Who ARE these people (Cont.)

It seems like just yesterday, I'd never heard of Taylor Frankie Paul, an influencer/momTikTok-er/reality star who was dumped by The Bachelorette after videos of her engaged in domestic violence emerged. Today, the person I've never heard of is one Braden Peters, more popularly known as Clavicular, a 20 year- old streamer who's the world's foremost Looksmaxxer. 

On one hand, I should have known of him, as he was written up in The New Yorker a couple of months back. But over the winter, I fell way behind on my New Yorkers, and finally gave up my attempt to catch up, other than flipping through the cartoons and maybe reading the short story.

On the other hand, Looksmaxxing is not exactly something that I have any reason to know or care about, other than acknowledging its place on the ever-growing roster of things that evidence The Decline, if not of the West, then certainly of the United States.

Looksmaxxing, in case you're wondering, is an "online community that holds male attractiveness as the key to worldly achievement." Clavicular, who is pretty near perfectly handsome, is considering jaw surgery - make that double jaw surgery - so that he can more closely resemble actor Matt Bomer, who Clavicular believes "to possess the most harmonious man’s face in existence, beyond even his own." (Matt Bomer is another one that I've never heard of - so much so that I initially read his name as "Boner." But after googling, I realized two things. Matt Bomer is gorgeous; and I should have known who he is, as I saw him in the miniseries Fellow Travelers. The name just didn't register.)

Back to Clavicular's wanting a jaw like Matt's, he's doing it:

Because, like all Looksmaxxers, he believes any step toward increasing his beauty to be virtuous. But it’s a certain kind of beauty. The Looksmaxxing community prefers people who look like Mr. Bomer: lantern-jawed, symmetrical, white. (A Black man who attempted to make looksmaxxing content was racially harassed, Wired reported last year.) (Source: NY Times)

Clavicular has been at beautifying himself since he was 14, when he began taking testosterone, followed by steroids and fat dissolvers. Shortly into his freshman year in college he was kicked out for having elicit drugs (steroids) in his dorm room. 

He ended up taking a lowly job in a restaurant, but he wasn't destined to becoming a "wagecuck," i.e., someone who actually works at a job.

So he made his way into streaming, offering advice on things like "bone smashing," which is banging your face with a hammer to achieve a chiseled look. 

Whatever advice he's doling out, he's said to be earning more than $1M a year with his streaming. No wagecuckery at all.

Clavicular claims to be apolitical, but he's intertwined with right wing manosphere male culture, and I'm presuming a darling of Pete Hegseth fanboys. He's partied with white nationalist Nick Fuentes and the ultra-right kickboxer, alleged rapist, and alleged sex-trafficker Andrew Tate. The three have been "seen chanting along to the Ye track "Heil Hitler.""  And Clavicular frequently uses the n-word. 

He has, however, said that he would vote for Gavin Newsome over J.D. Vance.

This is, of course, not a political preference. He just finds Gavin more attractive than J.D., whom he deems fat. 

Political or not, Clavicular is a cultural phenomenon. 

X users have compared Clavicular’s slang, alternately, to Geoffrey Chaucer’s Middle English; James Joyce’s “Ulysses”; and Nadsat, the alienating dialect of the nihilistic goons in “A Clockwork Orange.”

I'm going with the nihilistic goons. 

Women have long been the ones obsessed with their looks, with making themselves beautiful. Even back in my day, I knew girls who had nose jobs, who used those little pink plastic breast exercisers with the coiled spring (You must, you must, you must develope the bust.) Boys were out playing sports or hanging on the corner ogling girls; girls were home using Nair on their hairy legs, figuring out how to put on eyeliner, and reading the instructions for Lady Clairol. All so they could walk by the corner and get ogled.

I'm all for women doing man things: playing sports, performing surgery, taking on big work projects. I'm all for men doing woman things: changing the baby, whipping up dinner, more regularly expressing their feelings. These are changes I've witnessed in my lifetime, and I believe we've all benefited from them.

But for men to become caught up in Looksmaxxing is not a good look. 

The miasma of nihilism swirling around Clavicular has made him an irresistible symbol of social decline — a freakish avatar for the hopelessly fallen, social-media-addled state of the young American man.

I know, I know. It's not all men. Still, it seems to be an appreciable minority, and I find this pretty disturbing.

Whenever someone like Taylor Frankie Paul or Clavicular catches my eye, I find myself asking "who are these people?" And is there anything positive that they contribute our society?

Think I know the answer to that one.

As for "male attractiveness as the key to worldly achievement," I give you Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, and Jeff Bezos. Not a Matt Boner Bomer, not a Clavicular, in the bunch. 

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I wrote this post a few weeks back. Since then, Clavicular has been hospitalized with a suspected overdose. This kid is just 20 years old. Sad.

Who ARE these people?

It's not like I don't watch plenty o' junk on TV.  I recently waded through all nine episodes of Love Story, which (controversially) "chronicled" the relationship between JFK, Jr. and Carolyn Bessette. Yes, it was ridiculous and perhaps only lightly tethered to the truth - among other things, actress Darryl Hannah was portrayed as a crazy coked-out hag, a depiction which she refuted in a NY Times piece she authored. Yes, the series was ridiculous, but I was there for it. If nothing else, it was worth it to watch the almost preternaturally good-looking actor who portrayed JFK, Jr. 

And I much enjoy high-toned gossipy trash like The Crown, which I ate up with a ladle 

But I'm not a big fan of reality TV.

Yes, a billion years ago, I watched the first season of Survivor. And the first season of The Great Race. I watched Joe Millionaire, where a troup of women vied for the attention of a man they were lead to believe was a wealthy heir. The "plot" revolved around Joe Millionaire trying to figure out which of the lovelies loved him for himself, not his money. 

I'm pretty sure I watched season one of The Bachelorette, because I knew that Trista, the cute blonde, ended up marrying Ryan, the hunky firefighter. (Amazingly still together after 20 years.)

