Have yourself a merry little Christmas Tree

I love putting up my Christmas tree. 

Actually, I love having the kid who delivers it on a bicycle put it in the stand for me. What I actually like personally is decorating it.

I'll put on Bing Crosby, Dolly Parton, Judy Collins, Nat King Cole, Linda Ronstadt, and whatever else in my extensive collection of Christmas CD's (old school!) strikes my fancy, and don my tree with the gay (in the old school, "Deck the Halls" sense of the word gay) apparel I've accumulated over the years.

Here's this year's edition, which will enjoyed by a gathering of family this evening. 

Actually, the observant among you will recognize that this is NOT this year's edition of my Christmas tree. It's a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, which mine, as you can see, is most decidedly not.

This is mine.

It arrived, delivered via bicycle, with a bit of snow on the branches. The snow wasn't from Boston. It was from Maine, where the tree had been cut the day before and trucked down to Boston in the morning. So, fresh. Very fresh.  

As my trees always are, it ain't perfect. But it's pretty close. Other than for the uneven placements of the ornaments, with spots that are overcrowded and others that are underserved.

Not to say that my tree is any better than Charlie Brown's (even though, let's face it, Charlie's is a little sad). It's just that I like mine. And all those glorious ornaments wouldn't fit on CB's sparse little fir. They all don't even fit on mine. 

But enough of them do to make it a merry little Christmas tree.

And with that, Pink Slip wishes a very Merry Christmas to those who observe in a religious and/or secular sense.

In keeping with Pink Slip tradition, we're taking the week off and will return in the new year.

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Image Source for Charlie Brown Christmas Tree: Ross Tree

It's not too late to shop the N-M Christmas catalog

The Neiman Marcus Christmas Book has always been pretty appalling, what with all those unaffordable, unattainable, totally fanciful items But especially now, when the rich are getting (a lot) richer and the poor are getting (a lot). And when Elon Musk manages to negotiate a trillion dollar pay package for himself while the rest of us press our noses up against the N-M Christmas Book, just like the Little Match Girl freezing to death while peering in the window at a rich family's making merry and bright. 

The Christmas Book has always been crazy. 

The catalog offered outrageous items like his and hers camels in 1967, robots in 1986, hot air balloons in 1963 and even 2,000-year-old Egyptian mummy cases (purchased by a California museum). Some gifts were outrageous and never sold, including a 1970 replica of Noah's Ark, complete with animals ($588,247) and a $20 million personal submarine in 2000. (Source: Forbes)

That Ark would go for about $5M in today's dollars. No big deal if you're Elon shopping for one of his cadre of kiddos, although I guess it depends on how many animal pairs it came with. 

Anyway, in terms of crazy, the 2025 edition of the Christmas Book does not disappoint. 

At $47K, a Christian Louboutin saddle seems relatively affordable. 

Signature features include glossy red leather stirrups that mirror Louboutin’s soles, and a seat and fenders re-crafted with Italian leathers from the atelier’s archives and covered with more than 17,000 sapphire-toned strass crystals. Along the cantle is a row of 155 polished spikes borrowed from his popular heels and handbags.

Since I had to away to the dictionary to look up the word cantle - it's something of a saddle's backrest - I'm def not the audience for this item, even if I had $47K to blow on it. But I do wonder how comfy it would be to lean back into 155 polished spikes.

I love the idea of a pet sculpture. But for $64K, I'd be thinking marble, not a life-sized 3D sculpture "made entirely of crayons." At least they use Crayolas since, as everyone is quite aware, if it ain't a Crayola, it just ain't a crayon.

Heading up the price chain, there's a bespoke trunk (from Artemest and Kiton) for $180K. Seems high to me, but it does include a trip to Naples. 

For a tiny bit more - $185K - you get a trip to Paris that comes along with "a custom-engraved Mood Flatware Egg, an egg-shaped object that opens to reveal a six-person [Christofle] silver table setting." This item naturally raises the questions of 1) where'm I going to put it; 2) who's going to polish it. On polishing alone, thanks but no thanks. 

EXP Journeys specializes "in bespoke luxury expeditions." The one on offer retails for (gulp!) $490K for a 11 day trek for four from Yellowstone, through Jackson Hole, and on to Utah's Amangiri Resort, where the "pilgrimage culminates." Pilgrimage? What pilgrimage? I don't see no stinkin' pilgrimage. Just a bunch of rich folks who can squander over $100K a piece to beekeep and dine out under the stars. 

For that kind of money, you'd think they'd throw in an Annie Leibovitz photo shoot. But no. If you want Annie to snap you, it'll cost $500K. "Her iconic portraits of John Lennon, Yoko, Queen Elizabeth II and more are legendary." So why not you be legendary you. The price does include "100 autographed copies of her new book." One hundred? What would you do with 100 copies? I'd run out of opening the door and chucking them into Little Free Libraries pretty darned quick. 

Annie's the top of the heap, and for the next item, the fare plummets to $1115K for a voyage for four around the Mediterranean on the Four Seasons I. This is the inaugural voyage - can we not say maiden voyage any more? - on a "floating masterpiece" designed by Prosper Assouline. Whoever he is. (Guess if I were in the market for "luxury books" - which is where he made his bones - I'd know.)

The final item in this year's N-M Christmas Book, fanstasy gift section, is a "75% scale, fully electric reincarnation of the iconic Bugatti Baby," which Ettore Bugatti created as a half-scale verion of his Type 35 race car. I actually can't tell from the description whether it's a 75% scale version of the half-sized Bugatti Baby, or a 75% version of the original race car. 

But I did go to the google and found that it's a replica of the race car. It's billed as being "for the inner child in all us," not for the outer child of the type Elon Musk is producing in droves. But inner children should be warned before they take to the open road. The top speed is 40 mph.

