeping an eye on the price-of-cherries war between Whole Foods and Roche Brothers. (Sorry, Roche Bros, love you guys but your cherries cost twice as much as those at Whole.)

Once in a while, I play online TaiPei. Or WordZap.

I do offline Sudoku, and crossword puzzles.

I'm certainly capable of sitting through two hours of House Hunters on HGTV, and especially love the Americans who want to enjoy a real Parisian city experience, only they want their flat to have an eat in kitchen, en suite bathrooms, a home office, and a media room. Plus outdoor space for the dog and/or the kiddos.

I like to doomscroll through Twitter.

I like to nap.

But most of my fritter-the-time-away time does involve using my brain just a teensy, tiny little ol' bit. Why, even House Hunters has me guessing which house the hunters are going to choose. And even when I'm napping there's always the possibility that I'm putting my mind to work dreaming.

Pure, 100% brainless time wasting isn't so much my jam.

Other than when I get something from Amazon cushioned in bubble wrap and I get to break up all those lovely bubbles. Even then, after a few, I do tend to lose interest in the manual pincer crush method and move on to the more efficient stomp 'em out process.

So I'm not all that sorry that I missed the One Million Checkboxes fad earlier this summer.

In case you missed out, too, back in its heyday (June/July), One Million Checkboxes, the brainchild of game developer Nolen Royalty who introduced it on Twitter, was a pretty rudimentary game - without any of the usual cool graphics and/or challenges and/or strategies and/or all the whatever that typically comes with even the most rudimentary of online games.

Rows of unchecked squares sat tantalizingly against a pale gray background, an unexplored Minesweeper field. A visitor to the page checked one box. Then another. Each time a person checked a box, it was instantly filled in on everybody else’s screens, like a kind of collaborative grocery list accessible to anyone with a phone or computer. (Source: NY Times)

The gamification aspect pretty much entailed pitting the checkers, racing to check off as many boxes as they could, against the uncheckers (those nihilists, those meanies!) who were hell bent on undoing the "work" of the checkers.

Within a few weeks, the 1,000,000 boxes had been filled in and the game was end-of-lifed. But not before Royalty intervened and put in some algo to keep the uncheckers from overwhelming the site and preventing the checkers from reaching the million box goal. 

While it was the buzz, though, it attracted hundreds of thousands of users, and became something of a temporary "it thing" on the net. 

Users on X describe the project as “strangely compelling” and “torture for people with OCD.” A Washington Post newsletter called it “the most pointless website on the planet” — which it seemed to mean as a compliment.

Some users went creative, and "began filling in boxes to illustrate hearts or, in more cases, crude drawings of male genitalia." (Duh-bros, anyone?) Others went tech, with bots furiously unchecking boxes. Many saw it as a metaphor for the possibilities of human collaboration. 

Royalty claims no higher purpose.

“I just wanted to make a website that is fun and silly and useless.”

As for end-of-lifing, One Million Checkboxes is only kinda-sorta EOL'd. Last time I checked - hah! - it was still up and running, inviting the most time-wasting OCDers among us to "play alone if you'd like."

Oh, I checked a few boxes just to get a feel for it. Without the competition of a bot trying to uncheck my efforts, it was way too boring. Nowhere near as satisfying as pinching the air out of bubble wrap. And completely brainless. Plus you'd have to check 1,000 boxes a day for 1,000 days to fill in all those boxes. Blech to that. 

Guess I like my time-wasting to have a bit more heft.

Have I got an idea for these passengers.

It happened earlier this summer.

While still on the tarmac in San Francisco, a laptop stowed in an overhead bin started smoking.

"Everybody off the aircraft, let's go," an American Airlines employee can be heard saying over the intercom for the Airbus A321.

"Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going," a woman can be heard saying as passengers in the back of the plane seem to have difficulty exiting.

...A woman appears to point to something in an overhead bin, tying up traffic when "Go, go, go" can be heard in the background.

"Leave everything behind," one flight attendant says.

At least one carry-on bag can be seen sitting on a plane's seat abandoned during the evacuation.

"Come this way, leave everything," another flight attendant echoed. (Source: Fox Business)

Glad that one passenger came to their senses and abandoned their carry-on bag, but the fact (recorded, naturally, on video) that there were multiple folks trying to retrieve their belongings rather than just get the f' off the plane is disturbing. 