And, yes, I do watch plenty of HG-TV (which is all about acquiring or renovating homes), which is probably as heavily scripted as any reality show. But I really like looking at the real estate in places I'll never live. And the houses and the neighborhoods are real. So there.

But, other than (maybe) viewing an odd (okay, they're all odd) episode here or there, I've taken a pass on shows like the Real World, Jersey Shore, and all the various Real Housewives branches. I've never watched the Kardashians, but understand that brigade has taken "famous for being famous" to new monetary heights. Etc.

But it's impossible to live in our culture - or at least live in our culture and pick up People magazine on occasion, or sneak a once in a blue moon look at the NY Post's Page Six - and not know who the reality stars du jour are. So of course I was aware of the existence of Snooki and The Situation made household name-ish by The Jersey Shore when that was thing.

All that said, I'm apparently not up to speed on reality TV, because, until a month or so ago, I'd never heard of Taylor Frankie Paul, or The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives (not to be confused withe Real Housewives of Salt Lake City). And I wasn't aware that The Bachelorette, which last I'd seen when Trista and Ryan were getting together in 2003, was still a thing. 

Ms. Paul, who began her public life through a TikTok group she founded called MomTok, on which a group of Mormon moms (Mormoms?) - influencers, but I'm not sure what exactly they influenced - shared parenting stories, beauty tips, and dance trends. Soon enough, the content ante was upped to include sex, in the form of something called soft swinging.  The Mormoms went viral, and ended up doing a TV show, Secret Lives, which premiered last year.  

Meanwhile, The Bachelorette franchise decided to try to revive their lackluster series by bringing on MomTok-er, Secret-Liver Taylor Frankie Paul to act as the lead Bachelorette, even though she was a divorced mother with two kids by her husband, and a third child with another man. 

An upcoming season of “The Bachelorette” was pulled on Thursday, a spokesperson for Disney said, after a video of its star attacking the father of one of her children was leaked.

Disney’s ABC, which broadcasts “The Bachelorette,” had appeared to be committed to continuing its plans to air the show [even after rumors of Paul's involvement in episodes of domestic violence began to emerge]. But on Thursday, TMZ published leaked footage of a physical altercation from 2023 in which Ms. Paul is shown putting her partner in a headlock and throwing metal chairs at him.

“In light of the newly released video just surfaced today, we have made the decision to not move forward with the new season of ‘The Bachelorette’ at this time,” the Disney spokesperson said in a statement, “and our focus is on supporting the family.” (Source: NY Times)

Paul has since lost custody of the son she had with the man she threw the chairs at. And the future of Secret Lives is also in jeopardy. 

Paul claims the domestic violence charges are not what they seem, and has been open about some mental health issues she is dealing with. (The good news for her is that last week it was announced that the latest Utah charges have been dropped.) She's only 31, a single mom with three kids, and no discernible abilities, other than the ability to achieve notoriety. I feel kind of bad for her. Sure, she has her chutzpah to fall back on, but there doesn't seem to be much else. 

But just who are these people - folks who don't appear to have much to offer by way of intelligence, accomplishment, or talent - who are willing to make a show of themselves and their families in return for admittedly lucrative brand deals with whatever it is that they influence/endorse. In order to gain fame (and brand deals), these reality stars need to expose intimate aspects of their lives and pump up the drama with real or fake or real fake controversies.

Everyone doesn't have to be Chef José Andrés, who runs the World Central Kitchen, which feeds communities in crisis. But jeez louise-ela, can't these folks figure out how to do something just a bit more enobling, or at least more routine, with their lives? Or is the desire for fame and fortune - however fleeting - so overwhelming that they'll chuck their privacy and their dignity (and that of their families) out the window to attain it?

As far as I can tell, most reality "stars" seem to have a couple of singular attributes: the desire for fame (however tawdry) and absolute shamelessness. And they get away with it because there's a colossal appetite for "entertainment" that isn't based on talent (athletic, artistic, or whatever), but, rather, revolves around observing performers devoid of any worthwhile abilities or character traits. Maybe it's the hope that they provide. You don't have to be an elite anything to "make it." You, too, can be plucked from obscurity and made famous.

Doesn't seem worth it to me, but what do I know? I have a hunch this is one of those NINA deals. (No Introverts Need Apply.)

A day late and a flag wave short

Yesterday was Patriots' Day, and I did what I usually do.

I went to the Red Sox game, which on Patriots' Day has an early (11 a.m.) start. The early start time tradition started years ago, and I guess the thinking is that, because Fenway Park is just off the route of the Boston Marathon (a mile or so from the finish line), the baseball fans also get to see some of the race. The Marathon has become a lot bigger deal that it was when the early-start was introduced nearly 60 years ago, and now getting to and fro from the game requires dealing with security checkpoints and massive crazy crowds. But it's still fun to be around. More or less.

A few years back, for some reason we tried to take one of our usual ways home and ended up - thanks to blocked streets and security measures - walking a couple of miles out of our way in the cold and drizzle. But we know better now: fight the crowds into the entrance to the T-station in Kenmore Square and use the underground passageway that takes you under the Marathon Route and over to the side of the street where your passage home is not blocked.  

Anyway, the Patriots' Day game is pretty much my favorite game to see live, even if the weather is iffy (make that terrible, most of the time). I'm writing this before Game Day, so I don't know whether the Sox won or lost, or whether the game was even held. (I've had rain checks in the past.) But if the game was on, I know that, win or lose, I was enjoying it with my niece (Sweet) Caroline.

For me, the Red Sox game is a highlight of the day, as is the Marathon, which is always a good buzz (other than in 2013, when the bombing occurred). And it takes my mind off the fact that it's exceedingly difficult to enjoy this wonderful, quirky holiday in the malign era we're currently enduring.

