Jobs of the job-bereft future

Olivia Ferney, who is 25, is a "luxury-travel specialist." She doesn't have any particular background in mondo deluxe. Her parents were school teachers. 

But a couple of years ago, she was in a club in Miami where she met Troy Arnold, the founder of Top Tier Travel, an agency that specializes in luxury travel. She was job hunting, he was hiring, and, as it turned out, it was a marriage made in heaven. (Well, it's not a marriage yet, but the couple's engaged.)

Turns out, Top Tier was doing just fine, working with billionaires who wanted someone else to make sure they could "go places and eat things,"* without having to rub shoulders with any of the hoi or the polloi. But the business wasn't really taking off. 

Prior to the arrival of Ferney on the scene, Top Tier had gotten its business based on "word of mouth and discretion." Turns out that Ferney was pretty darned good at social media and began posting videos of the over-the-top trips and events she was planning. She now has 2 million followers who gobble up her videos. 

Of course, those 2 million followers aren't buying what Top Tier is selling. They're gawkers. But all those gawkers have been good for building Ferney's brand, and that of Top Tier. 

Ferney is on Time's list of this year's "top 100 digital influencers."

And Fifth Season, the production company behind “Severance” and “Killing Eve,” has signed a deal with Ferney and her business partner and fiancé, Troy Arnold, for a scripted series based on their agency, Top Tier Travel. (Source: NY Times)

Clients pay through the nose for the privilege of having Ferney and the Top Tier team cater to their every whim. 

Each client of Top Tier Travel must fork over an annual fee of $100,000 and agree to book $1 million in yearly travel. 

Make that travel or whim execution. And while $1 million may seem like a lot to devote to ultra-non-discretionary spending in any given year, it all adds up if you're a billionaire who wants Ferney to fly to Paris to pick up the largest croissant that the City of Light has to offer because your daughter wants one. Or you're willing to shell out $2.25 million for a week's rental of a yacht so you can cruise around the Côte d'Azur,

Then there was the med-tech entrepreneur who wanted to make a big splash to celebrate closing a mega business deal. 

That big splash involved uncorking $226K worth of champagne - 125 bottles of Perrier Jouet Grand Brut, 50 bottles of Dom Pérignon Brut Luminus and five bottles of Dos Hombres Blanco tequila - and setting the Guinness world record for "largest champagne presentation."

“No one is really even going to drink the champagne,” Ferney said, noting that her plan called for scores of servers to blast the partygoers with bubbly.

...They hoisted bottles of Dom Pérignon above their heads. At a signal from Diplo [celebrity DJ], corks popped. Some servers began hosing down a dancer ensconced in a prop Martini glass, while others sprayed champagne at the crowd, thus achieving a Guinness-worthy feat that was the equivalent, in terms of pointless excess, to scaling Mt. Everest.

It almost goes without saying that this happened in Vegas, demonstrating yet again that there's plenty that happens in Vegas that doesn't stay in Vegas. (Although the party animal entrepreneur paying for this spray spree wanted to remain anonymous.)

Re all this excess, Arnold says:

"Basically, we have normalized what’s insane.”

That seems to be happening a lot lately. (C.f., Washington DC.) 

Ferney's take: 

“Our job is to execute, not judge.” 

She also says that, when it comes to the wealthy, there's "at least one misconception:"

“People think the superrich are unhappy,” she said. “They’re not.”

Good to know. Damn!

Anyway, I was thinking what an inane job Freny has, what a foolish use of someone's energy, brains, and creativity - talents that could be put to something a bit more for the good. (Unlike Top Tier, Pink Slip's unpaid job is to both execute and judge.)

And then I got to thinking, and my thinking is the Ferney is really onto something. Once AI ingests all the jobs out there, the only jobs in the job-bereft future may well be those that cater to the ultra-wealthy, the only folks who'll be able to afford to hire actual humans. For the rest of us, the kids will be taught by AI. Robots will provide our healthcare. ChatGPT will be our shrink. 

How often am I going to have to write "O brave new world?"

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*This is a nod to the Three Stooges. Like most women, I was not a huge fan. Like most men, my husband was. There's a classic line from one of their movies - a line my husband often quoted when we were heading out to dinner - in which one of the Stooges' dates gets in the car and says "Let's go places and eat things." Now you know. 

Image Source: Vector Stock

What's a kitchen for, anyway?

Eleven years ago, I gut reno'd my kitchen. In a small-footprint, greenhouse galley kitchen, there's not much choice about what goes where, but I got to pick out all new: appliances, cabinetry, countertops flooring. Everything plus the kitchen sink. 

For colors, I went basic: gray and white, with an a pretty mid-turquoise as my accent color. You can't see much of that accent color in this pic, but there are other spots where there's more wall space. The accent color was dictated by my sister having given me a Caribbean blue Le Creuset Dutch oven. (That color is now discontinued, but not before I was able to acquire a large skillet and a small skillet. I love me my Le Creuset. Bonus feature: upper-body workout to lift it.) After I decided on the blue walls, I unearthed two decorative tiles I've been gifted with by some friends. They're above the stovetop, and have the same Caribbean blue in them.

The one mistake I made with my kitchen was not having a pull-out drawer for pots and pans. So every time I need to get out a pot or a pan or a lid, I have to unpile them from their shelves. I do keep the Dutch oven and large skillet on the stove top, as they are my most used items, and are probably used for a good 80% of my cooking. 

I keep a lot of stuff out.

All my utensils are contained in three decorative pitchers. I should weed out the ones I don't use and get that down to two, but it's fine for now. Flanking the stovetop, there's a spoon rest on both sides. 

I keep out my food processor, paper towel holder, knife rack, most-used salad bowls. Water bottles, and some aluminum cups - the old timey kind, which I like for drinking cold water out of. Trivets. A couple of small vases that I sometimes put a flower in. Sometimes. Cutting board(s), including the titanium one which I recently ordered after reading about how dangerous wood and plasticky ones are. I just haven't unboxed it yet.

Over my sink, I have a strainer, which is especially useful for washing fruits and veggies. 

Next to the stove there's a box of Kosher salt, which I use pretty much whenever I cook. 

Other stuff on my counters: toaster oven, bread box, electric tea kettle, tea caddy, a couple of mugs, my Keurig for the occasional coffee drinker stopping by, a few smallish bowls - various sizes, various uses. Salt and pepper shakers - some old timers that were my mother's. My recipe box.

In addition to the ones hanging in front of the oven, I typically have a few dishtowels, keeping them handy on the counter. 

Even though the kitchen is small, I like having things at the ready for when I need them. Who wants to go rooting around in their time of need?

I love my kitchen, and although it is now nearing its 11th birthday (this fall), I've never grown tired of it. And although I deliberately went with a never-in-style-never-out-of-style design, I still think of it as very up to date and modern.

Think again! 