Anyway, if you start shopping now, I bet there's plenty of inventory available for any of these luxury gifts. No need to be running out to CVS for a Russell Stover assortment now, is there?

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Image Source: Neiman Marcus

Talk about return to sender

'Tis the season when even people who never get packages get packages. USPS. Amazon. UPS. FedEx. (Especially Amazon.) 

They're stopping by my six-unit condo building pretty much non-stop these days, and our little foyer is jam-packed with packages. Happy Stocking-stuffed Holidays, y'all.

But for a Kentucky woman, the package she was expecting wasn't the fleece she ordered for her son-in-law, Labubus for the grandkiddos, that lemon verbena handcream for herself. 

No, she was recently waiting for a courier to swiftly complete their appointed rounds by dropping off some time-sensitive medication and medical supplies. The package arrived... 

When she opened it, though, she found two human arms and four human fingers on ice. (Source: NY Times)

Oh. Oh no.

The woman wisely called 911, and emergency responders passed her call on to County Coroner Scott Daniel, who headed on over to pick up the spare parts. 

He said he took the limbs and digits to the local morgue, where a courier retrieved them on Thursday morning. Mr. Daniel declined to disclose the name of the courier company that made the delivery or identify the homeowner who received the package...

The package containing the body parts originated in Nashville, and was supposed to be delivered to a school or hospital in that city for surgical training, Mr. Daniel said.

The body parts inside it came from four different bodies, he said.

“I didn’t ask,” he said in response to a question about the source of the body parts. “I mean, I’d assume, obviously, I think they came from cadavers that had been donated.”

The woman who had been awaiting her meds got the right package the next day. Phew! But talk about wanting to return something to sender.

Kinda wished there'd been a porch pirate who'd retrieved the package instead. They would have been expecting to find something goody-good-good in there: the SIL fleece, the grandbaby Labubu, the sweet-smelling lemon-verbena hand cream. Better yet, something better. An iPhone. Diamond earrings. Gift cards.

What a wonderous sight it would have been to behold the look on the face of the porch pirate when they started tearing through their day's accumulation of loot.

Ah, what have we here???

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Source of Image: Inconspicuous Consumption

The Hills Are Alive, with the sound of nuns escaping

Throughout my Catholic childhood, we were regularly encouraged by the nuns and priests to pray for a vocation (where vocation, of course, meant becoming a nun or a priest). When I was in high school, my friends and I put a spin on it and joked about praying that we not have a vocation. 

For my friends and I, the strategy apparently worked, and no one ended up going in the convent. 

At one point, I was quasi wooed in. Along with girls from throughout our order's province, I was invited my senior year to attend a gathering of student council officers. It was a conference, with a couple of overnights thrown in, at the motherhouse. There we were housed in a rather drab and dreary dorm setting to discuss weighty Catholic school student council issues, like how to punish those who smoked in uniform. We were adjacent to the area where the postulants - these were the girls fresh out of high school who were in formation to decide whether to become professed sisters - and, while we weren't exactly encouraged to mingle with them, we were encouraged to watch them. Look! They're normal girls! They play basketball! They eat ice cream! They sing songs from Sound of Music and the more wholesome numbers from West Side Story, which was pretty much "Maria." They're just like you!

One of my closest friends was also in attendance, and neither of us was all that charmed by our peek at nunnish life. And we knew a failed recruitment effort when we saw one.

That same year I was more personally, albeit lightly, targeted, as often when I was in earshot of a nun at our school, she would smile and say "it's the ones you least expect." 

I can't remember her name, but she was new to my school that year and obviously hadn't heard that one of her colleagues had been telling her classes that I was "preaching dangerous heresy" because in religion class I questioned why taking the birth control pill was the mortal sin equivalent of murder. (One of my friends always said they lost a generation when, morally and mortally-sinnishly speaking, they equated French kissing with mass murder.) According to Sister CP, who was certifiable, I was also a known communist because I'd suggested that the senior class project be raising money to help fund a school in Nicaragua. (This never happened. Our big fundraising project was buying a sign for the school's main gate.)

I suppose this nun thought I'd be a good nun because I was a good student and personable. Oh, and I wasn't boy crazy. (I.e., I didn't have a boy friend.) 

Anyway, the girls in my class who did enter the convent were not in the "least expected" category. Both were in the Sodality, a religious organization that the more pious girls joined. Sodality was one of the few clubs at my school that I didn't participate in.

One of these girls lasted about a year. She married, had a family, and became an artist. (Actually, she always was an artist, and a very talented one.) The other girl - a sweet and gentle soul if ever - is still "in." We were never particularly friendly, but we briefly reconnected a few years ago and had lunch a couple times. After teaching for a while, she has devoted her life to social justice, working with refugees, battered women, poor kids, and any other group in need that came her way. Sweet and gentle she may have been, but plenty tough. 

Anyway, after so many years in Catholic school, I have always looked on nuns with some degree of fascination and interest. 

I find their "career choice" to be quite weird. Who would chose this life? But then, of course, I had successfully prayed away any putative vocation - perhaps the last thing I actually prayed for before I realized that, while I may have been baptized a Catholic, I was pretty much born an atheist.

So, nuns...

In any case, the latest nunny-bunny object of my fascination and interest is the story about the trio of ancient nuns Sisters Rita (82), Regina (86), and Bernadette (88) in Salzburg, Austria, who recently made the headlines. 

People are calling us the rebellious sisters!" Rita says with a giggle and a glint in her eye.

The three Augustinian sisters — who use only their religious names — recently ran away from a nursing home and, with the help of a local locksmith, broke back into the convent that used to be their home. Rita jokes that they are octogenarian squatters.

Giggles aside, Rita says they were taken to a nursing home against their will two years ago when church authorities shuttered the cloisters as nun numbers diminished. "When the opportunity arose to return to our beloved convent, we didn't wait for his permission" (Source: NPR)

Instead of waiting to (holy) see the priest who was their overlord, the nuns enlisted parishioners who hired a UHaul and move them back into the place they'd called home for decades. Since their move back home, the trio has been supported by a growing cadre of friends, including former students. 