Last year, here's a bit of what I wrote:

I've never been a big flag waver, but this year I'm feeling a definite deficit of patriotism - at least of the fervid, jingoistic, blinders-on variety that for a good long time has defined the term. But if the definition of patriotism can accommodate someone who appreciates the country for its good, wants to acknowledge the not-so-good (and the out-and-out bad), and tries to make things better by voting for good candidates, donating to good causes (increasingly of the pro-democracy kind), and showing up for demonstrations to demonstrate to the powers that regrettably be (as if they give damn) that not everyone in America welcomes the slide into autocracy/kleptocracy,well, I guess I can count myself as patriotic.

So if I'm feeling anything today, it's the red, white, and blues. (Source: Pink Slip)

Ditto for this year, with the add on that things are far, far, far worse than I could possiblly have imagined they would be way back in April 2025, when we were only a few months into Trump Redux.

I have two patriotic traditions.

On the Fourth of July, I reread the Declaration of Independence. 

And on Patriots Day, I recite  (mostly from memory) Ralph Waldo Emerson's beautiful tribute to the "embattled farmers" who "fired the shot heard round the world." The poem was first read in 1837 at the dedication of a monument at Concord Bridge honoring those "embattled farmers." It is a beautiful, tranquil spot, probably my favorite tourist site in our state.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

So much to be proud of in our history, so much good (even if there are plenty of not so proud moments, plenty of not so good, which, under the current regime, we are not supposed to admit to). 

This year, I've added William Butler Yeats' The Second Coming to my Patriots' Day mix:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

Sadly, a very rough beast has slouched into the White House. I'm a day late, and a flag wave short, to celebrate Patriots' Day 2026, other than to say God - if there is a God - help us. 

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Image Source: Commons/Wikimedia 

Why we have regulations, Part one million, three hundred thousand, nine-hundred forty nine

Chances are that, at any given time, there'll be a chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano in my fridge. Some pasta on the shelf, a bottle of olive oil, a jar of black pepper...as long as you've got some Parm just sitting there waiting to be grated, you've got the makings of cacio e pepe. Mangia!

What I had never realized until I actually looked at the label the other day is that Parmigiano-Reggiano is made using raw milk. 

This gave me the tiniest of pauses. Raw milk? Isn't that kinda-sorta Bobby Kennedy-esque?

But from a quick google around, I learned that the aging process, the salt content, the hardness of the cheese, and a few other parts of the product and process combine to make this glorious cheese safe to eat. Plus authentic Parmigiano-Reggiano comes from Italia, where they have high standards for safety and rigorous safety practices. So, blessedly rare listeria or E coli. 

But there is a reason why things like, say, pasteurization exist, and why most of us in modern times drink pasteurized milk, and eat ice cream and cheese made with it. And that's so we don't suffer from the listeria- and E coli-causing bacteria that may exist in non-pasteurized milk and milk products. Who wants diarhhea from slurping down a glass of milk with a sleeve of Oreos? Who wants abdominal cramps from gulping down a maple walnut ice cream cone? Who wants to end up hospitalized with kidney failure because of cheese gone bad?

No one actually wants these outcomes, but some are willing to risk them because for some reason they believe that raw milk is healthier for you.

I don't understand why anyone would be against pasteurization. I guess the claim is that the process diminishes the taste and nutrition of milk, with little downside. (In their view, anyway.) But it's not as if pasteurization introduces any foreign bodies; it's not as if it's a chemical process. Heat the milk, kill the bacteria. Seems pretty straightforward to me. 

Not to mention that, since it's introduction in the mid-19th century, pasteurization has saved hundreds of millions of lives from milk-borne illness. 

But raw milk and raw milk product consumption has been on the rise. I'm guessing this is among the same brigade who doesn't think that measles or polio vaccines are good ideas, either. Maybe, like RFK Jr., they also enjoy a good roadkill dinner on occasion.

Recently:

Raw cheddar cheese from Raw Farm[the country's largest raw milk distributor] has been linked with an outbreak, though no Raw Farm products have tested positive for E coli... Cheddar cheese from California-based Raw Farm identified as ‘likely source’ of infections across multiple states. (Source: The Guardian)

The FDA recommended that Raw Farm agree to a voluntary recall, but they're not having it, pointing to their products having been "negative for all harmful bacteria." (In 2024, California did recall some Raw Farms products that tested positive for bird flu.)

Frankly, I'm surprised that the FDA made this recommendation, given that RFK Jr. is a big proponent of raw milk. And is, in fact, a long-time Raw Farms' customer. Probably just a matter of time before he roots out anyone in the organizations he oversees - FDA, CDC, etc. - who isn't getting with his raw milk, anti-vax, and other quackery program.

Wish RFK would focus on the things that science actually supports, and that could have a positive health outcome. I would think we'd all be in favor of fewer crazy chemicals in processed foods.

But food regulations came about for a reason. And that was that people were getting sick and dying from contaminated food and drink. A bunch of kids getting sick from eating raw milk cheese is entirely avoidable. There are plenty of reasons why we have regulations, and this is just one of them.

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Image Source: Erewhon

Nothing wrong with these paper roses

I almost always have a bouquet of fresh flowers in my living room. Unless I'm getting a gift for someone, I rarely go to one of the expensive local florists. (For me, those would be Rouvalis or Winston.) No, I buy my fleurs at Trader Joe's, where you can get a colorful bouquet for about $15 - a colorful bouquet that (however TJ's manages to do it) will last over a week. And once the bouquet's time is up - the flowers drooping and wilting - as often as not there are a couple of stems I can salvage and put in a small "satellite" vase in my kitchen.

Although I can usually keep a Christmas pointsettia going until July, and my St. Patrick's Day pot o' shamrocks until April at least, I don't have a ton of luck with plants. But I love having fresh flowers in the house. They just cheer me up.

I've never given much thought to where those flowers come from, let alone the environmental impact that the fresh flower biz has. But the founder of FreshCut Paper has. 

In 2021, Peter Hewitt read a New York Times article reporting that nearly 80% of cut flowers sold in the US are imported, traveling thousands of miles. To be kept fresh, they require airfreight and refrigeration - both huge contributors to climate change.