In the country’s wealthiest enclaves, like New York City and Miami, concealment has become the defining aspect of the contemporary kitchen. What began with “appliance garages” and refrigerators and dishwashers that look like cabinets has evolved into a far more ambitious practice of disguise, with custom millwork and technology obscuring everything from sinks and cooktops to electrical outlets and small appliances...

Sharon Dranko, the former chief executive of Isla Porter cabinetry and a consultant for kitchen brands including Nobilia, said the rise of open-plan living has helped fuel the trend. “Kitchens are more open and visible than they used to be, so people want all the capability without every appliance becoming part of the aesthetic.” (Source: NY Times)

Never thought of it that way, but I guess my appliances and all that other kitchen stuff is part of my aesthetic.  

But if you're going with a luxe "hyper kitchen" - which will run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not scooting above and beyond the million dollar mark - you want things hidden.

At one NYC design firm:

Its most popular offering is a marble island with a mechanized sliding countertop that glides open to reveal a sink and induction cooktop. Other pieces include cabinetry with retractable panels that completely obscure shelving, storage or appliances. 

OK. My trash can is hidden away in a pull-out drawer cabinet. And I known plenty of folks with Sub Zero refrigerators that have a cabinet front. But a hidden sink???? If I want to rinse some blueberries, the last thing I want to do is try to remember how to retract the "sliding countertop" to find the sink. 

As it turns out, a lot of these "hyper kitchens" aren't for use. They're for show, or for entertaining. Some of the folks that have them have secondary or even tertiary kitchens were the work of preparing food gets done. Plenty of them don't cook period. And if these modern kitchens are in second or third or infinity and beyond houses, they'd only be used a few weeks a year, anyway. 

One designer created a space with yet another hidden sink and cooktop:

The island portion features a sink and cooktop hidden by a retractable winged countertop that lifts and disappears into its body; the piece also incorporates A.I.-controlled lighting and voice activation. The refrigerator, oven and dishwasher are housed in a separate component: a massive box coated in metallic black lacquer. 

Because nothing says homey, says comfy cozy, like "a massive box coated in metallic black lacquer." 

The one thing I don't like about my kitchen - other than not having a pull-out drawer for pots and pans - is that there's no room for a table in it. No place to hang around in.

Some of my most cherished memories are of time spent in the kitchen.

Cups of sweet milky tea at the table in my grandmother's shambly old kitchen. (She never fully replaced the linoleum when it wore out, so her kitchen floor was a patchwork of unmatched pieces - red, yellow, green, gray - that she used to patch worn spots.) 

Until I was 6, we lived in a flat in my grandmother's three decker. The kitchen was so large (same footprint as Nanny's shambly kitchen, which was directly below it) that it doubled as the guest room, with a studio couch that opened up into two beds. 

Playing Canasta and Boggle around the table in my mother's crowded little kitchen. Endless cups of tea in my friend Marie's kitchen in Providence. (I did my kitchen reno the year after Marie died. She had a couple of kitchen renos under her belt and I'm sure she would have advised my about the pots and pans drawer!) Arguing (as adults!) about who was going to get to sit at the children's table - the kitchen table at my cousin Barbara's - when she hosted Christmas dinner. 

Cooking and socializing. Isn't that what a kitchen's supposed to be for?

Hyper - and hyper pricey - kitchens with everything hidden away? Phooey!!!

It was an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, 4-inch Hermes bagatini

One of the more annoying and/or idiotic things to emerge in the post-9/11, post-shoe-bomber has been the ever-evolving bag policies at concert and sports venues.

Last month, I went to the Springsteen Hope and Dreams concert at the Boston Garden (technically, it's the TD Garden, formerly the Fleet Center, and originally - at least at that location - the Boston Garden, which it will remain for me forever and ever, unless I'm just calling it The Garden).

Naturally, I checked in on the bag policy and found out that you're now restricted to a 4"x 6"x 1.5" bag. Not much you can fit in there. Good thing I don't wear makeup. Good thing I no longer have to carry tampons.

Fortunately, it was cold and rainy, so I was wearing a raincoat with pockets ample enough to hold my phone, mini-wallet, kleenex and lip balm. Not to mention my personal workaround for all venues: a tiny fold up grocery tote that unfolds large enough to fit everything I've stuffed in my pockets, plus clothing items: scarf, hat, gloves, sweater. 

The Garden, with its eye on the $ prize, lets you tote in a shopping bag if you bought gear at the Boston ProShop.

Back to cold and rainy: when I checked on the bag policy, I also checked on the umbrella policy. No surprise, you can't bring an umbrella in, which is admittedly not an irrational prohibition. After all, everyone could decide to open their brolly up. Mayhem! Or use it as a weapon. 

But what was great about the info page on the umbrella policy was the suggestion that The Garden offered: Wear a raincoat! Wear a plastic poncho! Wow, never would have thought of either of those. Thanks for the most excellent advice. (This reminded me of the old Cool Whip ad in which folks asked "Sarah Tucker" how she made Pudding in a Cloud, which was a bowl of Cool Whip with pudding plunked in the middle. Even someone who'd never been in a kitchen in their life should have been able to figure out the plot there.)

At Gillette Stadium, where the Patriots play and where I last saw Bruce and the East Street Band a couple of years ago, you can bring in a 12"x12"x6" bag. But it MUST be clear. If you don't want to spring the big bucks for a clear stadium bag, you can use a 1 gallon freezer bag.

And if you want to conceal the fact that you're carrying a couple of tampons, you can use an opaque 6.5"x4.5" wristlet or clutch. (Ignore the fact that a clutch, of whatever size, is the least practical handbag ever invented.)

Fenway Park also allows a 12"x12"x6" bag, and while they recommend clear, it doesn't have to be, as long as it has only one compartment. Which means you can bring your size-M Longchamp bag. I love me my Longchamp bag, but its drawback is - you guessed it - that it only has one compartment. Peculiarly, even if the dimensions are okey-dokey, you can't bring a duffle or backback style handbag.

Other than the fact that I've just been to a bag-restricted concert, and that I'm heading to another one (Noah Kahan at Fenway) in a few weeks, the reason I'm thinking about bag size is that I recently read about a bag that Kim Kardashian used when she was attending a show on Broadway.

Kardashian carried a minuscule metal Hermès Kelly bag that measures 11 centimeters wide (just over 4 inches) and 7 centimeters tall (just under 3 inches). She was fortunately flanked by security guards who could hold her belongings, as the impossibly tiny bag is only big enough to fit a few credit cards.

The purse a limited-edition sterling silver Kellymorphose Sac Bijou released in 2021 as part of a jewelry collection based on the French brand’s iconic handbags.

Designed by Pierre Hardy, the fully articulated piece can be worn as a necklace or — à la Kardashian — held daintily by the hand. It’s currently available to purchase on the luxury secondhand market for between $84,000 and $100,000. (Source: Page Six)

I suppose if you have it, spend it, bu $100K for an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, 4-inch Hermes bagatini, even if it is fully articulated? That is just insane - and makes the $5.5K cost of the vintage dress Kardashian wore (which I rather like) seem just a step or two above some throwaway garment bought on Temu. 