I'm sure they weren't thinking clearly, and I do understand the impulse to grab your stuff. I understand it so well that of late I've taken to hanging a small cellphone pouch around my neck that holds my phone, ID, and credit card: all the stuff you'd want to have with you in case of an emergency evacuation - and the kind of stuff that most men will have in their pockets (and most women will carry in their pocketbooks). So I do get the impulse to try to not leave your important things behind. And even your unimportant things like a change of clothing, the latest People magazine, a couple of granola bars. Sure, that change of clothing includes a sweater you just bought and really, really, really, really like - and haven't gotten to wear yet. But here's the deal: they're just things. They're not people, actual human beings, which would be the folks in the rows behind you who may not make it out if you're futzing around trying to dislodge your wheelie bag from a chocked-to-the-gills bin while smoke is filling the cabin and flight attendants are hollering for passengers to go, go, go. (Fellow passengers were hollering as well.)

Fortunately, SFFD was quickly on the scene, and only three people experienced "minor injuries." (No word on whether it was smoke inhalation or being clunked on the head by their own or someone else's carry-on bag.)

I've got an idea on how to handle those passengers who decide that they really need to make sure their bags are evacuated safely, and who prioritize those bags over the safety of others:

Have the attendants announce that those who want to retrieve their bags should stay seated (squinching their legs up to allow others in their row to depart) while those passengers willing to leave theirs behind get to exit the plane first. Then and only then can they grab their bags. 

Sounds fair, and absolutely works for me! (I'll be the one blissfully exiting with my phone, ID, and credit card hanging around my neck in a little pouch.)

Now that's a slimey business

I don't have much experience with slime.

It just wasn't a thing when I was a kid.

We had modeling clay, which came in dull colors - brick red, battleship grey - and wasn't all that pliable. So while Auguste Rodin, or a professional potter, might have been right at home with it, I remember finding it hard to work with. The best I could do was roll it out into a string and then coil it around to create something boring or other.

Play-Doh, in comparison, was a revelation. When colored Play-Doh was introduced in the mid-1950s, I was all in. I loved pretty much everything about Play-Doh, including the memorable smell. I loved the fact that, with just the basics - a can of red, yellow, blue, and white - you had the entire rainbow, plus - with that white - the ability to create pastels. And it was a lot easier to work with. My favorite thing to do was make fruits and veggies with it. The only downside with Play-Doh is that, if you let it dry out, it developed a crystaline coat and was useless. The trick with Play-Doh was to dismantle your project and stuff it back in the can, where it inevitably dried out anyway. (Oh, you could pour warm water on it, but that wasn't a perfect solution.) Plus, once you made purple, there was no magic to unmix the mix to get it back to red and blue. 

Whatever its deficits, I adored Play-Doh. 

I also loved Silly Putty. You didn't make anything out of it, but you could stretch it, knead it, punch at it, scrunch it, hurl it...And, most wonderously, if you pressed it against a newspaper comic strip, the comic strip panel was transferred to the Silly Putty. How about that?

But, alas, we didn't have slime, which I know I would have fully and unreservedly embraced. 

So if I envy kids of today anything, slime might be it.

Thus, I was interested to learn about the Sloomoo Institute, a place in NYC that promises:

Escape! Get off your screens and immerse yourself in our mesmerizing world of #satisfying joy. The Sloomooverse is full of never-ending, hand-crafted slime, yummy scents, vivid colors, and soothing ASMR delights.

What? You don't know what ASMR is? Tsk, tsk! It is, of course, this:

An autonomous sensory meridian response (ASMR) is a tingling sensation that usually begins on the scalp and moves down the back of the neck and upper spine. (Thanks, Wikipedia!)

Personally, this sounds more like nerve damage to me, but it's supposed to result in a feeling of moderate euphoria. 

Contributing to the experience at the Sloomoo Institute is the crazy variety of slime available to play around if - a variety that Sloomoo is always expanding on.

Twenty-year old slime "savant" Chase Kellebrew is one of the folks that the Institute counts on to come up with new slime versions. 

He graduated from Brooklyn Technical High School in 2022 and said that he earns “a very comfortable salary” as a full-time employee of the institute, which is within walking distance of Stuyvesant Town, where he lives with his mother.

“It’s easy to create a prototype,” he said. “But it can sometimes be a long, hard process to figure out how to make all this in bulk. We make about thirty-five thousand gallons a year. Each time I create a new slime recipe, I write down everything I’m using.” He has his co-workers test it out. “On any given day, there are one to two running the mixers and anywhere from five to fifteen packing the slime,” he said. (Source: New Yorker.)