Peter got to work developing a new concept for flowers; a Pop-Up Paper Bouquet. The design aimed to bring beauty without the maintenance, making it a perfect solution for for those looking to conveniently send love. With a simple "pop up", the flowers unfold into a delightful display, making it a memorable gift that is sure to be fondly remembered and long-lasting. (Source: FreshCut Paper)

I had seen their wares around in gift shops, but hadn't given them much notice. Other than thinking that these paper flower "arrangements" were pretty enough. But sort of goofy. Who'd want paper roses when they could have the real thing? Who'd enjoy one-dimensional dust catchers? Who doesn't want to use all the vases they've accumulated over the years to hold actual flowers? 

I tend to rotate vases - of which I have plenty - for my weekly/biweekly Trader Joe's flowers. I also have a couple of vases full of dried flowers - it the Japaneses lanterns in my grandmother's cookie jar, or those pussy willows in the wonderful vase I got at Crate & Barrel decades ago, technically count as flowers, dried or otherwise.

For FreshCut Flowers, you don't need vases. 

They come paper vase with.

And, as noted, I had given nary a thought to any environmental concerns surrounding fresh real flowers.

But, as noted, Peter Hewitt has. 

FreshCut Paper, as it turns out, is a local company, located, in the classic spirit of New England, in an old mill in Concord, Massachusetts. I learned this while watching Chronicle, a program on WCVB Channel 5 that focuses on stories about off-the-beaten track people, places, and businesses in New England. I rarely watch it, but do find it very interesting when I stumble upon it.  

And as a complete and utter sucker for local businesses, I was more than interested in learning about FreshCut Paper.  

Naturally, I ordered a couple of bouquets. They haven't arrived yet, and I don't know if they'll replace or supplement my weekly/biweekly grocery store bouquets. I'll likely gift one to my cousin who's in senior living, hoping that the flowers will indeed be "fondly remembered and long-lasting." We'll see how and if I end up deploying the one I keep for myself.

However that turns out, I'm delighted to know that FreshCut Paper is serious about the environment:

At FreshCut Paper, we are committed to making a positive impact on both people and the planet. Through our partnership with veritree, we’ve helped plant over 5 million trees, restoring vital ecosystems. 1% of sales of our Grande Bouquet Line are donated to 1% for the Planet, supporting environmental initiatives that drive meaningful change. Your support helps us give back and make a lasting difference!

I did not order from the Grande Bouquet Line, as they were just a tad bit too grande for me. I don't want my flowers - fresh cut real blossoms, or fresh cut paper - to overwhelm my living room. While I do have a small container of my husband's ashes on my mantel, I don't want the place looking like a funeral parlor. (Wouldn't mother be please with those gorgeous gladiolas Cousin Bertha sent?) 

Anyway, I received my FreshCut Paper arrangements, without having to worry about the delivery guy leaving them on my front steps to freeze to death. There was, I was told, a tree planted for each bouqet I ordered. 

The very pretty bouquet in the picture is one I ordered for myself. The other one is going to my cousin in senior living. It'll be cheery and low maintenance for her!

As always, I am happy to see a quirkly little business making it in Massachusetts. 

OK. AI is good for some thing(s)

One of the very worst diseases I can imagine is ALS. I had a friend - not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless - who died of ALS, and it was just brutal to see this vibrant, brilliant, funny, kind, generous, irreverent very tough guy suffer through this. That Jake was also an athlete - a rugby player, a multi-multi-multi-multi-marathoner - made his dying of a disease that robs you of your mobility all the more poignant. But even if someone lacked Jake's wonderful character and traits, they wouldn't deserve to die from ALS. There is no one on the face of the earth who I despise more than I do DJT, and I wouldn't even wish ALS on him. 

ALS pretty much robs you of everything, including speech. 

I don't know David Betts, but thanks to a story I saw on the news, I know of him.

He's a Pennsylvania man who, like Jake, was stricken with ALS. David Betts' had enjoyed a highly successful career in consulting (with Deloitte), so he decided to take his analytic mind and problem solving skills to doing something about what was happening to him and, of course, the others who have the misfortune to get stuck with ALS. 

What David Betts did was develop an "AI-powered text-to-speech app. It speaks back in your choice of dozens of voices, but the kicker is, it's your actual voice."

He dubbed the app "Talk to Me, Goose."

"If anyone is a 'Top Gun' fan, it's the very first line in the very first film," David Betts said. "It's what he says when he needs a little dose of courage, and I kind of thought I'm going to need a little dose of courage." (Source: WCVB)

Although I liked 'Top Gun' well enough to also watch (and enjoy) the sequel, I wouldn't say I was exactly a fan, and I had no recall of the movie's opening line. (I did remember that Mav's (Tom Cruise's) best buddy was Goose (Anthony Edwards), and that Goose died in a freak top gun sort of accident. 

Anyway, Goose sure talked to David Betts, and he went out and created an app that will let those with ALS speak in their own voice.

He first looked at what was around for folks with speech limitations. He didn't find much

"They were still predominantly using what I found to be voice technology providers that sounded very robotic, and that's what terrified me. I did not want to sound like a robot," he said.

The technology to make voice clones already existed, so he took it a step further, learning how to create an app and putting it all together.

"I felt like I didn't have anything to lose, like there was no downside," Betts said.

And plenty of upside for those who could use a break.

Having successfully used his own app, Betts asked the question "How can we take this technology and reconnect people with their own voice?" The answer was to partner with an organization with broad reach into the ALS community. So he joined forces with Live Like Lou, an organization that supports those with ALS and their families, to make the app available for free. (The organization honors Lou Gehrig, the Yankees great of the 1930's who died of ALS.)

Available on iOS and Android, Talk to Me, Goose! helps individuals express themselves and share stories using advanced text-to-speech and personal voice cloning, even if their natural speech changes.