But Kimmy's a bag lady, with a collection that includes many Hermès bags, Kellys and others, and a Birkin "which can fetch up to half a million dollars at resale." Gulp. 

Yes, I know that Kim Kardashian does some good in the world. She seems sincerely committed to criminal justice reform and has other philanthropic involvements as well. But $100K for a bag that could only hold a tampon if it were OB not Tampax (if you know, you know)? 

The world is truly gone an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny bit crazy. 

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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.

Duck and cover

I remember plenty of school fire drills. Back in the day, kids were actually killed in school fires - as happened to 92 kiddos (and 3 nuns) at Our Lady of the Angels (same name as my school!) in Chicago in 1958. This was before there was such a thing as a mass school shootings, so there was no such thing as active shooter drills. Just fire drills.

If there were any Civil Defense "Duck and Cover" drills at my OLA, I don't recall any. But this was the 1950's-1960's, so there must have been a time or two when the fire alarm went off and the nuns told us to stick our heads under our desks and make a perfect Act of Contrition. I just don't remember any. 

I think there was a black and yellow Fallout Shelter sign somewhere in the vestibule of our church, indicating that we could hide from an A-bomb in the church's basement. The nuns may have walked us down the hill, in a patrol line, to the church to point it out to us, but I don't think they went so far as to take us into the basement. 

Not that we weren't being constantly warned about an impending attack by Russian or Chinese Communists. This was the Cold War we're talking. But mostly the nuns were preparing us for a ground war, not bombs dropping from the heavens skies. What would we do, we were asked, if Commies stormed into our classroom, pointed Kalishnikovs at us, and asked us to deny our faith? Who among us would stand and declare "I am a Catholic" and join the ranks of martydom? 

It didn't occur to us to wonder why they'd bother asking, given that they had marauded their way into a classroom to find 50 or so parochial school uniformed kiddos jammed in. A classroom presided over by a nun with giant rosary beads swinging from her waist. A classroom with a prominently displayed crucifix and other religious paraphernalia all over the walls. Even the dullest Commie soldier could probably figure out we were all Catholics. 

This was also the era of backyard bomb shelters, but I didn't know anyone who had one. Bomb shelters were middle-class suburban, not blue-collar urban I guess. Maybe it was an economic thing, maybe it was philosophical, with us working stiff types deciding that if A-bombs and, later, nukes were being rained down on our heads, the world just might not be worth surviving.

At least that's how I like to think of it, because that's my philosophical stance on surviving a nuclear apolcalypse. Maybe it's because I don't have kids or grandkids, but when it comes to creating a survival shelter - and, in truth, where would I put one in my 1240 square foot downtown condo - I'm Team What, Me Worry? If the end of the world as we know it is upon us, I want to be at Ground Zero wearing a propeller beanie that says "me first."

Anyway, despite the threats heading our way from Iran, I haven't given a ton of thought to just how much terror we're in for, and whether Trump and/or the Ayatollah are actually capable of unleashing nukes. 

Apparently not so for those closer to the know.  As I saw in the news a couple of weeks back: 

...at least two top Trump administration officials have raced to purchase their own survival shelters designed to withstand an apocalyptic nuclear war scenario, The Telegraph reported on Sunday.

The revelation comes from Texas resident Ron Hubbard, who owns Atlas, a company that manufactures survival bunkers designed to withstand "biological [or] nuclear fallout, EMP attacks” and other catastrophic scenarios. Hubbard spoke with The Telegraph and revealed that since the U.S. attack on Iran, inquiries had gone up “tenfold,” including inquiries from two senior Trump administration Cabinet members.

“One of them texted me yesterday, asking me: ‘When will my bunker be ready?’” Hubbard told The Telegraph, referring to one of the officials. (Source: Raw Story)

Maybe they know something we don't know. After all, plenty of politicos and politico-adjacent swells have been making bank on insider info through both "savvy" stock market trading and making moves in betting-on-anything markets. Didn't I read that a couple of White House-ers made bank by betting on when the old Ayatollah was going to be taken out?

It's not just administration officials, of course. Hubbard has stated "that his recent clients were almost all “Christian, conservative CEOs,” which included “several of the wealthiest men on the planet,” though he declined to identify them."

Hmmmm. Thought these folks were looking forward to The Rapture.

Me? If the doomsday scenarios play out, I hope to rapturously (or not) enter the Big Sleep and call it a day.  

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Image Source: New Hope Free Press

Dashing to the door...

When I worked full time, and my husband wast still among the living, we ate out regularly. As in at least 3-5 nights a week. I'd get home from work, we'd head out for a walk, and stop somewhere for dinner and drinks. If we didn't go out, we'd fend for ourselves, often with whatever was in the prior night's doggy bag. Sometimes we ordered a pizza, Chinese, or Thai, walking over to the restaurant to pick it up. I typically cooked on Saturday night. So there'd be leftovers on Sunday.

I didn't particularly enjoy cooking, but had about a dozen recipes on my menu. A couple of chicken dishes. A few pasta meals. Chili. Meatloaf. Stuffed peppers. Hot and spicy greebeans with pork. Quiche. A few of my dishes were sufficiently interesting that someone might actually think I was a cook. The curried chicken with currants, almonds, and peppers, served with couscous. The pasta with black olives, roasted red peppers, parsley, and walnuts, which I picked up while casually watching Julia Childs one day back in the early 1970s. 

So I could cook. While I always loved baking, I just wasn't wild about cooking. And was in no mood to cook when I got home from work. I was just as happy to get a little walk in and plunk myself down in a restaurant and start reading the menu.

I still don't cook every night, but I'm more of a cook now, and my repertoire is vastly expanded. In the past couple of weeks, I've made spicy lemon shrimp with lemon'd basmati rice. A shepherd's pie (which I left on the counter overnight, so only go one meal rather than four out of it). Scallops with orzo and cherry tomatoes. Peppered chicken breast with mashed potatoes and broccoli. An omelet with grilled asparagus. 

Other than the omelet, I cook in volume so there'll be something for at least two nights plus extras for the freezer. My brother comes over once a week for dinner and I'll send him home with Rubbermaid containers full of meals for his freezer, as his idea of cooking is opening a can of soup.

Not that mine isn't.

It's not as if I've never made a dinner out of a can of Italian Wedding Soup. (Or some instant oatmeal doctored up with apples, nuts, and raisins.)

These days, once in a very blue moon, I'll order a legit (non-pizza, non-Chinese) meal from a local restaurant and walk over to fetch it.

Never say never, but I have only had food delivered a couple of times in my life. And that was before DoorDash and Uber Eats. Never say never, but I have never had a meal delivered by either of the above.

Not that there's anything wrong with it.