Needless to say, the prelate, Markus Grasl - who stuck them in the nursing home when the convent's numbers dwindled to just the three and it was no longer viable to keep them there - is not happy with the nuns' great escape. Nor with their media-savvy decision to go public. Christina Wirtenberger, a former student, is an adviser and key supporter of "'operation get thee to a nunnery.'"

"We invited the press along to prevent the provost [Grasl] from turfing the sisters out of the convent," Wirtenberger says. "I was told that he would not be so bold in front of the press."

With the nuns growing public exposure and support - and their 70,000 Insta followers - the hierarchy felt they had to fight back. So Grasl "brought in a PR firm specializing in damage control."

Spokesman (PR flak) Harald Schiffl has been pecksniffing the pushback. The nuns were consulted before the move. The move was in their best interest. These nuns on the run are breaking their vows. And in fine pecksniff fettle:

Schiffl says the nuns' social media presence is unbecoming of their order and that their superiors take a dim view of it.

"Without all the media interest, a viable and sustainable solution would have been found long ago, causing far less damage to the church," Schiffl asserts.

Make that Shiffl pecks and sniffs.  

Sister Bernadette - remember that she's 88 - counters that their use of social media is not god-awful. It's god-given:  

"So heaven uses tech to spread the word? God arranged this, not us!"

Then there's this from a priest supporter:

"The church authorities fear the media like the devil fears holy water because they'd rather keep hidden what is going on behind closed doors," [Father Wolfgang] Rothe says.

And of course, what would a story about nuns in Salzburg be without a mention of the Von Trapp family.

As it turns out, Maria's granddaughter Elisabeth, who is singer - runs in the family, I guess - became a friend of Sister Bernadette a while back, and has sung in the convent:

"I believe Sister Bernadette has a message," von Trapp says. "It has a lot to do with how she has taken care of the community and who is now surrounding her."

There's no denying that as you age, you do tend to need more care, and a nursing home may in fact be a reasonable setting for aging nuns from a shrinking-into-oblivion community, from both a health and financial standpoint.  

But the outside-the-convent community VonTrapp mentioned is rising to the occasion. 

Among them is Karin Seidl, another former convent student. She says the sisters have devoted their lives to the community and now it's time to give back.

"This is their home! And although we've organized for 24-hour care starting next week, I live just three minutes away so I'm also on hand," Seidl says. The church is surely about practicing 'love thy neighbor,' not just preaching it."

She says the sisters are as devout as they are defiant and that they deserve agency and dignity in old age.

As do we all. 

Can't help but rooting for them, no?

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Image Source: MSNBC

And a shoutout to my brother Tom who sent me this article.

Happy 67 to you. (Or is it 23 skidoo?)

I'm so out of it, until I saw that Dictionary.com chose 67 as its Word of the Year for 2025, I'd never even heard it. Variously written as 6 7, 6-7, or six-seven, but always pronounced six-seven and never, ever, ever in a million years sixty-seven - it's a popular slang word among the kiddos, school- agers who use it for just everything and anything because - get this, old folks - it doesn't really have any meaning you can put your finger on. As Dictionary.com has it:

What does 67 mean? Well…it’s complicated. Some say it means “so-so,” or “maybe this, maybe that,” especially when paired with its signature hand gesture where both palms face up and move alternately up and down. Some youngsters, sensing an opportunity to reliably frustrate their elders, will use it to stand in for a reply to just about any question. (“Hello, darling child, how was school today?” “67!”) A perfectly timed 67 signals that you’re part of an in-group, and if you’re already using its emerging spinoffs six-sendy and 41, you might be even cooler. (Source: Dictionary.com)

I don't get it. But of course, as an old, I'm not supposed to. And you don't have to be an old-old to be excluded. I asked my 28 year-old niece what it meant, and she doesn't get it either. She asked her 19 year-old brother (her half-brother, and thus no relation to me - so not my nephew - but a good kid, and I'd be delighted if he were my nephew), and he told her that she was too old to get it. 

Although I'm old-old, I sure don't want to miss out on the cool factor, so I'll be getting sendy with 41. (Pronounced, as nature and God intended, forty-one and not four-one.)

I'm all for kids having their own special language. Me being me, I didn't adopt all the slang of my generation. For one thing, I don't believe I ever used the words groovy or far out other than sarcastically, or, in the case of the word groovy, when singing along to "The 59th Street Bridge Song." But noodge, bummer, bummed out, fink, grungy, munchies, catch some rays. All were part of my vocabulary. And they were certainly not part of the vocabularies of my parents. Other than the word bummer, which my mother used. But she used it in the German sense in that a person who was NG - one of my father's favorite expressions: No Good - was a bummer. In Liz speak, a thing or an event was not a bummer, while in her kids' speak, a bummer was never a person. Got it? Cool!

And I'm not surprised that Gen Alpha, the cohort following close on the heels of Gen Z, would adopt an expression that is meaningless, nihilistic. Just look at the shit-show they're inheriting. (Poor kids. To which I'm sure they'd reply - in txt, in TikTok - 67 or maybe 41.)

There were a bunch of words on the Dictionary.com shortlist.

One was agentic. I may have come across it, as its an AI word that "describe(s) technologies that can perform tasks autonomously and make independent decisions," and I've read quite a bit about AI. I've never used it, but likely will now. Or at least a lot more likely than I'd be to use 67.

Aura farming is all a part of the narcissistic craving for building yo' brand. Gag me with a spoon, I might have said here, if I'd ever been a bulimic Valley Girl. 

Broligarchy is a word I love, but a concept I heartily dislike. Bezos. Musk. Zuck. Blech. As we used to say in the restaurant biz, I'd be just as happy to 86 them.