My friend Jake had a fast-moving version of ALS and lived less than a year post-diagnosis. During that year, he raised a ton of money for ALS research, including throwing a 65th birthday party fundraiser for himself that, on a snowy January night in 2020, just before the COVID curtain dropped, brought out about 500 folks to celebrate Jake's life and raise money for ALS. (Amazingly, this was a very fun party: an Irish wake while the person being waked was still alive. Jake's voice was going, but he could still talk to pretty much everyone there.) Jake also continued to run his signature charity (Christmas in the City, which focuses on making the holidays a little merrier and brighter for poor and homeless families in Boston). And I'm pretty sure he ran a half-marathon in there, too.

If I were diagnosed with ALS, I don't know what I'd do, but it probably wouldn't be run a half marathon or invent an app to help others. So bravo, David Betts. (And to Jake: we all still miss you!)

Image Source: Live Like Lou

Palantiranny

One of the most disturbing things to emerge from the current era is the ascendancy of the tech broligarchs. Or whatever they're called these days. Elon Musk. Jeff Bezos. Mark Zuckerberg. Peter Thiel. Marc Andreessen. Larry Ellison. Alex Karp.

Maybe they've always been awful, but most of them used to at least give some lipservice to making the world a better place for someone other then themselves. Alas, somewhere along the line they all figured out that the bucks don't stop here. The bucks, in fact, never stop. And the thing about the bucks is, once you accrue a goodly enough of them, you realize you never have enough. And you never, ever, ever in a kabillion years want them to stop pouring into your coffers.

Being a millionaire used to be a big deal. Then it was being a one-digit billionaire. Of course, that soon became nothing much. And two-digit billionaire was an equal yawner. Three-digit billionaire-ing - $100B and above - and now you're talking. And all of a sudden we're in the countdown for when Elon Musk becomes the world's first trillionaire. Which will no doubt set off a what's he got that I don't? rapacity spree among those left behind, nursing their $100's of billions and their grievances. 

These guys aren't stupid, and they naturally realized that money isn't just homes everywhere, private submarines, super yachts with helipads, $5M engagement rings, $50M weddings, $100M bunkers, et every bit of cetera the mind can imagine. Money, they all recognized, is also power. And while once it may have been fine to use that power for some sort of benefit for humankind (c.f., Bill Gates' efforts to eradicate malaria), do-gooding is really nothing more than a sort of an amuse bouche for the real meal. Which is expanding and defending your unimaginable (to us plebs, anyway) wealth. And what better way to defend that wealth than to make sure that the government gets to take as small a bite out of it as possible.

So let's make sure our tax rates approach as near to zero as possible, that none of "our" loopholes are closed, that regulations that might actually help the little guy but may come at a cost to the poor little old big guys are eliminated. (C.f., decimation of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.) 

No wonder they're all so gungho on AI. After all, if you can replace all those pesky, squawky humans with AI and robotics, there's more money to be made. (That is, I guess, until there are very few human beings left who can afford to buy any of the goods and services that the tech bros are producing.)

Sigh.

Yes, AI promises (promises, promises) to be the great distruptor. And, scarily enough, it probably will be. 

Palantir co-founder and CEO Alex Karp sees a real upside to all the coming disruption. And that upside will benefit the Republican party. Not coincidentally, the party with all the power and the one most likely to enable a full hands-off-the-money policy when it comes to taxing the tech broligarchs and their companies. 

Last month, in a CNBC interview to discuss how Palantir's AI system is being used by the military for target selection  - and we've seen just how foolproof AI technology is when it comes to say, selecting an Iranian girls' school for destruction - Alex Karp opined on how AI's disruption will target women's work:

“The one thing that I think that even now is underestimated by all actors in industry … is how disruptive these technologies are,” Karp said. “If you are going to disrupt the economic and therefore political power significantly of one party’s base – highly educated, often female voters who vote mostly Democrat, and military and working-class people who do not feel supported – and you believe that that’s going to work out politically, you’re in an insane asylum.” 

He added: “Like … this technology disrupts humanities-trained – largely Democratic – voters, and makes their economic power less. And increases the economic power of vocationally trained, working-class, often male, working-class voters. These disruptions are going to disrupt every aspect of our society.” (Source: NY Times)

Swell. All those girly-girl history majors who know how to think, write, analyze, and other white-collarly things. And who support reproductive rights, social justice, diversity and equity, gay marriage, environmental concerns, universal healthcare - and vote accordingly. They'll see their economic, social, and political power eclipsed by swing-a-hammer white guys driving F150s to the voting booth to cast their voter-ID'd ballot for Barron Trump. And maybe even for an initiative to repeal the 19th amendment and send us latter-day suffragettes packing. 

But, but, but, what happens next? Having gutted the ranks of those we used to call "knowledge workers," isn't AI going to go after the blue collar guys, too? After all, AI/robotics has done away with millions of manufacturing jobs, and it's going to be gunning for everything else humans used to do as well. Who'll  be calling a plumber when your really smart toilet can unclog itself? Who'll need a roofer when the prefab new roof is dropped into place via drown, and secured via robots?

It's not clear that Karp is advocating for all this disruption. He's just saying it's going to happen. But it's certainly no secret that many of the tech broligarchs don't believe in democracy at all, at all. They view it as an encroachment on their freedom, i.e., the ability to endlessly accumulate.

One of my big questions about AI is just what do the broligarchs and their political henchmen think that people are going to do for work if there are no jobs? 

Easy enough to see a return to a medieval society: nobles at the top, small class of supporting professionals and artisans, and a mass of peasants living in hovels. One shirt to last a lifetime, a diet of cheap foods designed to put us out of our misery young. And unlike our ancestors, who had to rely on storytelling and a flute made out of a dried reed for entertainment, we'll get 24/7 infotainment and rot piped in to our hovels to keep us from noticing that those damned rich just keep getting richer. 

Maybe it won't happen. Maybe things will slow down. Maybe we'll come to our collective senses and decide just how, as a society and an economy, we want to ride the AI wave. Maybe we'll figure out how to have an economy that works for the many, not just the few. Maybe. 

I hope so.

But it sure makes me nervous that so many of these kabillionaire tech gods are using their vast economic power to become more economically and politically powerful. Which seems to be leading inexorably to autocracy and the tyranny of the super-rich.