Other than that a lot of the local deliveey drivers are on unlicensed ebikes, and are a menace to pedestrians. They ignore stop signs, red lights, one way streets. They weave along sidewalks, scattering walkers as they speed by. They drive pell-mell through the leafy (other than in winter) pathways of the Boston Public Garden. They make an awful lot of noise revving around. I live in fear that I'll die in fear being hit by one of them.

Yes, I know they're all just trying to make a living. But I really don't like having them around.

Yet I know that there are a lot of folks who rely on them. 

Some even live in my building, where three young women share a flat and where some mornings I walk out and find on the mail table in the foyer a bag containing what looks like an Egg McMuffin that's just been dropped off. Is the nearest McDonald's even a 10 minute walk away? And how hard is it to pop an English muffin in the toaster, scramble up and egg, and microwave a slice of Jimmy Dean sausage patty?

But as someone who has eaten out an awful lot during my life, who am I to judge?

Yet judge I do.

The NYTimes ran a recent article on the meal delivery business. Turns out that:

In 2024, almost three of every four restaurant orders were not eaten in a restaurant, according to data from the National Restaurant Association. The number of households using delivery had roughly doubled from 2019, just before the pandemic, the group said. And in a survey last year, about one-third of American adults told the association that they ordered food for delivery at least once a week. (Source: NY Times)

Some are ordering in a lot more than that.

Like at young woman in San Diego who spends $200-300 a week (on a salary of $50K!) dining in on meals like spaghetti with marina from a spot just down the street. When she could cook up some pasta and open a jar of Rao's for a fraction of the cost. 

And all that delivery isn't making her happy:

Ordering in has eaten away at her savings, she said, and led her to socialize less. She tips generously, but worries that the delivery drivers are poorly paid.

Then there's the Atlanta-based marketing exec with two kids..."he and his husband spend about $700 a week to order in."

“I am so burned out and tired, I would rather just throw my credit card at the problem and delay that unhappiness until the bill comes,” he said.

I understand perfectly. Cooking after you've put in a solid workday plus commute is a colossal drag. 

My favorite sitch in the article was that of a young data analyst in LA who moonlights for Uber Eats "to pay off his debt from ordering too much food delivery." 

What a world we live in...

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Image Source: Built In

What does it profit a man?

It really doesn't matter whether it's Mark Zuckerberg or not.

It could just as well be Elon Musk. Or Peter Thiel. Or Jeff Bezos. Or some other ultra-mega-billionaire who's ultra-mega far and away from the reality of 99.99999999% of any of the other 8+ billion souls currently on earth. 

Not that there's not a wide range of among us, those 8+ billion souls. There's no way I would ever compare the life of a child starving in Gaza with my super-comfy, full-fridge-and-freezer life. But I do believe that my life - even if it's relatively close to how those ultra-mega-billionaires grew up - is as unimaginable to those ultra-mega-billionaires as is the life of a starving child in Gaza. 

What separates us from them is not just that they have more money. It's that they have no constraints. Anything they see, anything they want, anything they can think of: voi-fuckin'-la: it's theirs. And their appetite for anything they see, want, or think of is seemingly insatiable. C.f., Jeff Bezos off-the-chart of 2025 wedding. 

Another thing that characterizes the ultra-mega-billionaire class is that they don't seem to give a damn about who they trample on and f' over if the common folks get in the way of their acquiring anything they see, want, or think of. C.f., Mark Zuckerberg pretty much destroying the fabric of his Palo Alto neighborhood by buying up all sorts of homes to create his personal compound, and creating an unpermitted private school  - named after a pet chicken - for his kids and their friends. (The school has now been closed down.)

So given Zuckerberg's arrant disregard for his Palo Alto neighbors, it wouldn't be much of a surprise if it were, indeed, Zuck who has acquired Burnt Jacket Mountain in northern Maine - and put the kibosh on entrance to property where hikers have been hiking, hunters have long been hunting, snowmobilers have been snowmobiling, and kayakers have been landing their kayaks on the shoreline of Moosehead Lake. 

Yes, of course, private property is private. But since forever, in this part of Maine - remote and beautiful - the owners were fine with letting the locals trek around and about their private property.

But that was then, and this is now. 

And now there's a lot of concern way up there in the middle of nowhere. 

In that unsettled atmosphere, a two-sentence email sent last October to Destination Moosehead Lake, the tourism center in Greenville, landed like a slap.

“I am writing on behalf of the new Owner of the property at Burnt Jacket Mountain, requesting that you remove the reference to hiking at Burnt Jacket Mountain,” it said. “As this is now private property, we’d like to deter anyone from hiking on the mountain!”

The email, with its possibly ill-chosen exclamation point, came from Karen Thomas Associates, a New York firm that manages high-end residential construction. (“We are meticulous problem solvers,” its website explains, “resolving any number of challenges that may arise in the course of a demanding, luxury construction project.”)

The tourism center promptly complied, striking mentions of the mountain’s trails from its handouts. Then word began to spread. In other places, it might have been a no-brainer: Of course a private landowner would keep the public off his or her land. But in northern Maine, where hunters, hikers, snowmobilers and other outdoor enthusiasts have long enjoyed near-unrestricted access to vast forests, the request came across as unneighborly. (Source: Boston Globe)

The two journalists at The Moosehead Lakeshore Journal - a mother-daughter combo - tried to sleuth out the new owners, but even the fellow who sold the property doesn't know. (He also has said that he "didn't really care.") But someone who formerly worked for the town of Greenville posted on Facebook - how fitting - that Zuckerberg was the new owner. 

“Mark and Priscilla do not own any property in Maine, including the Burnt Jacket property,” a spokesman for the family said.

But would it surprise anyone if some holding company, some shell, some legal entity, tied to Mark and Priscilla did onw Burtnt Jacket?

For some residents, the closure of the hiking trails on Burnt Jacket Mountain resonated as a symbol of the broader threat.

“These weren’t the only trails — they weren’t in the top 10 trails,” said Lew-Ellyn Hughes, a manager at the Greenville tourism center whose family roots in the region go back 200 years. “That’s not why people are sad. It’s people from away coming in and shutting things down. It’s the contrast between haves and have-nots — especially when the have-nots can’t find a place to live.”

Sounds pretty Zuckerbergian to me.

Sure, the Zuckerbergs are philanthropic, and have given billions away, primarily to educational institutions. But giving at that level is pretty abstract. Acquiring something because you saw it, or want it, or thought of it, regardless of how it impacts the human beings standing - or hiking, or hunting, or kayaking - in your way, that's a real, in-your-face haves vs. haves not.

I'm pretty sure you can still maintain pretty good security - which the ultra-mega-billionaires are naturally and rightfully concerned with - without keeping the regulars off 100% of your property 100% of the time. 

At the end of the day, to quote a decidedly non-ultra-mega-billionaire, what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, but lose his soul? 

Me? I'm of the opinion that if you're screwing with the locals, screwing with the have nots, you've pretty much lost your soul.

Sigh...

Pure as the driven whatever?