We're not just talking about slime that smells like lemons, or is the color of a maple leaf. We're talking wild combos. For The New Yorker visit:

That day’s prototype was geared toward the spring holidays. Kellebrew removed some yellow cellophane from a plate that had six circular indentations, each filled with a different slime. He explained that it was a Seder plate, with the six traditional Passover foods translated into slime: haroseth (“peach clear slime with small foam cubes, apple scent”), horseradish (“dark-red snow-fizz slime, with a lemon-ginger scent”), parsley (“light-green clear slime”), an egg (“clear slime with one yellow felt pompom to represent the yolk, unscented”), bitter herbs (“light-green butter slime”), and, not to be forgotten, a shank bone (“made out of clay”).

And, in case you're wondering, this slime is K for Kosher. And because the Institute is equal opportunity, Kellebrew also came up with slime that smells like honey-baked ham in time for Easter. 

You can buy all sorts of the Insitute's slime in their gift shop or online. For $35 a month, you can purchase a subscription box full of surprises. 

Slimes can be pretty, and they can smell good - peach, pineapple, watermelon. And some of them can even make sounds:

Kellebrew is an expert at giving his slime sound effects, “gorgeous pops” being the most requested, with “fart sounds” a close second.

I searched their site and couldn't find any "fart smell" slime, which would likely be a best-seller with little boys. Bet Kellebrew could come up with that if he put his mastermind to it. 

I REFUSE to believe this

It was old news - and most certainly fake news - but I was startled a while back when I saw this float into my Twitter timeline. You probably won't be able to read the map, but how in the world did circus peanuts come up as the most popular movie candy in Massachusetts?

Other than gag-inducing horehound drops - which I sampled as a kid on a trip to Sturbridge Village where they were sold as the type of treat that kids in the 1820's apparently grooved on - is there a worse candy than circus peanuts. Circus peanuts. Mother. Of. God.

No state's favorite comes near on the abysmal scale, although NJ (Banana Laffy Taffy), NY and LA (Pixie Sticks), GA (Smarties), and  CO and FL (Dum Dums) comd close. I'd rather have a Dum Dum than M&M's said no kid ever. 

At least, I will note, there were no candy buttons anywhere to be seen. 

I could understand it if Massachusetts went with NECCO wafers, as Utah did. I'm not all that partial to NECCO wafers, and certainly would never buy them at a movie theater. (I would accept one if offered, but since I don't play Holy Communion any longer, I have no need for a NECCO wafer. They were good for that one thing.) But NECCO wafers would make some sense, as they're a native Massachusetts candy. 

Baked beans would make sense here, too, even though they were invented in Chicago. I'm assuming that the map means to say Boston Baked Beans, i.e., candy-coated peanuts, are the fave for North Dakota. They can't possibly mean Boston banked beans, as in B&M out of a can and served with franks on a Saturday night. I'd rather have a steaming bowl of baked beans - espeically if I get the yummy chunk of pork fat - rather than a handful of Good 'n Plenty said no kid ever. 

(God knows what to make of Kraft Cheese Singles being the most popular movie treat in Wisconsin. I know Wisconsinites are called cheeseheads. Still...)

But circus peanuts! Never in my life have I ever seen circus peanuts in the candy counter at the movies, let alone bought them.

Mostly, I'm a popcorn kind of girl. If I buy candy, it'll be M&M's or Twizzlers. Something edible.

Of course, circus peanuts have a particular meaning in my family.

Way back in the wayback - that would be 1963 - my father and the Big Three (me, Kath, Tom) drove out to Chicago for a family wedding/vacation. My mother and the Little Two (Rick, Trish) flew.

It was broiling hot and the car was, naturally, not air-conditioned.

Day One was an especially tough one, as we got a flat outside of Buffalo, which meant my father had to change the tire - and doing so meant lightening the load (the car was piled high with most of the suitcases for a family of seven for a two-week trip that included a wedding) so that he could jack the car up. 

On Day Two, my father was hell bent on Chicago. I don't know whether my father was familiar with the Irish battle cry faugh a ballagh - which means clear the way - but he was sure putting it into action on pedal-to-the-metal Day Two. 

We had breakfast at the motel in Erie PA (or Ashtabula OH; one or the other on the way out, on the way back) where we stayed - a HoJo's or Holiday Inn, which I thought was incredibly elegant: those tiny wrapped Ivory soap bars - and then it was non-stop to Chicago. We took one break for bathroom and tank fill 'er up, where my father bought a couple of giant bottles of Pepsi and a ginormous bag of circus peanuts. 