Clanker is another word I love. 

It's commonly used to deride AI systems, chatbots, and other nonhuman technologies, and its rise mirrors growing unease over the role of AI in society.

What's not to love? Take that, you broligarchs! 

The 🧨dyanmite emoji is no more a word than 67 is. It can thank the Taylor Swift-Travis Kelce romance, the TNT of all TNT's, for bringing this one into use for referring to a celeb couple in love. 

I'd never hear of the Gen Z stare, "a blank or expressionless look often attributed to members of Generation Z, particularly in workplace or retail settings," but I have seen it in action. Or inaction. As with the 67 nonsense, I can't exactly blame the young ones. 

Kiss cam gave us a bit of excitement, and definitely a cultural moment, last summer when a middle-aged couple - each married to someone else - was caught canoodling at a Coldplay concert. The viral moment ended up with loss of jobs and marriages. Sigh. Remember kids, there is no such thing as a private moment. 

Overtourism "refers to the overwhelming influx of visitors to popular destinations, leading to environmental strain, cultural disruption, and local frustration." Having been to Venice, I'm guilty of having contributed to it. Guess I'll have to knock Machu Pichu off my bucket list. Or would have to, if I'd ever intended to go there.

Tariff is an oldie but not so goodie. Too bad that the current occupant of the cheesily gilded Oval Office doesn't understand what a tariff is or does. 

Tradwife rounds out the shortlist. Remember "Purple Cow," a humorous bit of verse of yore? Let me update it for you:

I never saw a tradwife, I never hope to see one.

But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one!

Let's see what Merriam-Webster has to say when they come out with their Word of the Year.  

With that, I'll 23 skidoo. 

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Source for this groovy image: Alamy

Johnny we hardly knew ya!

There's a pub not far from where I live called the 21st Amendment, afer the amendment that provided for the repeal of prohibition. It's on Bowdoin Street, just across the way from a side entrance to the Masschusetts State House, and I haven't been there in years. Back in the day when I dropped in once in a while, it was called the Golden Dome, named after the golden dome that crowns (if that's the right word, given No Kings) our lovely, Bullfinch-designed state house. 

The Dome was a nothing fancy pub, but it was a fun and convivial place. 

When I was an occasional patron, the Dome was frequented by state workers and state and local pols. Not that I'd recognized most state pols, but sometimes I'd spot a familiar face in there. One time, I saw Ray Flynn. Ray had been a state rep, but at the point I saw him there, he was a member of the Boston City Counil, and was running for mayor. Ray was in his cups, and walking from table to table schmoozing voters up. When he got to us, my BF (later husband) said to Ray that I had told him that Ray was an honest pol. Ray's answer: "I am honest. I just drink too much." 

Ah, Ray. 

Anyway, he went on to become the mayor, and held that office until Bill Clinton appointed him Ambassador to the Holy See (Vatican). 

The big kahuna pol who had supposedly frequented the Golden Dome was JFK, whose Boston apartment was a couple of doors down on Bowdoin Street. Or so it was rumored.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I spotted this sign on the sidewalk on the corner of Bowdoin and Beacon, inviting passers-by to stop in for a libation at JFK's local tavern.

This raised a couple of questions in my mind.

First off, just how much time did Congressman (and later Senator) John Fitzgerald Kennedy spend in Boston? His parents were native Bostonians - his maternal grandfather had been the mayor - but JFK was born in Brookline, just oustide of Boston. The family moved to NY when he was still a child. He went to prep school in Connecticut. And Harvard is in Cambridge. The Kennedy family spent their summers in Hyannis, so Massachusetts, but not exactly Boston. 

JFK was famously in the South Pacific during WWII. 

JFK was someting of a war hero, and in the absence of his golden boy older brother, who was killed during the war, he was designated by the family to get on the path to the presidency. First step: Congress.

In order to run for Congress, JFK had to establish a residency here. Thus he rented a pied a terre on Beacon Hill. 

Once elected to the House, and later the Senate, his center of gravity was Washington, DC. Not Boston. 

So did he ever really spend any more time than necessary here?

Oh, I don't doubt he popped in occasionally to his local for a pop, especially as a couple of his inner circle were boyos, not fellow Harvardites. And his grandfather had been a tavern owner. (As was mine, btw.) But was it truly his watering hole?

Rather than hanging out at an Irish-y local pub, I could see young JFK - rich, handsome, well-educated, well-traveled, sophisticated - at the Ritz or at Locke-Ober. Not at whatever the Golden Dome 21st Amendment was called back in the way back. 

But, hey, JFK may have been anticipating the advice Robert Frost gave him on the occasion of his inauguration: Be more Irish than Harvard. Which translates into local pub, not Locke-Ober.

Still, there's a question of whether that sign is false advertising or creative marketing. Little of both, I suspect. And just plain fun.

But I'm also wondering just how much the JFK name still resonates with young folks - the prime constituency for the 21st Amendment - or with tourists, even. He has, after all, been dead for a good long time. It reminds me of the "George Washington slept here" signs of my youth - there was actually one on a house near where I grew up that had been a tavern  - that were sort of interesting, but didn't really drawn you in. More of a good to know, shrug sort of thing. 

Or are people (young folks, tourists) still drawn to JFK. 

I suppose tourists may be. After all, Cheers, which takes place in Boston, has been off the air for 30+ years, and there's still a line out front most of the time. And I guess JFK would and should be more of a draw than Sam, Norm, or Carla. 

Anyway, when I spotted the sign there, I was curious. And I did find it amusing. A few weeks after I first saw it, the sign was down. 

Maybe it didn't work. Maybe it just kept blowing down.

Did JFK really hang out at the 21st Amendment? 

I don't really see it, but Johnny we hardly knew ya!

The good news is that the LPGA is attracting more fans...