The first time I enountered bottled water was on my first trip to Europe in 1973. Back then, the thought was that, other than in the United States, there was no such thing as potable water coming straight from the tap. It wasn't just Latin America where you were in danger of acquiring Montezuma's revenge. The fear was that you could end up with dystentery pretty much anywhere in the world just by drinking the water. Other than Canada and, as I recall, the British Isles and Ireland, where I don't remember bottled water being a thing back in 1973. (And where I do remember meeting an older, experienced traveler - I believe she was in her late twenties - in a London hostel who told us that we were much more likely to become constipated on our travels than have diarrhea.)

Once we hit The Continent, however, we somehow knew that, if we were going to drink water, it better be from a bottle, not a tap. And where we discovered a preference for acqua senza gas - still water, rather than water with bubbles (or "sparkling water"). There were times when we didn't have bottled water with us, and on more than one occasion we brushed our teeth using Coke to wet our brushes. 

But in France, we had our first encounter with bottled water, and that was with sparkling Perrier. (We soon learned to buy larger and cheaper bottles of grocery store water, but our first time was with Perrier.)

Anyway, somewhere along the line, bottled water became a big thing in the United States, too. Even though our tap water, as long as you didn't live in places like Flint, Michigan, or Jackson, Mississippi, was just fine.

If I do get a bottle of water, it tends to be Poland Springs, which hails from Maine. I try to avoid Dasani, which is just tap water in a plastic bottle. But most of the water I glug down is Boston tap, unfiltered, that I keep in old wine bottles in the fridge so I always have a nice cold drink of water handy. 

Bottling, transporting, recycling (admittedly, more or less a 'ha!', even if you do separate out your recyclables) are making us all more conscious of the negative impacts of consuming bottled water. 

And now:

France's multi-billion euro mineral water companies are under the spotlight because of climate change and growing concerns about the industry's environmental impact.

At issue is whether some world-famous brands, notably the iconic Perrier label, can even continue calling themselves "natural mineral water".

A decision in the Perrier case is due in the coming months. It follows revelations in the French media about illicit filtration systems that have been widely used in the industry, apparently because of worries about water contamination, after years of drought linked to climate change.

"This really is our Water-gate," says Stéphane Mandard, who has led investigations at Le Monde newspaper. "It's a combination of industrial fraud and state collusion."

"And now there is a real Sword of Damocles hanging over the head of Perrier." (Source: BBC)

Sacre bleu! 

Last year, French media broke the story that a lot of France's mineral water "had been illegally treated, either with ultra-violet light, carbon filters or ultra-fine micro-meshes commonly used to screen out bacteria."

The treated water is perfectly potable. It's just that water branded as natural "is supposed to be unaltered between the underground source and the bottle. That is the whole point of it."

When I think of natural water - like the water from my quasi local buds in Poland Springs, Maine - I naturally envision burbling mountain streams, maybe with pine trees and snow along their banks. I hope that's still the case with Poland Springs water, but for Perrier (and the other big French brands, like Vichy - which I wouldn't drink because of its name - and Evian, which I find tastes greasy), having anything unnatural about their water could be disaster.

You must remember, this is in France, where the country goes haywire if they find that someone is marketing sparkling white wine as champagne if it's from anywhere other than a specific area in France. They are complete terrors when it comes to terroir. So the country is way rocked by this scandal, and there are allegations of coverup and conspiracy between/among some government officials and Perrier to suppress the bad news that Perrier has been goosing its water by using something called "micro-filtration." And Perrier may well lose its government-granted ability to be able to label their wares as "natural mineral water."

Meanwhile, whatever the sitch is with Poland Springs, we all need to lose any imaginings about Perrier's burbling mountain stream origin. 

Far from the remote mountain landscape you might imagine, Perrier's water is pumped from deep aquifers in the coastal plain between Nîmes and Montpellier, a short drive from the Mediterranean. The area is populous, heavily-farmed, and very hot.

"There has been a big climatic shift since 2017," says Haziza. "For five years there was a succession of droughts, which were particularly badly felt in the south."

"All the aquifers were affected. This means not just the upper water-table, which is where everyday tap water comes from. We can now see that the deeper aquifers – which the companies thought were protected – are also being hit.

"The unforeseen is taking place. We are moving from a period in which companies could draw water from the deep aquifers and be sure they would be replenished, to a period in which it's obvious the whole system cannot go on."

This will, of course, impact other bottlers of natural water. Because of its location, Perrier may just be the French version of the canary in the coalmine.

And, naturally, global warming is going to impact the aquifer everywhere. Bigly. Water use is always an issue in California and in the Southwest. While New England, too, is impacted by droughts, our water supply (and delivery) has been largely first rate. So far.

Forget about worrying about Perrier. (Or about Poland Springs.) Are we going to reach a point where when we turn on the tap, what trickles out is a trickle of something brackish and brownish that needs to be boiled before drinking and filtered through cheesecloth?

I've already used up my sacre bleu ration. So guess it will have to be sacre merde!

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Image Source: Grocery.com

Aren't all yoga pants pretty much the same?

In late June, Lululemon filed a law suit against Costco, claiming that their company, under its Kirkland brand, is selling items that look an awful like Lululemon (overpriced, snob-appeal) athleisure.

A while back, Lululemon was in the news for not carrying anything above size 10 or 12, as they didn't want any big gals working out in the gym or just strolling around town representing their brand. Apparently they came around and started making larger sizes, but this so put me off them that, even if I were going to pay $120 for a pair of workout pants, I'd have found them somewhere else. And then I would have kept looking for something a lot cheaper.

Because who wants to overpay for a commodity? Yes, I realize there may be quality differences between Lululemon and Amazon. But there's not likely to be a $100 "quality" differential. When you buy Lululemon, you're buying the brand. And the bragging rights, if you're an 11-year-old girl who wants/needs/has indulgent-enough parents to be wearing the "it brand." (Of course, I have no idea what today's "it brand" is for 11 year-olds, nor do I want to know.)

Anyway, in its suit against Kirkland, Lulu isn't that concerned about yoga pants. Their claim is that Kirkland is selling knockoffs of some of little Lulu's hoodies, sweatshirts, jackets, and something called ABC pants, which look to me like standard issue 5-pocket jeans or chinos. But what do I know? (In this particular arena: absolutely nothing.)

Lululemon is also 

'Some customers incorrectly believe these infringing products are authentic Lululemon apparel while still other customers specifically purchase the infringing products because they are difficult to distinguish from authentic Lululemon products, particularly for downstream purchasers or observers,' the 49-page lawsuit states. (Source: Daily Mail)

I'm guessing that in legalese, "downstream purchasers or observers" means someone purchasing or observing these items someplace other than from Lululemon. But to me, it sure sounds more like "loser downsiders who can't afford our shit but who are brand-conscious Lululemon wannabes who can be duped into thinking they're getting the real deal for cheap." But what do I know? (In this particular arena: absolutely nothing.)

