Meeting your plant match

My mother was a plant lady.

Coleus. Sansevieria. Cactus. Pothos. Philodendron. Spider. African violets. Orchids. And a spectacular Christmas cactus. 

Plants could be anywhere in the house, but her big plant space was in the big bay window in the family room, which caught a lot of sun. She had special risers built up at the window's base to hold part of her collection, and all sorts of plants hung from hooks in the window itself, or perched on the sills.

She had a long thin hose that ran from the kitchen out to the family room so that she didn't have to keep coming back to the sink to refill her watering can. 

My mother also had outdoor plants - like bridal wreath and a lilac bush - as well as flowers: tulips, irises, Sweet William...

But indoor gardening was her real thing, and she definitely had a green thumb.

Which I did not inherit. (I did get the unwrinkled skin and the good legs, so there's that.)

I'm not a complete plant killer. Over the years, I've managed to have and hold (i.e., keep alive for a while) the plants you can't kill. Like sansevieria, philodendron, and coleus (my personal favorite). I also manage to keep my Christmas poinsettias alive and kicking until July.

Until my neighbor Brian took over, I "managed" the garden out front of our building, and had good luck with impatiens, which fortunately thrive in the shade and don't require much care. 

A couple of times a month, I get cut flowers at Trader Joe's, usually a bunch of alstroemeria, which are inexpensive and last for a good long time.

But mostly I'm not a plant lady.

Which is not to say that I don't like plants. And which is not to say that I don't have plants. 

Thanks to my sister Kath, who spends half the year in Tucson, I have a couple of money plants. These are exceedingly hearty. Water occasionally, spritz occasionally. They seem to survive my benevolent (or not) neglect. They sit there in front of my never-used fireplace, and look just fine. 

The original plan was that Kath would retrieve the plants on her return to Boston each spring, but that became too much of a PITA for her. So they're mine, with Kath retaining visitation rights.

Originally, there were three money plants, but my niece Molly's friend Julia expressed an interest in taking one. Which she did. I saw Julia over the summer and forgot to ask her whether she's still got it going.

The money plant, because it is low maintenance, is pretty much my plant ideal.

Still, if I lived in London, I might have dropped in to the Joy of Plants pop-up in Mayfair to figure out whether there's an even more perfect plant match out there for me. At the pop-up, you can spend some time getting to know a plant before committing to a purchase and taking one home. A speed-date of sorts.

A spokesman, from TheJoyofPlants.co.uk, said: "Finding a new plant love isn’t all that different to finding a new partner. It takes a lot of research, some trial and error and a sprinkle of chemistry to find ‘the one’.

“So, we’ve set up this plant dating pop up to help match plant singletons with their leafy love matches.

"As the winter nights are beginning to draw in, and we’ll be spending more time inside, we are encouraging everyone to get ‘plant-nered’ up.” (Source: The Sun)

The idea for the plant matchmaking stemmed - get it? stemmed? hah-hah-hah - from research that:

...found the typical adult has owned a single plant for as many as five years, with just seven per cent claiming they have managed the same length of time in a human relationship.

I'm not yet there with Kath's money plants, but I'm pretty sure I've had plants somewhere in my life that lasted for five years. And I don't want to brag, but I've been in plenty of human relationships that have lasted a good while longer. Including my relationship with Kath's, which is now pushing 73 years of age.

I suppose they meant romantic relationships, and, while I can't claim a 73 year partnership, my husband and I were together for nearly forty years - eight times the longevity of the average plant relationship - before Jim died. (I was going to say "was planted six feet under," but that would have seemed callous. Or at least tacky. Plus I don't recall that the portion of his ashes that were buried, rather than strewn, went six feet deep.)

The Brits take their plant relationships seriously, but the top three considerations aren't exactly surprising.

When deciding which plants to commit to, the top three ‘vital statistics’ adults look for include how much water they need, what type of light suits them and where they might fit in within their home’s current aesthetic.

Although I would think that cost would factor in, or the required upkeep (beyond watering). 

Oddly, the research found that:

...nine per cent believe houseplants and flowers make a good companion in their life.

I don't see the companionship angle at all. Companionship, it seems to me, has got to have some two-way-street element to it. A dog will lick your hand. A cat will allow you (maybe) to pet it. But a plant? Nice to look at, but a companion?