Sigh, sigh, sigh.

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Image Source: Octopus Intelligence

Yes, chef? Maybe not for much longer

When I was young, I logged a lot of hours as a waitress.

None of those hours were logged in any place fancy: no executive chefs, no sous chefs, no tall white toques. 

My first waitressing gig was at the neighborhood Big Boy, where at any given time there were two or three guys manning the line, grilling up the burgers, frying up the onion rings. John. Danny. Timmy. Bob. Don. Mel. The other John, who worked in the basement prepping items for the line. I seem to remember him breading the onion rings.

I don't remember all the fellows - and they were all men (or boys-to-men) - who I met during my two summers and one Christmas vacation working there, but they were a combo of blue collar, hardworking guys and hippies, who weren't quite as hardworking as the blue collars, but tended to be pretty interesting. John (upstairs John), Danny, and Timmy were brothers, and genuinely nice men. (And cute.) Bob was a nasty a-hole. Don was okay, but a bit rough around the edges. (I think he'd just gotten out of jail.) Mel talked about writing a novel called 86 that Dream. John (downstairs John) was a very handsome Jamaican guy who loved Tom Jones, and blared his music.

Sometimes the cooks fought with each other. Sometimes they yelled at the waitresses. But the only violence I ever witnessed at Big Boy was when a busboy had a bit of a breakdown and started beating his head against the cement block wall in the basement.

Union Oyster House, my next waitressing stop, was far fancier and more upscale than Big Boy. It was a big tourist destination, had a full bar, some fancy - or what counted for fancy 50+ years ago - menu items (Oysters Rockefeller, Lobster Thermidor), and had supposedly been a haunt of pre-Jackie JFK when he was a young Congressman representing Boston. (Amazing to think of it now, but when I waitressed at Union Oyster, JFK had been dead less than 10 years.) All that, but no head chef toque-wearing nonsense.

We had cooks, mostly Jamaicans, a couple of Greeks who mostly handled the raw shelfish and steamers, and a salad maker named Willie who made salads and shrimp cocktails with a perpetual stogie hanging out of his mouth. His big line to all the waitresses, which he must have repeated dozens of times each day was, "I had a dream about you last night. We was making love." The Greek guys spoke very little English, but were always inviting the young waitresses out to the Club Plaka. (One night we actually went and had fun slurping down retsina shots and doing some sort of circle dance with a scarf.) 

The Jamaican guys were riotously funny, if you consider occasionally frying up cockroaches in the Fisherman's Platter mix riotously funny. The funniest thing they did happened on a night the power went out. They had a small generator that could keep some lights on, but the AC was gone, and this was a hot August night, and for some reason the busiest night of the summer. The managers put candles out in the dining room and we carried on. The kitchen - as you can imagine - became unbearable, and the Jamaican fellows running the giant gas stoves and fryolators were bearing the brunt of it. 

Their complaints fell on deaf management ears - The house was full! The show must go on! - until the cooks figured out how to shut the place down. They took off all their clothing, and the half of the waitressing staff composed of little old first gen Irish ladies from South Boston weren't going to go into any kitchen where there were a bunch of naked men. Bonus points that these men were all Black.

At the Oyster House, everyone yelled at each other all the time, but most of it was wisecracking, bitching, trashtalking. The only time I saw anyone berated was when I forgot to leave a chit in at the bar for a drink called a Golden Dream. Louie, the bartender, hunted me down in the dining room, grabbed my arm, and screamed at me, "Give me the dupe for that Golden Dream."

To finance a cross-country wander and a four month hitchhiking trek through Europe, I worked after I dropped out of grad school at Durgin Park for a year. Durgin, now closed, was - along with the still-surviving Oyster House - a venerable Boston tourist trap. 

The owner during my time there was a temperamental maniac who put on a daily screaming and yelling performance, with the waitresses being his favorite targets. (His second favorite target: the customers.) It would take a book - or at least a long chapter - to describe just what an insane environment Durgin was. But I don't remember insanity among the cooks. There was Billy B. (Billy B. couldn't read, so couldn't tell what was on the order slips we submitted. But we had to call out the order when we hung the slips, and Billy B. flawlessly took care of everything from memory.) Henry-the-Elder. (Short and rugged, and a truly nice and kind man.) Henry-the-Younger. (Who looked like Ichabod Crane and was a good kid.) Glenn, the maniac owner's son-in-law who sometimes worked the line, was an object of our sympathy and pity. 

Durgin was hectic and loud, and the owner was as nasty as they get. But he was so over the top, and the old gal waitresses, which Durgin was famous for, so knew how to play him like a fiddle (which they regularly did on behalf of the young gal waitresses he went after), that the craziness was pretty much a laughing matter. And I never saw abuse to or from the cooks.

My waitressing career ended over a half century ago, and wasn't at any high-end restaurants to begin with, but things seemed to have changed. The advent of the celebrity chef, the emergence of the international culinary scene, the world of the "must be seen there scene" restaurant, the extreme and extremely fussy food innovations. All this has turned many of the big deal restaurants into wildly intensive environments that are brutal to work in. 

I read all about it in a NY Times article from March that focused on René Redzepi, a world renowned chef I had never heard of, who stepped down from Noma, a world renowned restaurant I had never heard of. Days before Redzepi had announced his down-steping:

The New York Times [had] reported allegations that Mr. Redzepi had punched, slammed and inflicted other physical punishments on cooks from 2009 to 2017. (Source: NY Times)

Yikes!

Okay, yikes!, but something that's a lot more widespread than one chef at Noma.  

The situation at Noma has apparently:

...lent new urgency to a conversation in the global restaurant industry about how to fix professional kitchens once and for all. Although past scandals and the #MeToo movement have resulted in better conditions at many restaurants, chefs said bullying and abuse still persist at too many others.

Dominique Crenn, the first woman in the United States to head a restaurant with three Michelin stars, said it is well past time to change the notion that performing at the highest level in the world’s top kitchens requires humiliation, intimidation or violence.