Hmmmm. How much time do I have left to finish this post and head out to T. J. Maxx and see if they have any deeply discounted, but not-duped, Eileen Fisher clothing? I'll have to look at my Rolex which, by the way, I bought for $10.99 from a very nice street vendor outside of Penn Station the last time I was in NYC. Looks great, and the time is correct twice a day!

In a sense, you can't blame Lulu for trying. Its bottomline is being whipsawed by the Trump tariff erratica and "concerns about an economic downturn." So, they're out to cease and desist (and get a few bucks out of) Costco. And to institute some 'strategic price increases,' I guess assuming that their core consumers are such ardent fans they won't notice if the prices go even higher. Or, if they notice, their demand is inelastic. Sort of like mine for cherries. Cherries, which I consume a lot of in season, are pretty much the only item where the price actually registers with me. But $3.99, $4.99, $5.99, $6.99 a pound? What the hell? Life - and the cherry season - are short. And it's not as if I'm paying $128 for a pair of yoga pants.

(Lulu is also going after Costco for cribbing its color "Tidewater Teal," which looks pretty close to the color of Fenway Park's Green Monster, which is being used on a ton of Red Sox gear this year. Maybe the Fenway Group shoud so the Lululemon bastards.)

Overall, I'm guessing that Costco is sufficiently savvy that there are small, nuanced differences between their gear and Lulu's. And that if a man - or a brand-conscious consumer - on a galloping course couldn't tell the difference, well, that's just fine. 

Meanwhile, Forbes has weighed in on the likelihood of Lululemon prevailing in this case.

Dozens of successful brands have sued over the increasing production of dupes in the last several years, but proving a product was copied isn’t enough to win—the original producer must also show that the copycat product could actually “dupe” customers into believing the knockoffs are the real thing.

The onus of proving the copycat product actually confused customers and impacted the original manufacturer’s business falls on the originating company, Karl Zielaznicki, trademark lawyer at Troutman Pepper Locke in New York, told Forbes, and it’s very hard to prove: “Customers often know that they aren’t buying a $5,000 watch for $100… They know it’s a different, dupe product,” he said. (Source: Forbes)

Hey, wait just a darned minute. You telling me that my $10.99 watch isn't a Rolex? Say it ain't so!!!

Claire McCardell: thanks for at least trying to give women's clothing pockets

Of all the corporate trainings I went through/endured during my corporate career, by far the best was a presentation skills class I took in the 1980's. I believe it was called the Mitlinger Method, and the inventor/instructor was Kim Mitlinger. 

I've gone to the Google, and I can find no trace of the Mitlinger Method, but this course was way back in the technology dark ages. It may even have been pre-PowerPoint.

Anyway, I came away with a number of tips which I used whenever I gave presentations. Which I did all the time. One was to rehearse out loud, in front a mirror, the night before, and go through every point you were trying to make. Take no shortcuts. Go through everything out loud. No, you're not going to give the presentation verbatim the next day. But you would have thought through every one of your points. And don't just do it in your head. In your head, you skip over things, telling yourself 'I've got this one.' No, you don't. Saying things out loud forces you to really think them through.

There were other tips on how to stand, etc., that were also useful. They video'd us for a before and after and I volunteered to go first. My posture was ridiculous: I was leaning backward, hands folded in front of my crotch. There was a name for it that I can't recall, but had something to do with "fig leaf." It looked terrible.

But the main takeaway from the Mitlinger Method course may have been to make sure that you have pockets in your skirts (or pants, although back then, us professional gals were wearing skirt suits, not pant suits). You needed a pocket in your skirt because standing with one hand in your pocket while using the other to gesture is an engaging and relaxed way to present. (It actually does work. A far better look than the "fig leaf.")

Anyway, at the time, I had a collection of very expensive wool menswear skirt suits. In my mind's eye, I can still picture some of the very beautiful fabrics of those suits. There was one medium blue with very faint teal and violet striping. (Sounds awful: it was gorgeous.) Another of my favorites was a very dark charcoal with a hot pink windowpane plaid. (Sounds awful: it was gorgeous.) These suits, by the way, were mostly worn with silk blouses with pussy bows, or with Brooks Brothers men's look-a-like shirts and floppy bow ties. (Sounds awful: it was.)

The suits were fabulous, however. Wore like iron. Traveled like a dream. For a while after they went out of style, I hung on. Sometimes I wore the skirts with sweaters, the jackets with pants. Sometimes even for non-work cas, I wore the jackets with jeans. (Now that was a look!) 

The suits are long gone, but after I took the Mitlinger Method Presentation Skills Class, I can guarantee you that every one of those pocketless menswear skirts had pockets in them. (My local tailor definitely cleaned up when I came in with an armful of skirts that needed doctoring.) 

But as anyone who wears women's clothing knows, pockets remain problematic.

Sometimes the pockets are mingy. I have a pair of Levis that I love, but you can just about get a piece of Kleenex into the front pocket. Forget about your phone or keys.

Sometimes the pockets are non-existent. My go-to pants suit (black; very nice) lacks pockets. As do all of my Eileen Fisher pants.

I haven't bothered to have pockets installed because I'm no longer out there giving presentations, so don't really need to put one hand in my pocket. And jackets generally do have some sort of pocket for putting something in, so there's that. 

But who decided that women don't need pockets? 

Apparently not "American fashion icon Claire McCardell."

I'd never heard of "American fashion icon Claire McCardell" until I read Kate Bolick's review of Elizabeth Evitts Dickinson’s eponymous biography of Clarie McCardell, “Claire McCardell."

As Bolick writes, "functional pockets are scarce in women’s clothing because they “ruin the silhouette,” or so I’d heard."

I'd heard that, too. Stuff and nonsense!

Nearly a century ago, McCardell (who died in the late 1950's, while in her early fifties) pretty much began inventing the concept of American sportswear:

Many of McCardell’s contributions to women’s ready-to-wear clothing remain in circulation — including ballet flats, leggings, hoodies and spaghetti straps. But vanishingly few of the designers who’ve come after embody her driving ethos: Women’s clothes can be practical, comfortable, stylish and affordable. And have pockets.

As Dickinson writes, “Stitching Claire McCardell’s name back onto the apparel she pioneered is not merely a history lesson in provenance; it is a vital and timely reminder of a designer, and a movement, that was always about far more than clothes.”

In McCardell’s own words: “Men are free of the clothes problem — why shouldn’t I follow their example?” (Source: NY Times)

Point of interest: she got Capezio to manufacture ballet flats during World War II in response to the leather shortage. Not much to those ballet flats. (I always liked the look. Who doesn't want to be Audrey Hepburn? But they never gave this flat-footed gal enough support.)

McCardell also pioneered the wrap dress - hers had a big old patch pocket on it. (Like Bolick, I would have credited Diane von Furstenberg with inventing the wrap dress back in the 1970s. Wish I still had my two von Furstenbergs. Wish I could still fit into my two von Furstenbergs. If I ever buy another dress, it will be a DVF. But I don't remember that they had pockets. I'm pretty sure they didn't.)