My mother's not here to ask, so maybe she did get some sort of companionship from her plants. She was widowed young, and once she became an empty nester, she lived alone for many years. So...

I do know that she cared deeply for her plants. When she went to Florida each year for a month, which she did in the last decade of her life, she had someone look in on them. 

Me? 

I'm not feeling the companionship vibes from those money plants.

Maybe if I got a plant more to my liking, things would change. Is it time to invest in a colorful coleus? 

If only I were in London, there'd be someone to help me figure it all out.

But I'm not, so I won't be meeting my plant match anytime soon.

Can I get the clarinet guy to manage my money?

I wasn't going to look. I knew it wasn't going to be pretty. But last week, I got up in the middle of the night to take a look at my retirement account. 

Oh.

I am not a high-flyer investor by any means. I'm not a keep-it-all-in-a-cash-account-so-it-can't-lose-any-value (variation of the old under-the-mattress strategy), but I'm not a big risk-taker either (just say no to crypto). I'm balanced, I'm hedged.

Still, the market's the market, insidious and unpredictable. And down. Big down from last year.

I'll not going to panic. I'm in hold 'em mode. 

If I went back and looked, I'd likely find that my paper loss is probably the same amount as my paper gain from the year before.

The market. That bad boy giveth and that bad boy taketh away.

But the older you are, the harder it is to recoup a loss, paper or otherwise. At my age, when it comes to my retirement money, I'm a subtractor (minimum required distribution, and all that), not an adder. 

So maybe I should have been shrewder, smarter, more observant, more involved, more interested, etc. 

But since I was none of the above, I missed my opportunity to be another Edward Avedisian.

He's the retired Boston Pops clarinetist (and Boston University alum) who just donated $100 million to BU's medical school. Avedisian:

...scored big picking stocks with the basics — that is, research, patience, and a long-term focus. But he also confesses to having had a high tolerance for taking big risks, including borrowing money to magnify his bets and playing in the options market. In other words, his approach isn’t for everyone.

Add in a remarkable run of good luck and the power of compounding gains over four decades, and Avedisian improbably turned a modest initial outlay into a fortune that could underwrite one of BU’s biggest gifts ever. (Source: Boston Globe)

That "modest initial outlay," by the way, was somewhere between $10K and $20K. (The max 401K contribution in 2022, by the way, is $20.5K, the 1982 equivalent of about $61K today...)

Avedisian says that "success is the intersection of opportunity and preparation." He was single and "lived modestly," which helped him develop the risk tolerance to make big bets. And he spent his free time delving into research - financial statements, IPO prospectuses, the financial news - so his bets were pretty informed. His primary focus was tech stocks. 

He also bought on margin (c.f., risk tolerance), and he rode out bear markets.

”If you own good stuff, stay with it.” he said. The market “will turn around soon enough. . . . There is a lot of opportunity coming.”

Like most amateurs, most of my money's in mutual funds. But mutual funds or individual stocks and bonds, I will be taking that bit of advice and ride out this bear. 

Still, I'm wondering whether it's too late to actually get interested in "the market". Probably. Make that absolutely. I got this far in life with zero interest in it. Why stop just because I made an ill-advised 2 a.m. visit to my retirement account and gulped.

Avedisian is no longer an active investor. But if he were, I sure wouldn't mind his managing my money for me. 

End the Exception? YES!

If you drive up Route 1 in Mid-coast Maine on your way to Rockland - which is worth a visit if you like Andrew Wyeth (Farnsworth Museum) or you want to visit the truly quiet (no-cars) and drop-dead gorgeous Monhegan Island - you'll pass through Thomaston, Maine. And pass by the Maine State Prison Store, which sells wooden items made by prisoners. 

My toast tongs were purchased there.

The inmates who make those items are, by prison standards, paid pretty well, about $3 an hour. Which is low even by the dismal minimum wage standards for outside-of-prison jobs in the worst-paying states (Georgia, Wyoming: $5.15/hour).

About 1,000 prisoners in California fight wildfires for a couple of bucks a day. On the plus side, they're not sitting around a prison cell, and they get to shave time off their sentences. The downside: this is incredibly risky business. They are, of course, developing a skill, but California laws prohibit these men from becoming full-time firefighters once they've completed their sentences. They can still volunteer or take seasonal gigs, but don't have the opportunity to take a secure job with benefits. 

Ugh!

And, of course, most of us are aware that prisoners stamp out license plates.