The good news for fans of women's sports is that players and teams are growing in popularity. And it's not just women and little girls who are following female athletes. An AP poll last spring showed that about half of the fans of women sports are men. (It also showed that about 30 percent of US adults follow women's sports to some extent. While this is about half the number who pay attention to men's sports, it still demonstratess remarkable growth in interest.)

I grew up an avid follower of baseball, and a regular follower of hockey, football, and basketball. Boston teams. All male. 

There were some women athletes: Tenley Albright and Peggy Fleming skated. Althea Gibson and Billie Jean King played tennis. Pat Bradley was a Massachusetts "girl" about my age who became an LPGA star.

There were no women's professional teams that I was aware of. 

Title IX didn't exist, and there were far fewer opportunities for girls to participate in sports. (I was on the Latin team, however.)

All this may explain why I only sporadically pay any attention to women's team sports. And pay about the same degree of attention to women's individual sports. I don't avidly follow most men's individual sports, either.

Anyway, the LPGA has become a pretty big deal over the last decade or so, and now a number of their star players - or their names, anyway - have been caught up in catfishing incidents in which imposters impersonating them on social media con fans out of big bucks. 

Fans have followed legit, verified accounts of female golfers, and some that looked legit enough, and have been approached by the "seemingly" legit accounts with preposterous messages.

Take Rodney, a 62 year old, self-acclaimed major LPGA fan from Indiana. Rodney isn't real. The Athletic (NY Times sports wing) invented him and gave him an Insta account to test whether there indeed is an "ever-increasing social media scam pervading the LPGA."

Within 20 minutes of setting up "his" account, poor, dear, LPGA-enamored Rodney - who hadn't yet posted a thing - 

...received a message from what at first glance appeared to be the world’s No. 2-ranked female golfer, Nelly Korda.

“Hi, handsomeface, i know this is like a dream to you. Thank you for being a fan,” read a direct message from @nellykordaofficialfanspage2. (Source: NY Times)

Needless to say, the real Nelly Korda wasn't out there calling Rodney "handsomeface." Nor did she send him that video he received in which she called Rodney by name. (This was via an altered AI video.) Fortunately there's no real Rodney to get suckered into believing that an attractive, rich, fit, blonde golf star thought he was handsome.

Other marks were not so fortunate. What happened to them was all too real. 

A Pennsylvania guy - like the fictional Rodney, in his 60s - headed to a tournament, thinking he was going to meet golfer Rose Zhang. He was expecting a VIP package from Zhang, and a hotel room for him that had been booked by her. 

He said they had been communicating on social media for over a year, during which he had sent her around $70,000. Zhang’s agent confronted the man, breaking the news that he was not communicating with Zhang.

One fellow, again a 60-something, was duped out of $50K by someone pretending to be In Gee Chun, a golfer from Sout Korea. One Asian guy showed up at a tourney in the US "believing he was married to one of the players." (Can you get married over social media???) A 72-year-old man from South Carolina didn't think he was married, but did get tricked into believing that he and Nelly Korda were engaged. And tricked out of this retirement fund. As he was on the verge of selling his house, his children finally were able to convince him he'd been scammed. 

The gist of the con goes like this: Social media user is a fan of a specific golfer; scam account impersonating that athlete reaches out and quickly moves the conversation to another platform like Telegram or WhatsApp to evade social media moderation tools; scammer offers a desirable object or experience — a private dinner, VIP access to a tournament, an investment opportunity — for a fee; untraceable payments are made via cryptocurrency or gift cards. Then, once the spigot of cash is turned off, the scammer disappears.

Women's golf is by no means the only group of celebs swept up in this con, but it's apparently one of the fastest growing targeted group. Golfers and even golf influencers (whoever/whatever they are) have taken to posting warnings on their social media sites. Caveat instagrammer! And caveat golfers, while we're at it. Some of those who've been scammed put the blame on the golfers and even show up at tournaments to confront them. One golfer had to take out a restraining order against one scammed fan. Others have had to rev up their security and avoid some functions that in the past they would have happily participated in. Scary, all that. 

The FBI is apparently on the LPGA case, but they're understandably busy flying FBI Director Kash Patel around the country on a private jet to attend his girlfriend's country music concerts, and trying to drum up dirt on Jim Comey. Plus most of the LPGA scammers are international.

It's terrible that scammers are preying on lonely, often elderly people, who are so desperate for connection that they get irrationally sucked in. Talk about looking for love in all the wrong places.

The good news that LPGA golfers, and other women athletes, are attracting more fans. Too bad they're also attracting a bunch of scammers. 

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Image Source: BBC Earth

Aye aye, admiral. (Ay-ay-ay-ay!)

Admiral Robert Burke was all set for a nice little old retirement for himself. Alas, Burke - once the second-in-command of the US Navy - got greedy. In September, he was sentenced to six years in prison (prosecutors had asked for a ten year sentence) - and had fines levied on him - for his spring conviction on corruption charges. His corruption? He awarded a hefty Naval contract in exchange for a plush job once he retired.

The company Burke cosied up to, Next Jump, is a leadership training company that "for 20+ years...has been on a mission to democratize elite performance coaching – helping leaders and teams make better decisions, day in and day out." Next Jump's leaders - Burke's co-defendants - Meghan Messenger and Charlie Kim were tried separately in a trial that ended up ending in a hung jury mistrial. (Not clear whether they'll retried.)

Kim and Messenger agreed to pay Burke a $500,000 salary with stock options projected to be worth millions of dollars, according to prosecutors. In exchange, they said, Burke ordered his staff to give a contract to Next Jump and promoted the company’s product to other senior Navy commanders. (Source: APNews)

A few years earlier, Next Jump had been awarded a multimillion-dollar contract for a workforce training program. The pilot failed and the Navy called it quits with Next Jump. Fast forward a bit, and Burke had a tete-a-tete with Kim and Messenger to talk about another contract. Next Jump's proposal was that they'd deliver a program pretty much the same as the failed one. Nonetheless, Burke forced his underlings to give them the contract. Hmmmm.