“We have been talking about this forever,” she said.

The up and coming chefs, it seems, just aren't going to take it any longer. 

A growing cohort of chefs — people who are young, who are not men and who are very online — say they want to hold the industry to account for the abuse and discrimination that have persisted in restaurant kitchens.

...Tiffani Faison, a chef in Boston, said that public awareness of abuse in restaurants has risen since 2017, when celebrity chefs like Mario Batali were accused of sexual misconduct and dethroned, but the reckoning didn’t go far enough.

“We changed the curtains, but we didn’t remodel the house,” she said. “And we still haven’t cleaned out the basement where we hid the skeletons.”

Whether you're working in the unglamorous sorts of restaurants I worked in, or some $1,000 a plate glam spot with an eleven month waiting list to sup on the likes of vaporized truffle gnat eye, restaurant kitchens are going to be hot, tense, noisy, and hectic. Plus dangerous: boiling oil, hot stoves, knives. Comes with the territory. But they don't need to be toxic and abusive. No workplace does. 

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Image Source: Etsy

AI Strikes Again? You betcha!

Tennessee grandmother Angela Lipps had lived a pretty uneventful life. At 50, most of that life had been spent in North Central Tennessee. She'd never been to North Dakota. Heck, she'd never been on an airplane. That is until the the city of Fargo, North Dakota - yes, that Fargo - extradited her to face bank fraud charges, and flew her to Fargo free of charge, but not free of charges. And under lock and key (including those nifty waist restraints that seem to be all the rage among the ragers). 

In July, US marshals arrested Lipps at her Tennessee home while she was babysitting four children. She said she was taken away at gunpoint and booked into a county jail as a fugitive from justice from North Dakota.

“I’ve never been to North Dakota, I don’t know anyone from North Dakota,” Lipps told WDAY News.

She remained in a Tennessee jail for nearly four months without bail while awaiting extradition. She was charged with four counts of unauthorized use of personal identifying information and four counts of theft. (Source: The Guardian)

Fargo police had used facial recognition software which analyzed bank "surveillance video of a woman using a fake US army military ID to withdraw tens of thousands of dollars." With that AI assist, the crackerjack Fargo sleuths determined that the woman in the video seemed a pretty darned good match to Angela Lipps.

No word on why they left poor Ms. Lipps, bail-less, languishing in a Tennessee jail for nearly four months - which I'm sure was no picnic - before flying her out to Fargo in late October. Or why she was denied bail. I know that tens of thousands of dollars is a lot of loot, but Angela Lipps hardly looked like a hardened criminal. But I guess she did look enough like the Fargo grand thief to keep her locked up.

And I suspect that being poor and having few resources didn't help. Just spitballing here, but if a middle class woman with the ability to hire a lawyer had been nabbed for this crime of the century, she likely wouldn't have been kept in the stir for 108 days waiting for Fargo to get its extradition act together. Even in Tennessee.

Once in Fargo, Angela Lipps fortunately got the help of a court appointed defender, Jay Greenwood, who did his job. He found records that proved that Ms. Lipps was nowhere near Fargo when the fraud occurred. And on Christmas Eve, she was released.

Opening the cell doors was about all that Fargo PD did for her.

...Lipps said Fargo police did not pay for her trip home, leaving her stranded. Local defense attorneys helped cover a hotel room and food on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and a local non-profit, the F5 Project, was able to help her return to Tennessee.

Well, that must have been one swell Christmas for Angela Lipps. Lets hear it for those local defense attorneys who made sure she didn't have to spend the holiday in a homeless shelter. Sheesh. 

Meanwhile, Ms. Lipps returned home, and it was no Tennessee Waltz. While income-less in the hoosegow, she "lost her home, her car and her dog." 

A fellow from West Fargo, ND, set up a GoFundMe for her, which contains some very telling details about her situation and the criminal justice system. 

When the U.S. Marshalls picked up her up in Tennessee, they would not let her retrieve her dentures. So for nearly six months in jail, she was toothless. That home she lost was a rental in a trailer park. Her family put her things in storage for her, but couldn't keep up the storage payments. Among the lost possessions Angela Lipps itemized in the GFM were a Chrysler Sebring convertible and a tire inflator. When Fargo PD released her, she was wearing the summer clothing she'd first been arrested in. Which aren't exactly appropriate for Christmas Eve in Fargo, ND. (This is not particular to Fargo, btw. Not sure if it's still the case, but I know that it used to be that when someone was released from county jail in Massachusetts, they were sprung in the same duds they had on when they were arrested. So, if you were arrested in July and did a six-month "bid," they let you out in January in the cutoffs and tee-shirt you were wearing upon entry.)

If you're wondering whether I made a donation to Angela Lipps' GoFundMe. Well, duh!

And if you're wondering whether I think Angea Lipps should sue the Fargo Police Department. As they'd say in Fargo, you betcha!

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Image Source: City of Fargo

Who says there's no honor among thieves

Well, this is Holy Week, the days leading up to Easter, and the week is full of special observances. At least as I recall from my 24/7, ultra-Catholic upbringing. Yesterday was Spy Wednesday, the "anniversary" of Judas' betrayal of Jesus Christ. It was best known among parochial school kids as a half-day, and the day we got out for Easter break.

Today is Holy Thursday, which commemorates the Last Supper, and tomorrow is Good Friday, the day of Christ's crucifixion.

On Good Friday, during my childhood, my family drove around the Diocese of Worcester to pay visits to three churches, which entitled you to a plenary indulgence. (Don't ask.) I think it was mainly an excuse for my 24/7, ultra-Catholic mother to check out three churches she hadn't been into before - bonus points (but not a more plenary indulgence granted) if the church was a new build - so we got in the car, found the churches my mother had plotted, and traipsed around the church for a few. To achieve the indulgence, I believe you had to say a couple of prayers, but it doesn't take all that much effort to rattle off a Hail Mary or two.  

As an ultra 24/7 ex-Catholic, I don't spend a ton of time thinking about Holy Week and Easter. As long as my sister Trish gives me a Peep or two, I'm good.