But they do a lot of other things. Prisoners work for private, profit making companies, e.g., staffing call centers. (Some Victoria's Secret undies used to be stitched by prisoners.) Prisoners may work for state-owned corporations, like the woodworking center in Maine. Or for correctional agencies. (In Massachusetts, prisoners - gallingly, if you ask me - manufacture some Blue Lives Matter gear...) 

There are an awful - emphasis on the awful - lot of prisoners out there working for next to nothing and, in some cases, nothing. The average pay across the country is $.86 an hour. (Guessing game: name two of the five states that force prisoners to work for zip.)

A report published by the American Civil Liberties Union in June 2022 found about 800,000 prisoners out of the 1.2 million in state and federal prisons are forced to work, generating a conservative estimate of $11bn annually in goods and services while average wages range from 13 cents to 52 cents per hour. Five states – Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Mississippi and Texas – force prisoners to work without pay. (Source: The Guardian)

Bet you got at least one state right, you good guesser, you.

The stories of those forced into labor are grim. One person reported that he worked all day for a stamp. 

The idea of prisoners working isn't a bad one. Nice if they can make some money and maybe even develop a useful skill. 

(If you're wondering why a prisoner, who's given 'three hots and a cots' courtesy of the state, needs money, those incarcerated use the money to shop in the prison commissary for food that they actually want to eat, for toiletries that don't have "prison-issue" written all over them, for pens and papers, and other small items. They can pay for phone calls, which are often charged at an unconscionable rate. They may want to send money home to their family - or help payoff the compensation they owe their victims. They may want to save up to have a little nest egg they can use if and when they're released.)

Given that the 13th Amendment outlawed slavery, you may well be wondering how states can get away with not paying people for their labor. 

...to the surprise of many, the Thirteenth Amendment includes an exception clause that has been understood throughout history to allow slavery and involuntary servitude to be used as punishment for crime. During Reconstruction, this understanding encouraged the criminalization, incarceration, and re-enslavement of Black people. (Source: End the Exemption)

In many places, those who refuse the offer of meagerly or even non-paid work end up in solitary, or losing family visit or phone call privileges. They may be beaten, or denied parole. 

There's a movement afoot in Congress, spearheaded by Sen. Jeff Merkley or Oregon and Rep. Nikema Williams of Georgia, to pass the Abolition Amendment. But the bill, despite having a reasonably hefty list of co-sponsors in the House (175 members, including 5 Republicans) and 14 co-sponsors in the Senate, hasn't made it out of committee and onto the floor for a vote. Yet. 

I don't believe that prison should be a pleasure dome, but prisoners should be treated humanely. They should be afforded opportunities to learn, and to earn - and to earn something that more closely resembles a just wage than zero an hour. Being locked up, it seems to me, is plenty of punishment. Folks sitting around 24/7 with nothing to do isn't a good look. Neither is paying them a paltry and insulting amount of money. 

I'm no expert on the carceral system, but I do volunteer in a shelter that provides services to those experiencing homelessness. And a lot of these folks have criminal records. 

Beyond name and birthdate, I don't have access to any of our guests' files. But a lot of them aren't shy about mentioning that they've been in prison. Some tell me that they just got out, and need some new duds. Others tell me they don't want to use the soap we usually distribute because it's sourced from the company that's the largest provider of prison toiletries. So I know that a lot of the folks I hand a toothbrush to have seen the inside of a prison or jail cell.

Some of the folks we serve are young, others not-so-young. Many have multiple issues. Yes, they've been in prison, but they're also suffering from mental health problems or substance abuse issues or dealing with physical health challenges. An awful lot of them - disproportionately so - are Black or brown.

Most of them - if they're young enough, if they're healthy enough - want to work. And that was probably true when they were behind bars. 

We need to stop exploiting the folks who are doing time. If they're working while on the inside, they should be compensated for it. 

Time to get rid of the slavery exception.

Cat cafe, you say?

I am most fortunate to live in a neighborhood with lots of interesting and independent (or small local chain-lets) shops. We have our very own drugstore that's not a CVS. We have our very own hardware store that's not a Home Depot. We have lots of little gifty stores. Clothing stores where I, as a non-twenty-something who doesn't wear a size zero, do not shop. But nonetheless. We have a couple of antique stores. A couple of picture frameries. The requisite nail salons. A chocolatier. Etc. And restaurants that aren't chains. 