"Don't tell your mother," was the byword of the day. For the remainder of the trip, we gorged on circus peanuts. Admittedly, at the time, I enjoyed them. Today, the very thought makes my stomach roil. And circus peanuts have, of course, become an ongoing family joke.

Anyway, I refuse - make that REFUSE - to believe that circus peanuts were ever the favorite movie treat in Massachusetts, even way back in the wayback of 2019, the date of this travesty.

I'm much more inclined to accept the "results" of a 2022 survey, even though it's based on purchases at Cinemark Theaters. There are only two in Massachusetts, and they're in the western part of the state, so I'v never been to one. But, kid allergies aside, Peanut M&M's make a lot of sense.

And it's gratifying to see that the Cinemark list doesn't have any Smarties, Dum Dums, Laffy Taffy (banana or other), or Pixie Sticks on it, either. 

Circus peanuts!!! NFW!!!

Kind of serves Picasso right, doesn't it?

Not big fangirl, but, sure, Pablo Picasso was a genius. 

He was also a misogynist par excellence, a brute, a serial abuser, and a man whose philosophy included this glittering gem of a comment made to one of his many mistresses: 'Women are machines for suffering. For me, there are only two kinds of women — goddesses and doormats.' 

(It probably didn't sound any better in the original French, which was likely the language he used, as he was directing his words to Françoise Gilot, a then twenty-something French artist 40 years his junior. She had a longish relationship with the great man, became a highly regarded artist on her own, and was the mother of Paloma Picasso. She later became the wife of Jonas Salk. Some folks just lead more interesting lives than others. I'm guessing Gilot was more goddess than doormat, whatever Picasso was trying to tell her at the time.)

Anyway, Picasso's been dead for over 50 years now, but a little bit of performance-arty, don't take art all too seriously, payback recently came his way.

Here's what happened. 

Kirsha Kaechele is a curator (and an artist) at the Museum of Old and New Art in Tasmania, Australia. A few years ago, she mounted a women's only exhibition - women's only not in terms of what was displayed, but in terms of who could attend. The site of the exhibit was the Ladies Lounge. No Men Allowed. After a judge ruled that such an exhibit was illegally discriminatory, the curator had a toilet installed in the Ladies Lounge, turning it into a women's restroom, and thus making it off-limits to men.

Among the artworks on display were three paintings reputedly by Picasso. But there was oh, so much more going one.

The so-called Ladies Lounge offered high tea, massages and champagne served by male butlers, and was open to anyone who identified as a woman. Outlandish and absurd title cards were displayed alongside the fake paintings, antiquities and jewelry that was “quite obviously new and in some cases plastic,” she added.

The lounge had to display “the most important artworks in the world,” Kaechele wrote this week, in order for men “to feel as excluded as possible.” (Source: AP News)

Including those Picassos. Turns out they might have looked like for-real Picassos, but they were actually the for-surreal works of Kirsha Kaechele herself. She fessed up after a reporter started nosing around, and after the Picasso Administration in France, which vets the provenances of Picasso's works and manages his estate (i.e., the money, honey) got a bit curious about what was up with these works. 

This was after an Australian tribunal had ruled the museum guilty of discrimination. 

[Deputy President Richard] Grueber ruled that the man had suffered a disadvantage, in part because the artworks in the Ladies Lounge were so valuable. Kaechele had described them to the hearing as “a carefully curated selection of paintings by the world’s leading artists, including two paintings that spectacularly demonstrate Picasso’s genius.”

In ordering MONA to stop keeping men out, he:

...also lambasted a group of women who had attended in support of Kaechele wearing matching business attire and had silently crossed and uncrossed their legs in unison throughout the hearing. One woman “was pointedly reading feminist texts,” he wrote, and the group left the tribunal “in a slow march led by Ms Kaechele to the sounds of a Robert Palmer song.”

Their conduct was “inappropriate, discourteous and disrespectful, and at worst contumelious and contemptuous,” Grueber added.

Props to Grueber for that vocabulary tour de force. When was the last time you saw the word "contumelious" in use? Wow! I was only familiar with it all because of the catechism sin of contumely, generally used in the context of saying something insulting about the Catholic Church. 

Not to be stopped, Kaechele - no doormat, she - installed the toilet.