Anyway, it was interesting to "discover" Claire McCardell.

Thanks for the pockets, Claire. Wish more designers had listened to you.

Image Source: Living, Learning, Getting Older

Take a puff? Nah, take a sip. It's a fridge cigarette.

I was never much of a smoker, but when I worked as a waitress at the Union Oyster House and at Durgin-Park, in the early 1970's, I took up the habit. Almost all the "gals" smoked, and stepping off the floor for a three-minute cigarette break was a thing. The head waitress would come looking for you, and you'd hold your cigarette up and say "lemme just finish my fucking cigarette."

I waitressed at these two spots with my friend Joyce, and we'd buy communal packs - Newports, I think, but maybe Marlboros - with another pair of friends, Marilyn and Pamwho'd worked alongside us at Oyster and later, coinceidentally, at Durgin. (Like us, they were waitressing to save up to travel.) We'd keep our shared pack in a cubbyhole just off the kitchen, and grab a smoke when we needed a breather. (Hard to believe that smoking was once considered a breather, but there you have it.) We lit our smokes with matches, probably house matches as packs of matches were given out by most restaurants and bars. People collected them, just as they collected swizel sticks. 

But by 1973, we were using cheap, colorful, disposable Bic lighters that cost about a buck and a half, and were sold at convenience stores. We kept our individual Bics in the pockets of our white nylon waitress dresses, which would have turned into mini-Towering Infernos if the Bic had gotten accidentally flicked. 

Fast forward a half a century plus, and working folks still deserve to take an occasional break. But with fewer people smoking, the break method of choice has become slugging down a soda. So I give you Diet Coke, the "fridge cigarette."

New Yorker Rachel Reno recently posted a TikTok of herself enjoying a Diet Coke, dubbed a fridge cig, and as of a few weeks ago, she'd gotten 3 million views (and 300K likes). 

She first heard the alternative name for a can of diet soda from a co-worker at her previous job at an advertising agency. Those who get it know that “the crack of the can is like the spark of a lighter,” she said. Then comes the sparkly sound of fizzing bubbles and the mouthfeel of that first hit, and suddenly “all the worries and cares in the world go away.”

Crucially, having a soda is the equivalent of stepping outside for a few minutes for a smoke break. It’s an excuse to “take a moment,” Ms. Reno said. (Source: NY Times)

Reno, who is a freelance creative director, has been expanding on her TikTok notoriety.  

In a follow-up video, Ms. Reno took the fridge cigarette analogy further. Cans of Diet Coke, she said, are like Parliament cigarettes, whereas regular Coke gives off Marlboro Red energy. Regular coke in a glass bottle, though? That’s a cigar, the ultimate vice.

“When you see that bottle,” she said, “it’s like, ‘Oh, this is an event.’”

Good luck to Rachel with her freelance career. I hope this gets her a lot of professional opportunities. Maybe she'll be the "Hawk Tuah Girl" of 2025, only cleaner, more professional, and unlikely to get caught up in a crypto scheme. 

Right now, I'm thirsty. I should just refill my water bottle. But, but, but...

I don't drink a ton of soda, but there are some mini-cans of Diet Coke in my fridge. Think I'll take me a fridge cig break.

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Image Source - Union Oyster House matchbook: Ebay

Image Source - Diet Coke: Wikipedia

Maybe there is a god after all

So many bon mots - couldn't find the Venetian equivalent - that spring to mind now that the Sanchez-Bezos nuptials have been celebrated and thoroughly publicized. 

       Hey, big spender!

       If you've got it, flaunt it.

One thing we're sure of, the rich get richer...

They were careless people, Tom and Daisy.

Okay, Jeff and Lauren may be publicity hounds and showoffs, but I don't know if they're Tom and Daisy Buchanan careless.  But I sure know they're big spenders. That they got it and they flaunt it. And that there's no getting around the stats that, the rich are getting richer while the poor are getting poorer.

Anyway, Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sanchez outdid themselves (which is hard to do) with a lavish multi-event celebration to mark their marriage.

All sorts of biggies were there. The lubricious Kardashians. The not-so-lubricious Jenner "girls." Oprah Winfrey and her sidekick, Gayle King. Mogul Barry Diller and wrap-dresser Diane von Furstenburg. Tom Brady (who used to be cute, but who's starting to look like a cadaver). Orlando Bloom (but not ex-Katie Perry, even though she was the one who rocketed into outer space with Lauren Sanchez earlier this year.) Leonard DiCaprio. Usher. Jewel. Ivanka and Jared. Dolce and Gabbana. Bill Gates and his attractive, accomplished but non-boobs-hanging-out girlfriend Paula Hurd. (Different strokes for different mega-billionaires, I guess. I'd a lot rather meet Bill Gates and Paula Hurd than Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sanchez.)

When the most "normie" folks on the invite list are Bill Gates and OpenAI's Sam Altman, you have to ask whether Jeff and Lauren have anyone to invite who are regular non-People people. Were their sibs there? Any cousins? BFFs from high school? College roommates? Next door neighbors? 

Anyway, the celebration was not without controversy.

Folks protested the big spending, the flaunting. The depredation visited upon the environment by the arrival and departure of so many private jets. (You think any of these guests flew commercial?) The general disgust at holding these events in the over-touristed, fragile city of Venice.  

The happy couple made up for the assault on Venice by asking guests to donate to local charities. After all, what can you possibly buy for the couple who has everything? They weren't exactly going to register on Crate and Barrel for a cocktail shaker now, were they? And, of course, there was all the money that floated into the local economy by the spending associated with a $50 million wedding (the swag bags included local sweets and Murano glass something or other), not to mention the hotel and water taxi spending by the guests. (Wonder whether the prices were jacked for the fabulously wealthy guests. Surely not in Italy...) 

It is, of course, their (his) money and they (he) can spend it how they want.

But I can't help but think about the Amazon workers who struggle with poor working conditions and crappy pay and benefits - all the while knowing that Bezos will replace every last one of them with AI and/or robots the nano-second he can. About how much more he could do if he devoted more of his wealth to the common good. (And spread more of his personal accumulation to those who work for him.)

Sure, Bezos has his philanthropic activities. But how odd that he would supposedly be committed to climate change initiatives while at the same time sucking up to a president committed to environmental destruction. (I read that Big Daddy Trump was invited to the wedding of the century but chose not to go. Maybe he wanted to golf. Or play warrior. Maybe he was afraid that Lauren would be the center of attention, not himself. In any case, Venice caught a break. Imagine the big old Air Force presidential chopper whirring its way onto Saint Mark's Plaza?)