All mostly charming and pricey. 

Just the sort of shopping one might expect in a neighborhood that's mostly charming and pricey.

In the last couple of years, we've lost a couple of my favorites. The wonderful Black Ink, a quirky little gift shop, is now online-only. And if I want to indulge my desire for some of the wondrous Fastachi roasted nuts, I have to order online or schlep over to Watertown. (Come to think of it, schlepping over to Watertown would make a good nice day walk. Load up on nuts and Uber back.)

But hope always springs eternal when it comes to someone figuring out what to do with an empty storefront.

Last year, a young woman opened a charcuterie shop, selling custom charcuterie boards. I must admit, I'm amazed that this store is still in business, but maybe it's not actually an authentically going concerned. (When it opened, I figured it was either mummy-daddy money, or something to put on the B-school application. What I learned by establishing a fancy cured meat shop that never turned a profit. Those both may still obtain, but damned if that shop isn't there. So much for all the young folks becoming vegans.)

And a couple of fancy little children's shops have opened. Is there enough demand for $150 infant sweaters, or carefully curated book collections for toddlers? Remains to be seen.

Anyway, what's now in the works is a cat café.

Brittany Baker, a resident of Beacon Hill since 2014 who has extensive previous experience working in bookstores and cafes and has also volunteered for the last 10 years as a “feline behavior” specialist with the Animal Rescue League of Boston, said A Sanctuary Café would comprise three components – a café, a bookstore, and a “cat lounge.” (Source: Beacon Hill Times - of course we have our own charming and non-pricey (in fact, free) little newspaper.

Admittedly, I am not a cat person, but I can imagine that, if I were, I might want to bring my kitty out for a play date. The same as if I did have a doggie, I'd bring them out to the Boston Common during the morning and afternoon meetups of dog people. Or to the spring and summer Yappier Hours at the Liberty Hotel, where folks bring there pooches to a happy hour where the humans have a drink and the doggies just get to run around sniffing each others' butts and being happy. 

So, while I don't think cats aren't social in the same way dogs are, I can imagine cat people bringing their kitties out, if only so the humans could socialize with fellow cat people.

But I'm not sure whether that's what the cat café has in mind. 

As far as I gather, there'll be a micro-bookstore. And a café serving coffee and baked goods. These spaces will be separated out "to appeal to patrons who aren’t fond of cats, or are allergic to them." Although why anyone who isn't fond of cats, let alone allergic to them, would be doing there... 

The good news:

Cats would also not be allowed in any areas where food and drink are prepared, and all food would come from an outside vendor.

Then there are a couple of cat lounge spaces, where the "resident cats" are provided with a comfy environment where they can chill. But, unlike in many other cat cafes, the kitties aren't up for adoption. And, according to the article, "patrons

[cannot] bring their own pets there." 

Huh?

I guess this is a cat café norm, but, there's actually a world where people would pay an expected $30/hour to hang around a cat lounge with the ten "resident cats." Sure, the cats are curated, or whatever the term is for "selected for compatibility." So there shouldn't be any cat fights. 

But are there really people who'd pay to hang around with a bunch of cats.

The cat lounge space would require reservations to keep the cat-to-human ratio “appropriate,” said Baker, while reservations would be staggered (every 15 minutes) to ensure there are no queues on the sidewalk waiting to get inside.

Maybe it's just me, but I can't anticipate people, no matter how cat-crazy, queuing up "on the sidewalk waiting to get inside" to hang out with a bunch of strange cats. 

I mean, I'd pay to hang out with a comfort dog whose head I could pat. But cats? Creeping around. Jumping all over things. Sure, they're beautiful to look at, but don't they say that what's going on in a cat's mind is trying to figure out how to kill you? Wouldn't you have to be some sort of masochist to pay to sit around with a bunch of animals plotting your demise?

Providing a sanctuary for unwanted animals is certainly an admirable endeavor. So good for Brittany Baker and her vision. But as a business proposition? In order to be happy, I don't imagine cats need to be in charming and pricey lounges on Beacon Hill. Are there really enough people who'll pay $30/hour so that ten curated cats have a swank place where they can sharpen their claws.

Also: for those who just want to shop in a micro-bookstore, or have a nice cup of coffee and a scone, how will this place NOT smell of cat?