“The truth is, Burke knew this training was a waste of time and money, and not suitable for his command, let alone the entire Navy,” prosecutors wrote.

Burke's next jump was retiring and accepting a job offer with Next Jump.

Burke’s attorneys said a military commander with his experience could have landed a better-paying job in the private sector.

“He was not motivated by greed, but by a belief in the mission and product of the company,” they wrote

I have no doubt in my mind that Burke, who's in his early sixties, could have found any number of high-paying positions, or raked in the dough as a consultant and/or lobbiest. Companies LOVE hiring ex-military. (Ask me about working with a retired admiral at one of the goofier tech companies I served my time with.) Not that Burke couldn't have had a decently comfy retirement on his Navy pension - which as far as I can figure, would have been about $200K, plus all sorts of bennies like PX shopping and healthcare; all of which he stands to lose - but, hey, why not grab for the brass ring in the private sector.

But "belief in the mission"? Especiallly after his first experience with Next Jump was mission non-accomplished? I call BS.

Especially given that his attorneyes, when asking the judge not to send Burke to the brig, argued that:

“This is not a case of a career criminal...It is the case of a single, tragic, and aberrant chapter at the very end of a life defined by honor, courage, and commitment.”

So which was it? Belief in the mission or an aberrant chapter? 

Needless to say, Burke is appealing his sentence. 

Interestingly, Burke's legal team included Tim Parlatore, former personal attorney to Donald J. Trump. He's an advisor to and attorney for one Pete Hegseth of the US Department of Defense War. And a former partner in a law firm that defended John Gotti. 

I realize that everyone deserves a defense, but did Parlatore ever defend anyone decent????

Anyway, Parlatore's a slick one, and he may well get Burke off on appeal.

But what a black eye for Burke and the Navy. You'd think that such a high-ranking admiral wouldn't be as dumb as Cap'n Crunch. Ay-ay-ay-ay.

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Image Source: Florida Eye

The FIFA Piece of Crap Prize

I don't know much of anything (i.e., nothing) about Maria Corina Machado, other than that she's the leader of Venezuela's democracy movement. And that she beat out Dear Leader for the Nobel Prize. 

What a travesty. 

After all, Dear Leader helped bring about the ceasefire in Gaza that lasted a day or two before Israel got right back into flattening Gaza with weaponry provided by the US. 

And he did broker some sort of ceasefire of the 12-day war between Iran and Israel, the included a bombing foray into Iran by the US. Can you be the president of peace when you've bombed a country? Not quite as if Harry Truman had gotten the Nobel Peace Prize after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but still...

Pakistan went full suckup grateful nation and nominated Dear Leader for the Peace Prize after the US played a mediator role in ending a brief war between Pakistan and India. But India said he had nothing to do with it. Gee, why would Pakistan lie  just to get into Trump's good graces?

And there were all those other wars, or non-wars, or skirmishes that Dear Leader laid claim to ending, and which garnered him a couple more nominations.  

I'll give Trump some minor credit for using his diplomatic and economy-threatening skills to move things along in a number of these situations.

But then he goes and starts obliterating boats (and the humans in the boats) that may or may not have been involved in drug trafficking, but which is kinda/sorta against international law. 

And he renamed the US Department of Defense to the Department of War.

Plus he's been threatening war with Nigeria. (Is it to save Nigerian Christians, or grab the country's oil?)

Not to mention he's been sending in troops to cities and states where they a) aren't wanted and b) aren't needed, in Trump's peacekeeping hopes that these deployments will turn into violent fiascos so he can declare an insurrection and start killing folks in blue cities. (I'm already practicing my 'duck and cover.') 

Anyway, now that I think of it, Trump not getting the Peace Prize is a travesty? NOT.

Of course, I can't say that it's not at least mildly entertaining - if you can factor out the nausea-inducement - to watch Trump non-stop grovel for the recognition and pathetically whine about not winning it. Trump is actually somewhat fascinating in that, along with his lack of empathy, lack of curiosity, lack of integrity, lack of decency, lack of honesty, lack of compassion, etc., he is apparently completely lacking in shame. What an embarrassment to our country. (I was going to say 'what an embarrassment to his family,' but as long as they're raking in the grift $, I'm sure they don't care at all.)

After he didn't win the Nobel Peace Prize, after he threw his snits, Trump did get a boost when the South Koreans gave him a crown. If you can't be the Nobel Peace Prize winner, at least you can be a make-pretend king! 

And then FIFA, the famously corrupt international soccer association, decided to trump the South Korean gift of a crown, and create a consolation peace prize.

In November: 

Fifa president Gianni Infantino announced the creation of the Fifa peace prize, to be awarded each year to “individuals who help unite people in peace through unwavering commitment and special actions”. The inaugural award will be presented on 5 December during the World Cup draw at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington DC, a high-profile event that Trump is expected to attend. (Source: The Guardian)

Expected to attend? Did anyone think for a New York minute that Trump was going to miss an opportunity to be the center of attention, have his arse royally kissed, and get to blather on about how the FIFA - Guardian says fifa, I say FIFA - prize is actually better than the Nobel.

“In an increasingly unsettled and divided world, it’s fundamental to recognise the outstanding contribution of those who work hard to end conflicts and bring people together in a spirit of peace,” Infantino said. “Football stands for peace, and on behalf of the entire global football community, this prize will recognise the enormous efforts of those individuals who unite people, bringing hope for future generations.”