And I can't help but think of the quiet life and amazing philanthropy of Bezos first wife, Mackenzie Scott. She's a billionaire in her own right - she helped Bezos build the Amazon business - but it's hard to imagine a novelist/philanthropist who studied under Toni Morrison at Princeton throwing a $50 million party for herself, let alone showing up at any event with her boobs hanging out. (One thing to show up showing all at your wedding celebration - Lauren Sanchez Bezos is an obvious adherent of the 'if you've got it, flaunt it' way of exhibitionism - but she also showed up showing all at Trump's second inauguration. How Eleanor Roosevelt of her.) 

My favorite part of the Bezos-Sanchez wedding event(s) was, meanie that I am, the violent thunderstorm that disrupted the welcoming party. The guests had to scatter - I was going to say, like rats, but that would be ultra-meanie; plus Venice has enough native four-legged rats as it is - when the skies opened. Just one of a series of "disasters" that attended the goings-on.

First came the anti-capitalist public protests. Then it turned out one of Bezos and Sánchez’s three chosen venues was covered by unsightly scaffolding. The next disaster to hit? A freak thunderstorm on Thursday night during a welcoming party at the Madonna dell’Orto cloisters. Heavy lightning and rain reportedly left many guests soaked, forcing the event to end early. Perhaps Bezos and Sánchez should have followed fashion week’s lead and hired a rain shaman. (Source: The Guardian)

You might not know it from reading Pink Slip, but I'm actually not a mean person. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't chuckle a bit at the thought of Jeff and Lauren, Tom Brady, Ivanka and Jared, et al. scurrying around to get out of the pouring rain. Maybe there is a god after all - a god with a sense of humor.  

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Image Source: Daily Mail on X.  

The nap of luxury...

The most I ever paid for a mattress was for a king-sized Tempur-Pedic, purchased at Brookstone's maybe 30 years ago. I don't recall what we paid, but at the time it seemed like a lot. (Something comparable today is in the $3K or so range, so it probably cost us about $1.5K.) It was worth it. I know that some people can't stand Tempur-Pedics, but it worked for us. The one downside was that the mattress hardened up in the cold, so when you first got into bed on a cold night, it felt like a marble slab. Once your body heated it up, it was perfecto. When we first got the mattress, I had sciatica and the Tempur-Pedic was good for what ailed me.

I now have a queen-size bed, a handmedown from my sister - it came with the wonderful cherry wood Crate & Barrel sleigh bed she was offloading - and I have no idea what kind of mattress is on it. I know I'll need to replace it at some point, but it's fine for now. And I'll be willing to pay a few thousand bucks for the right stuffed. 

But my price point will be well below the entry point ($14K) for a Hästens, which can run you up to $600K for the top of the line. (And, yes, you read that correctly: six-hundred thousand dollars. FOR A DAMNED MATTRESS. Apparently the rapper Drake owns one, so he can lie in comfort while licking the wounds that his arch-rival Kendrick Lamar's been inflicting on him.)

I likely would never have heard of Hästens had not an article on their dream mattresses popped up in the NY Time's Wirecutter, where "resident sleep expert" Caira Blackwell wrote about her opportunity to test drive sleep one of them for six months. 

Over the years Blackwell's been testing out mattresses, she's slept on everything from those beds-in-boxes that cost next to nothing, to high end mattresses that go for $10K. And her verdict on the Hästens 2000T: while some of the mattresses she's checked out have been just fine, when it comes to the Hästens 2000T: nothing compares to you. 

For $56K,it had better be good. But nothing prepared me for learning about Hästens.

I was expecting the handcrafted-ness, but this goes way beyond handcraft. 

Horsehair is the star of the show in every Hästens mattress. The horse mane and tail strands are heat-treated, braided, and steamed to create a permanent curl—an expensive process, according to Hästens and a Chinese-based supplier, Tallie. The curls are dense enough to create a loose, springy structure that feels airy yet supportive. The fibers are hollow, and this helps the mattress feel breathable by wicking away moisture and excess heat. (Source: NYT Wirecutter)

Personally, I don't associate horsehair with comfort. My only experience sleeping on a horsehair mattress was at the summer home of a college friend, where the mattress in my room was some sort of ugly blue leatherette stuffed with horsehair. It was as hard as a rock, and each time I turned over, it felt like I was going to fracture a hip. Not so Blackwell's experience with her horsehair mattress (which, by the way, has 2,340 individual springs in it - most box springs, which aren't so much in use anymore, had maybe one-fifth that amount). 

I know from years of mattress testing that comfort is subjective, and no single mattress will work for everyone. That being said, sleeping on the 2000T feels like nothing I’ve ever felt before. When I settle in, the mattress conforms just enough for my whole body to sink into it, while what feels like a thousand little hands support me from below. The closest comparison I can think of is floating in a sensory-deprivation chamber. When I lie on the Hästens, I feel weightless, like I’m bobbing in a pool of water calibrated to my exact body temperature. I can barely tell where the mattress ends and my body begins, regardless of what position I’m in.

Well, if that doesn't sound sweet... 

Despite the near-perfection that is the Hästens, after a few weeks using it, Blackwell felt that all that all those carefully handcrafted materials were starting to clump together. She reported the issue to the company and was told that this was to be expected:

...because the mattress requires regular, complimentary massaging. Yes, every mattress sold by Hästens comes with a “recalibration program,” in which Hästens employees visit your home to loosen up the materials and redistribute them, to prevent the mattress from settling into a you-shaped valley. Each Hästens owner is entitled to this service for a decade or more.

They remove the topper, flip the mattress, and then systematically tread across the surface in weighted steps, like they’re marching. Then they knead it with their fists, before reapplying the topper and systematically rolling the edges in to redistribute the materials in an even layer. After each 20-minute “massage,” I could feel the difference. The mattress again felt like it did on the first day it was delivered to my home.

Who knew that mattress fluffer was an actual profession? Of course, what they do is on beyond just casual fluffing, treading, kneading, and rotating. 

For Blackwell's second recalibration, she mentioned that the recalibrated mattress was feeling a bit too cushy. So they sent a squad in and they:

... re-tufted the entire thing by hand, functionally tightening each coil to adjust the bed to feel a little firmer than it was before. Again, I could really feel the difference, as if I’d swapped a soft mattress for a medium one—without the hassle. The team members explained that they can also do this procedure for half of the mattress, which is ideal for couples with different firmness preferences.

Nearly $60K for a mattress is way, way, way too rich for my blood. And I don't think I'd like having a recalibration team swing by every couple of months. Too much of a good thing, etc. 

And $600K for a mattress? That's just rich folks doing what rich folks do. Status-buying something insanely pricey just because they can afford to. Is there more value, more comfort, more more of more in a $600K mattress than in a $60K mattress? I suspect there's a marginal increase in value, comfort, and more more at best. 

$60K or $600K, this is just living in the nap of luxury. There's a Hästens store nearby, on Newbury Street. I haven't been in - and don't imagine I ever will. But if word gets out, come the revolution, someone may decide to roll the tumbrel up to their door. Liberté, égalité, sleep comfort!