But I didn't think the charcuterie place would last as long as it has, so what do I know?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

That picture is of a cat café in Russia. The people may have grim lives, but I guess the cats live okay.

A brilliant career move, if ever

As jobs go, tech support at a university probably isn't a bad one. It probably doesn't pay a ton, but it's also probably pretty secure. I mean, students, professors, and admins will always need tech support. And, sure, the pressure's on, but maybe not the same pressures that would be in play in a business if, say, their online store was down and revenue and happy customers were at stake. Or in a hospital if patient records couldn't be accessed. (Which kidney am I removing???) Or any other scenario more crucial than a freshman who couldn't login to submit an assignment.

But university tecy support might not be all that exciting. 

And that lack of excitement might be what got to former Northeastern University tech support guy Jason Duhaime. 

Oh, Duhaime may not have been the guy helping freshmen with passwords. His title was New Technology Manager, which puts him up the food chain for a Tier One support rep. Still, after eight years in this position, and 25 years in tech support at Northeastern - thanks, Linkedin! - there must have been plenty of same-old, same-old.

Yes, he got to work around exciting new technology, but not with it. Maybe he felt more like a faker than a maker. 

So last month, Duhaime called 911, claiming that he'd been injured by an exploding storage case, the explosion seemingly the act of someone attacking a university tech center (NU's Immersive Media Lab) because, according to the letter found in the exploding storage case, he was worried about robots on campus. And/or about Mark Zuckerberg. (Ok. I'll give him the latter. Who isn't worried about Mark Zuckerberg. Just a bit. Even though that worried is eclipsed by worry about, say, Elon Musk.)

Here's part of the story Duhaime told:

“And as soon as I opened it up [the case], all this energy and, like, these things come flying out,” he told authorities, according to the affidavit. “And I had a long sleeve shirt, and they flew up underneath, basically, and hit my arm. The case went up and then it came down.” (Source: Boston Globe)

Duhaime's story ended up exploding in his face.

...investigators found no evidence of an explosion: “no small or sharp objects” were found in the case, or anywhere in the lab, according to the affidavit, and there was “no physical damage” to the case, Duhaime’s shirt, or the letter itself...

His injuries were superficial. He said the letter came from inside the exploding case, but it was found neatly folded and undamaged. Investigators later found a “word-for-word, electronic copy” of the letter stored in a backup folder on his computer, according to an FBI affidavit. 

Word-for-word, you say. Whoopsa-doopsa.

Duhaime - who's no kid: he's 45 - was arrested last week in Texas, where he was hanging out with his girlfriend. (Apparently, since he was divorced a couple of years ago, he's been dividing his time between Texas and sleeping in his office or in the lab when he had to be in Boston. Ah, the beauty of remote work!)

When this "explosion" occurred, it was plenty scary. Since the Marathon Bombing, we've been bomb-shy around here. And I have a niece who's a student at Northeastern. So, heart in mouth time there for a bit.

Happily, it turned out to be big nothing, but we sure could live without the false alarms coming from these act-out putzes who want to be in the limelight. Or whatever.

Because who knows what motivated Jason Duhaime to cook up this little plot. Boredom. Resentment. Grudge against the institution. Desire for recognition. Desire for attention. Anyway:

Duhaime is charged with conveying false information and hoaxes related to an explosive device and making material false statements to an executive branch of the US government, according to legal filings in US District Court in Boston. 

Oh, and he no longer works at Northeastern.  

Brilliant career move. 

I'm sure he'll find work somewhere, at some point, for some rate of pay likely lower than what he made at Northeastern (which probably also came with some pretty good benefits). But it'll be a while before he's managing a new technology lab at a major university. If he was bored doing that, imagine the boredom level if he ends up answering Tier One IT help calls.

Not Columbus Day, 2022

It's still a federal holiday, so if you were expecting a big influx of Christmas catalogues today, you're out of luck. And it's still called Columbus Day.

It's a state holiday in Massachusetts. State offices are closed. Local government offices, too. And in Massachusetts, although the legislature is supposedly exploring options, it's still called Columbus Day.

It's a local holiday in Boston. City offices are closed. School's out. There are a number of Italian heritage events scheduled, although it looks like the parade (which toggles back and forth between two historically Italian sections, the North End and East Boston) isn't on for 2022. And in Boston, it's now called Indigenous People's Day.