But a Boston Globe article I saw brought to mind the legend of Dismas, the Good Thief. The Globe story was about a fellow who was busted for drug possession/trafficking after a wannabe car thief discovered cocaine in the trunk of the car he was trying to thieve. The OG article was from January, but things resurfaced when, a couple of weeks ago, there were some follow-on arrests.

The strange sequence of events began on the evening of Jan. 6, when a man notified police that he had found a package of drugs on the side of the road.

But when detectives interviewed the man, he changed his story. According to a police report, he acknowledged that he had found the drugs inside the trunk of a Kia he had broken into.

The car, which police said belongs to Gillespie, was parked at a private commuter parking lot in Hyannis, police said.

The man, whom police did not identify, said he initially planned to steal the car and used a screwdriver to pry open the steering column, but he couldn’t get the car to start, police said.

He opened the trunk to check for valuables and in the tire well found a Target bag containing a duct-taped package that turned out to contain cocaine.

When he realized what it was, he “got scared” and wasn’t sure what to do, so he contacted the police, the report stated.

The owner of the car, Edward Gillespie, 62, of Nantucket, was arrested and charged with trafficking more than 200 grams of cocaine, police in Barnstable said in a statement.

Gillespie was preparing to bring the cocaine from Hyannis to Nantucket when he was arrested on Jan. 8, police said. (Source: Boston Globe)

The bust proved bigger than the initial measly 200 grams.  After a search of Gillespie's home:

In all, police said they seized approximately 1,141 grams of cocaine, 68 grams of amphetamine pills, and approximately $10,000 in cash. 

Like Dismas, the car thief was a criminal. Although death by crucifixion seems a bit harsh for stealing something, there is that "Thou Shall Not Steal" commandment out there. But Dismas had the fortune to be crucified next to Jesus and the two men were said to have struck up a conversation that ended with Christ assuring Dismas that on the day of his death he would be ushered into paradise. 

There is no info on the Hyannis car thief's motives for calling the police. (It is doubtful that he struck up a convo with a Christ figure. Not on a January night in a Cape Cod parking lot.) Was he afraid that he would be tied to the drugs through fingerprint evidence or crime-watch cameras? Did he just say to himself "hey, stealing a car and petty theft from a trunk is one thing, but this looks like some serious criming?" And was he at all concerned that the Cape Cod drug lords would figure out who dimed them and come after him? (C.f., snitches get stitches.) Did his good-thief/good citizen conscience outweigh his fear? The car thief's identity was not revealed, but I suspect that bad guys have a way of finding these things out.

Anyway, I hope that the Hyannis Dismas is okay. I hope that he has seen the error of his ways and is on the path of righteousness. This is, after all, the season of redemption, no?

Meanwhile, Happy Easter to all and to all a good night. And please do enjoy biting the head off of a Peep.

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Image Source: Freepik

Wanna bet?

It's no secret that you can bet on pretty much anything. Prediction markets like Kalshi and Polymarket provide a forum for wagering on the outcomes of "traditional" events and occurrences, like golf matches and basketball games, elections and Oscar winners. But you can also bet on what the temperature in LA is going to be tomorrow, where Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift will tie the knot, and when and if the Straits of Hormuz will reopen.

Sports betting sites like FanDuel and DraftKings are sucking folks - mostly young men - into addictive always-on wagering on every nuance of pretty much every sporting event known to man, including darts, chess and ping pong. (The general purpose sites cover sports betting as well.) A lot of the eyes on sports are not those of fans, but of gamblers, riveted on whether the next pitch will be a called strike or not - and whether they've won $200 on that bet.

While the sports betting is not good for the particular or general soul - gambling's always been addictive, but when you're holding your own personal bookie in your hand 24/7, well, truly awful things can happen. And more athletes themselves will be sucked into the easy money of a point here, a point there, which will end up corrupting sports more than they're already corrupted.

But the truly nefarious stuff goes on when insiders on the economic or geopolitical front, those who have knowledge of and/or control over potential outcomes, decide they want to make a bit of coin. Reputedly, there were White House insiders who cashed in on bets on when Iran's Ayatollah would be taken out. (Would any be surprised that members of the Merrily Grifting Trump family wagered an easy-money bet or two. On second thought, maybe not, when there are far larger grifts to grift.)

Then there are the smaller scale betting pools, the kind that a lot of us have been involved with. How many pounds will you your colleague's baby weigh? What team will be left standing in the March Madness bracket? A few bucks thrown in at work or the gym. It can be fun. And pretty harmless

But it's pretty odious when the pool at work is making life-and-death wagers, as is reportedly the case at Camp East Montana, and ICE detention center in Texas that's the nation's largest. (Everything really is bigger in Texas.) At Camp East Montana, guards allegedly have betting pools on who among the detainees under their "care" will be the next to commit suicide. I mean, it's not as if the guards have the power to make someone's life worse, to deprive them of care, to encourage them to kill themselves. Even to report a homicide as a suicide. Nah, ICE guys wouldn't do anything like that, would they?

Predictably, the DHS - an organizational just full to the brim of those of sterling character and moral rectitude - denies that there's any betting going on.

Look, not everyone who works for ICE or Border Patrol is an evil, violent, ill-trained thug. But enough of them are to reinforce such a sordid reputation. And with the decline in recruitment standards and training, the administration's encouragement of maltreatment of those rounded up and detained, out of control thug does appear in many cases to be the profile that the government is looking for and rewarding.

Factor in the amoral/immoral/money-grubbing malaise plaguing our society, and it seems entirely plausible that detention facility guards would try to make some bank betting on which detainee - whether a down and dirty member of Tren de Aragua who deserves deportation (but not maltreatment and torture) or some poor brown-skinned schnook who's been working under the table as a gardner for thirty years - is next for the coroner's wagon.

You don't think it could happen? You think DHS is telling the truth?

I say, wanna bet? 

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Info source: Mother Jones

Image Source: Amazon