The brouhaha attracted press attention, and the attention of the Picasso administrators.  Leading to Kaechele's true confession. Fittingly, she begins her apologia with a Picasso quote. (Not the doormat/goddess one.)

… Art is a lie that makes us realise truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of [her] lies.

—Pablo Picasso

Her post is quite a ramble, but worth it, if only learn more detail abou the feminist demonstration at the tribunal:

At the tribunal hearing (read the ruling if you haven't, it’s really something), as twenty-five women moved in silent synchronicity, crossing and uncrossing their pantyhosed legs [pause], leaning forward in their navy suits [pause], peering over their tortoiseshell spectacles [pause], and applying lipstick [the finale, after two hours of durational performance], the judge asked, ‘If the room were empty, and there was nothing in there but white walls and some champagne—but the men believed it was full of precious objects, would the artwork still be relevant?’

‘Yes,’ I said. The idea is to drive men as crazy as possible.

Kaechele goes on to explain her reasoning, including her belief that the best way to annoy men, to make them feel supremely excluded would be to "display the most important artworks in the world—the very best."

Among the "'invaluable' objects," all accompanied by outrageous stories about the objects:

There are New Guinean spears (brand new but presented as antiques collected by my grandfather on Pacific expeditions with Michael Rockefeller—you know, when he was ‘eaten by cannibals’), ‘precious’ pieces of jewellery (quite obviously new and in some cases plastic, purportedly belonging to my great-grandmother), and a ‘mink rug’ made by Princess Mary’s royal furrier (in fact a low-grade polyester).

And the Picassos? They just had to be Picassos. Kaechele is an admirer of the man - "the pinnacle of modern art" - but what better person to hold in the close, closed quarters of the Ladies Lounge than a pinnacle of artword misogyny. 

Anyway, given her lack of the right kind of Picassos on hand, and the high insurance costs that would be accrued if she could get one, she decided what the hell. She produced the artworks - renderings of actual Picassos - and her manicurist's niece shellacked them. 

This mad and magical saga has changed me. I’m awed by the transformative power of art. It has deepened my connection to women and made a feminist of me. My love for women burns brighter. I started as a conceptual artist and ended up an activist. And it’s made me reflect more profoundly on gender imbalance. I always hated hardcore feminism, but voila! Everything I hate I become.

Gotta love an epiphany! 

Interestingly, the early reviews of the exhibit accepted without question that the Picassos were original, and that the other items on display were real as well, despite the cock-and-bull stories associated with them. But wouldn't we all accept what we were told was on display in a museum? Would I notice that the mink rug was made out of polyester? If you couldn't touch it, how would you know? 

On the other hand, MONA isn't exactly MOMA or the Met. It's a small museum, the brainchild of Kaechele's husband David Walsh, a "temple to secularism, rationalism, and talking crap about stuff you really don't know very much about." It's meant to be a play space, surreal, asburd, Dada-esque. 

Love it!

If I'm ever in Tasmania, MONA's on my must-see list.

And Kirsha Kaechele? Definitely goddess material! Serves Picasso right!

Bring on the snake plant!

My mother had a mighty green thumb. In our family room, there was an East-facing, mullioned, bay window. There were small house plants in each of the mullions, and three-level staging beneath the window where she had her larger plants. 

She even rigged up a hose from the kitchen sink so that she didn't have to go back and forth, a trip that entailed going up and down a half-flight of steps, on repeat trips with the watering can. 

After her retirement, she spent multi-week time away visiting a friend in Florida and family in Arizona. When she was away for extended periods, she had a friend look in on her plants and water them for her.

What plants did my mother have? Sansevieria. Pothos. Philodendron. Spider plants. Orchids. Dieffenbachia. Pink polka dot plant. Cactus. Lots and lots of plants. Lots of them. And a Christmas cactus that lived for-almost-ever. (My sister Kath inherited it and kept it going for another decade or so.)

There may have been a couple of plants in the living room. And as kids, my sister and I each had a small cactus on the knick-knack shelves in our bedroom. But the prime plant location was the family room. (The family room was an extension to the main house - a typical 50's ranch style house - that was added a couple of years after we moved there from my grandmother's triple decker, which was on the next block. The extension had begun life as a large, screened-in porch, but when my sister Trish arrived on the scene, it was winterized. Decades after the porch was winterized and turned into a family room, a combo of TV-watching spot, hang out space, and dining room, everyone still called in The Porch.)