FIFA corruption aside, sports in general, and football (a.k.a., soccer) in particular do unite people. Billions of people will watch the World Cup matches next year. I don't have much interest in it, but even I will likely turn it on at some point, and I'll know for sure who's in the finals. Sure, your enemy becomes the opposing team, but - occasional riots and hooliganism aside - it's not a murderous emnity. And you're friends with anyone and everyeone rooting for your guys. For a peaceful 90 minutes (plus stoppage time), you're with those who are wearing the same colors and waving the same flag, even though IRL (which starts the moment the trophy is awarded) you might despise them.

But in what world is Donald J. Trump someone who "unite(s) people, bringing hope for future generations"? 

He makes no bones about not giving two shits - make that actively hating - those who didn't vote for him. What hope exactly is be bringing to anyone? Please name names.

In any case, 2026 will be a big ego-booster of a year for Dear Leader. Even if he fails yet again to win the Nobel Peace Prize, he'll be presiding over both the US's 250th birthday and elbowing his way into the picture whenever he can at World Cup events. 

Can't wait. (Have I used up my allotment of NOTs?)

Meanwhile, congratulations to Trump on winning the FIFA Peace Prize. Make that the FIFA Piece of Crap Prize.

Memo to the Toy Hall of Fame: Let It Snow!

Each year, I like to take a look at the toys nominated for entry into the National Toy Hall of Fame, which is housed in the Strong National Museum of Play in Rochester, NY. (I've been there, a brief but fun visit. What's not to like about a museum dedicated to toys and playing?)

There are a lot of wonderful toys and games that have been inducted in the Toy HoF. The Hula Hoop. The Baby Doll. Jacks. Teddy Bears. PlayDoh. Doll Houses. Balls. 

All personal faves.

But my favorite favorites are the most basic of items, toys like Alphabet Blocks, Crayons, Chalk, Swings, and Playing Cards - things that aren't over complicated, tricked out, expensive, yet provide for hours of fun. (Or at least they did when I was a kiddo.) I was a little bummed out that one of last year's finalists - Balloons - didn't make the cut.

But there are even more basics, the most basicests of basics, that don't cost a thing. How wonderful that the Hall of Fame includes things that aren't produced by Disney or Mattel, that aren't made in miserable overseas factories, that don't end up in waste dumps. Sticks. Cardboard Boxes. Blankets. Sand.

Sticks can, of course, be weapons, which is likely their most common usage. But they can also be canes or shepherds' crooks. Teachers' pointers. Outlines/framing for a pretend house. Bats. Etc.

Cardboard Boxes. The fun never ends! One of the treats of my childhood was when someone in the neighborhood got a large appliance delivered - a fridge, a washing machine - and us kids got the box. Instant club house or fort, good until it rained. And - my favorite use case - a tumbler: stuff a bunch of kids in it and push it down the steep bank of the frontyards of the street I spent my first seven years on. With luck, you'd get a couple of somersaults in before the kid-filled box hit the edge of the cement retaining wall and landed on the sidewalk with a satisfying clunk. Small boxes were just fine, too. You could make trains, houses, villages full of houses, doll beds. Or just push a baby around in it. You could use a piece of cardboard as a makeshift sled for snow, or to slide down grass banks if you didn't have a big, intact box.

Blankets were hiding places, tents, things to toss other kids in. They were costumes. Cover your head: ghost or monster. Over your shoulders: cape. Draped around your body: glamorous ball gown.

Sand also made an excellent toy. Castles. Forts. Food (especially when augmented with acorns, pignuts, and red berries). Mud pies. Just digging in at the beach and watching the hole miraculously fill with water. Digging for worms. (Oogie.) Digging to China. (A complete waste of time. You knew you were never going to get there.)

Ah, the basicests! Available, versatile, affordable. No rules. No tricky pieces. No assembly needed. And good for all sorts of imaginative play. 

Given my inclination towards basic toys, I was delighted to see that one of this year's Toy Hall of Fame finalists was SNOW. 

Unfortunately, only available in places where it snows - and there's a diminishing number of those, I'm afraid, but Snow is such a terrific plaything. 

You can use it to build forts, igloos, caves. You can make snowballs. You can slide on it. (And lest you think that you need a pricey Flexible Flyer, a toboggan, a flying saucer, to enjoy sledding, you can slide using a piece of cardboard. (C.f., Cardboard Box.) 

Snow is good for making snow angels.

And snowmen.

I was especially fortunate to spend my early years in a flat in my grandmother's coal-heated three decker. So we had real bonafide pieces of coal to use for eyes, for the smile, for the buttons. Even in the dead of winter, you could always find sticks for arms. And even my frugal mother would spot us a carrot to use for a nose, and some worn to the nubbin knit cap, a rag to use for a scarf. When we moved to the next block and no longer used coal, you could always find stones. (This was New England. Rocky, stoney ground in abundance.)

Snow was also, of course, the ultimate pro-play, pro-toy thing in that we were pretty much guaranteed a couple of Snow Days per winter. (Snow days required at least a foot of snow, but there were plenty of foot-of-snow storms in the Worcester of my childhood. Bummer if they happened on a weekend. Hiss, boo!) I know I've said this many times in the past, but one of the most beautiful sounds in the world was the WNEB radio announcer saying "No school all schools, Worcester public" - and here we would hold our breaths waiting for the words we longed to hear - "and parochial."

Tough luck for my mother. Good luck for us! A day off! And all that glorious snow to play in!

As I write this post, I don't yet know what's been elected to the Toy Hall of Fame for 2025. 

Let it be SNOW!

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Image Source: Wikipedia

Dr. Who? Dr. What?

In October, I received a form letter from my primary care physician, announcing that she was leaving her internal medicine practice to become a concierge doctor.

I was not happy to hear this news, as E has been my doctor for well over a decade, and I trust, like, and admire her. E is a good 20-25 years younger than I am, so I had been hoping that she would see me out the door. (Her husband is my dentist, and my hope is that he ain't going anywhere. I've been getting my dental care at his practice for nearly 50 years. E's father was my dentist for decades, and I was delighted when E joined the practice.) 