My mother also had flowers in the yard, but she was at her plant-lady peak with houseplants.

As a plant lady, I am not my mother's daughter. I'm not an immediate plant-killer, but I don't have great luck or a deft hand, either.`

I do have a peace lily, inherited from my sister Kath when she started spending winters in Arizona that always seems to be near death but manages to survive. There were originally three peace lilies. One was adopted by a friend of my niece Molly. (I'll have to ask M if Julia still has it.) The third sister peace lily is long gone from natural causes, if overwatering can be considered a natural cause. And I am always nervous that the survivor is going to kick the bucket, and I will have to inform my sister (real sister, not plant sister) of its demise.

On a more positive note, I generally have good luck with pointsettias. They often stay with me from Christmas well into spring.

Then there's this year's grocery-store St. Patrick's Day shamrock, which is still kicking it. 

I also do pussy willows, Japanese lanterns, hydrangeas, and other dried flowers/plants. (I wish that bittersweet weren't outlawed as an invader. The fake version I found online just doesn't cut it.) Occasionally I get flowers at Trader Joe's. 

I do want to try my hand with a sansevieria, which I think would look fab in my fireplace. 

Mostly, though, even though I do have a greenhouse kitchen, and much as I'd like to be more of a plant lady, I just don't have the knack

 my mother did. 

Just as well.

Houseplants are calming, everyone knows that. But as some people also come to learn — perhaps after frantically scouring their entire collection, one by one, through a magnifying lens, certain they saw a pest — plants can do a number on your psyche. 

Weslie Pierre technically the founder of Wesleaf Designs and Decor, but actually a plant therapist, or a therapist for people with plants, put it plainly: Plants can make people get emotional, she said, drawing out her words. “Super … duper … emotional.” (Source: Boston Globe)

Plants fill emotional needs. I get that. But plants also cause anxiety? I. Just. Knew. It.

Indoor plant sales have been booming (blooming?) since the pandemic. That's when people hunkered down and, in the absence of someone to care for, settled for something to care for. 

Come to think of it, this may be what happened with my mother. After my father died, her plant life started to take off, and by the time the last kid was out of the house, the dog was gone, she was all in on plants. 

When it comes to plants, I'm not lookin' for love. Which may be why I'm attracted to sansevieria, a.k.a., a snake plant. 

“The snake plant thrives on neglect,” [Pierre] said. “It wants to be left alone. Don’t pray for it. Don’t come to it as a woman. It does not care.”

"Come at is as a woman"? Yikes! I can't imagine myself coming at a pet as a woman, let alone a plant. ("Hey, big guy. What're you doing later? ")

But now that I know that I probably can't kill it, bring on the snake plant.

Labor Day, 2024

 Oh, we'll still have some hot days - scorchers, even. 

And it's still a bit lightish in the evenings. 

But there's no doubt about it, summer's pretty much over. And even if it's been decades upon decades since you went back to school with your new shoes and pencil box, and even though these days a lot of schools start up before Labor Day, there's something about this holiday that makes you think of that something's ending and something's beginning. (Duh statement, if ever.)

The big thing I'll miss is the daylight in the evening. The big thing I'm looking forward to is that eventual die out of the scorchers. That and the availability of early Macs. (McIntoshes are much my favorite apple.)

But it's Labor Day, so I need to give a shout out to the men and women who built this country by working hard. In a world where the most desired professions include influencer and private equity investor, let's hear it for those who actually make things in factories or in their craft rooms, so they can sell it on Etsy. Let's hear it for

those who swing a hammer, snake out plugged drains, paint the walls and ceilings. Let's hear it for those who save lives, fight fires, and arrest bad guys (the good guys among them, anyway). Let's hear if for those changing the diapers of the bedridden. Those who swab the floors and clean the toilets. Let's hear it for those who wait tables and tend bars, who run the checkout counters and stock the shelves, who deliver all those goods to our front doors. Let's hear it for the teachers whose lives get more difficult by the moment. Let's hear it for those who work in social services - hard work taking care of those on the fringes of society - and do so with compassion, and for short money. (I see them all the time at St. Francis House, the shelter where I volunteer.)

Let's hear it for all the blue collar, pink collar, and white collar workers whose jobs may be in jeopardy if we let AI take all the good jobs without figuring out what people are going to do when some big buck, big brain, small heart a-hole decides that they can get all the jobs done with robots and ChatGPT. 

Hate to end on a downish note, so let's leave it with Happy Labor Day!