The form letter from E stated that all of her patient's would be assigned a new doctor by mid-November, and we were not to contact her office. Don't email us, we'll email you.  

When I saw the note, I gulped and did three things: 

• I wrote E a very nice snail mail note telling her that I was grateful for her care over the years, and, while I was disappointed in the news that she was leaving, I wished her well.
• I got in touch with K and M, two friends from different spheres of my life who are also patients of E. All three of us are long-standing members of the E Fan Club. All three of us were upset by the news.
• I wrote an unwanted email to E (or E's practice) saying that, before assignments were made, patients should be asked for their preferences. Mine would have been a woman doctor, one affiliated with Mass General,where I have been a mostly healthy part of the family for nearly 50 years, and one who was relatively convenient to get to. MGH is the hospital where my husband spent the last week of his life. I know my way around there. Brigham & Women's is part of the Partners healthcare system that MGH is a member of. I did not want to get shunted off to The Brigham, even though it is a fine hospital. Whenever I visit someone there, I get lost.

No response to either the note (wasn't expecting one), nor the email (kinda/sorta was).

Pairwise, K, M and I had several convos about the sitch. (As an aside, K is a retired primary care physician, M a retired nurse. They know things.)

On a lovely mid-October day, I was on the train, tootling out to the 'burbs to have lunch with a friend. I was checking my email and saw a notice from Partners. I had my assignment. In suburban Waltham. 

I immediately texted K and M, and spent the rest of my train ride on the phone with one or the other of them.

K had also been exiled to Waltham. M, through a convoluted set of circumstances - and a lot of persistence on her part - had been okayed to see O, a resident in E's practice.

The notification said that the Waltham facility was accessible by public transportation.

Their definition of accessible is not quite the same as mine. 

I plotted a trip, and for me to get from home to the new doctor in Waltham via public transpo would take 1.5 to 2.1 hours each way. It would involve multiple changes train-bus-bus, and, depending on the route, would require a .4 to 2.0 mile walk up a hill. (The detail on the hill climb wasn't included in the route info, but, as it turns out, I used to work in that area and know all about the hill.) 

Not that I would ever be taking public transpo out to the wilds of Waltham - Uber all the way, baby - but, seriously folks, to expect a carless elder who lives a 10 minute walk from E's practice - which is still a practice - to trek out to Waltham seems pretty daffy to me.

When I got home from my lunch, I shot a response off, saying that I thought it was pretty outrageous to assign a carless city-girl elder to the boondocks. I also asked to be assigned to O, the resident physician that M had arranged to see. The curt auto-response was pretty much of the sorry/not sorry variety. It included a number to call if I wanted something different.

So I called and spoke with a very nice young woman who told me that there were no MGH-affiliated PCP's anywhere in the city of Boston taking new patients. She laid out my options, which were mostly in locations farther away than Waltham, but the coup de grâce was that I could get assigned - guaranteed, they're taking new patients - to Amazon One Medical. NO THANKS! Make that NO FUCKING THANKS.

While I was speaking with the very nice young woman, I saw that another message had come in from E's office, this time not an auto-response, but a personal note from E's practice manager. She apologized for the process having upset me, and told me that if I were willing to see a resident - who would only be around for a couple of years - she would assign me to O. 

Yes, seeing a resident 10 minutes from my house was infinitely preferable to schlepping out to Waltham. Over the course of time, I've seen a number of residents and nurse practitioners and physicians assistants. Happy to see any and all. Sure, for continuity of care it's nice to have your very own personal Marcus Welby, but that's not the wave of the present, let alone the future.

Meanwhile, K wasn't able to line up with O, but was assigned to another resident which she, as a physician herself, thinks is just fine.

So all good.

But it's no secret that there's a shortage of primary care doctors, and Mass General Brigham has been hit especially hard. 

So they've now launched:

...an AI app that questions patients, reviews medical records, and produces a list of potential diagnoses.

Called “Care Connect,” the platform was launched on Sept. 9 for the 15,000 MGB patients without a primary care doctor. A chatbot that is available 24/7 interviews the patient, then sets up a telehealth appointment with a physician in as little as half an hour. MGB is among the first health care systems nationally to roll out the app. (Source: The Boston Globe)

Look, medicine is one area where I think AI shows some real promise. I've read that it's proving to be better at identifying breast cancer than mammograms are. And I'm sure that eventually AI will be very good at looking at tests and symptoms and making a diagnosis, which should be especially helpful in rare and complex cases. There's too much stuff to know out there, and doctors really aren't able with keeping up with it all. So bring on AI. (Not to mention that half of us are using AI search to get preliminary diagnoses for ourselves, our friends, and our families. Asking Dr. Google - and making sure that the sources are legit and not some ChatGPT iodiocy spewing bot - helps us figure out what to ask the doctor when we see them.)  

But I'm not fully sold on sticking an AI intermediary (and AI-driven devices) between patient and physician. 

It will, of course, happen sooner rather than later. And there may be plenty of places - refilling a prescription, the common cold - where Dr. AI will perform plenty well enough. But there's something to be said for the doctor in the white coat actually looking you in the eye when they're delivering good, bad, or just sort of meh news.

Maybe MGH needs to start treating its primary care doctors better so they won't be running out the door. It's a demanding job to begin with, and the paperwork, the midnight emails, the Dr. Googling don't make it any easier. But I can certainly see a point where having a personal PCP will only be for those who can afford concierge medicine, while the rest of us "see" a robot, or a doctor in Timbuktu via telehealth, or a rotating carousel of residents and nurses, or whoever it is that's on duty that day in the healthstop or Amazon's fakeroo doctor's offices. 

Me, I'm just happy to be seeing Dr. O for my annual come January.  So what if it's the first, last, and only time I'll see her? Crisis averted, at least for now. No more worrying about Dr. Who and Dr. What. 

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Image Source: SciTech Daily