Personally, I was hoping for an Immigrants' Day (and making Thanksgiving Indigenous People's Day), but I was outvoted. So Indigenous People's Day it is. Here's what I had to say about it in 2020. As I noted, if we expect the south to get rid of statues of racist SOB's like Robert E. Lee and Nathan Bedford Forrest, maybe the northern cities and states that have large Italian populations can ditch Cristoforo Colombo.

A statue of CC in Boston's Christopher Columbus Park was beheaded a couple of years ago, and the headless statue removed. I walk down there every few weeks, but I can't envision what's there now. If anything. 

But I do believe that my home town of Worcester's statue is still in place. It's in front of the city's train station (Union Station), which is just next door to Worcester's historically Italian section around Shrewsbury Street. 

I'm not sure whether Worcester is still observing Columbus Day, or whether it's made the switch to Indigenous People's Day. I do know that the Columbus Day Parade has been renamed the Italian Heritage Parade. Bravo, bravo, bravissimo. 

Back here in Boston, last year, any holiday name and intent changes were overshadowed by the annual running of the Boston Marathon. Six months later than its normal April timing, but better late than never.

So the first year we demoted Christopher Columbus, we had the Marathon to focus on.

But this year?

I just checked, and it looks like Boston hasn't yet come up with any ways to observe Indigenous People's Day, other than the name change. While - parade aside - most of the Italian-related celebrations are still on.

I have no plans, If it's a nice day, maybe I'll mosey down to the North End and see what's in place of the beheaded C. Columbus statue. And nothing to do with Christopher Columbus, I haven't had a cannoli in a while...

Cheat, cheat, never beat. (Live fish, dead fish. Stuffed with lead fish.)

Well, yesterday's post was a cautionary tale about catfishing. Today's is about a fish of a different color, the walleye pike.

When I think of professional sports, professional athletes, I'm usually in a narrow zone of the big American four - baseball, football, hockey, basketball - and the obvious significant non-team sports others: golf, tennis, track, skiing, racecar driving. Oh, and soccer. 

So I'm always a bit taken aback when I read about someone making a living as a professional gamer, or poker player, or via fishing. 

But when it comes to these sorts of fun and games, there is big money to be made. And some of that money is being made by those who bait a hook and can reel in a big one.

For walleye pike, the Lake Erie champeens the last few years have been the team of Jake Runyan and Chase Cominsky. Given their prior success, they were the favorites to win big at a the recent Lake Erie Walleye Trail Championship in Cleveland Harbor. The prize for catching the weightiest five walleyes was nearly $30K, and 30 two-man angling teams were competing for that prize. 

When Runyan and Cominsky handed over their bag o' fish for the weigh in, tournament head Jason Fischer sensed that there was something a bit off. 

“When I felt something hard in the belly of their first fish, and their limit of five walleye seemed excessively heavy, at more than 33 pounds, for their length, I called for a fillet knife,” said Fischer, who also works as law enforcement officer in the Cleveland area.

The first slice opened the body cavity, and with almost no prodding, Fisher’s video showed one of the big sinkers falling from the walleye’s body cavity.

“We’ve got weights in the fish!” Fischer announced to the crowd around the weigh-in stage, many with cell phone video cameras. A total of about 10 sinkers were ultimately removed from the five walleye. (Source: Cleveland.com)

I've heard of Walleye Étouffée. But stuffed with lead? 

Talk about hook, line, and sinker. 

The Runyan-Cominsky duo, which has won expensive boats and tens of thousands over the past several years, had been suspected of cheating by fellow anglers. But here was the smoking gun. This was, proof wise, pretty much a lead pipe - or lead sinker - cinch.

Runyan and Cominsky had been sneaky shrewd enough to pad those sinkers with other andh hunks of filleted walleye "so that the sinkers wouldn't bump each other and make noise."

Not wanting chaos, Fischer demanded that Runyan, who was weighing the fish, leave immediately because of threats from others anglers. Cominsky had already locked himself in his truck in the parking lot.

As I said, there's big money at stake here, so Cominksy (along with co-crimer Runyan) may well find himself locked in something more secure and less comfortable than his truck.

While cheating in fishing tournaments is rare, those who have risked it have found themselves severely fined and even jailed. In tournament fishing circles, a cheating angler becomes a pariah in a sport where competitors rely their reputations and on friendly sponsors for expense money and fishing tackle.

I'm guessing that, whether they end up in the hoosegow or not, Runyan and Cominsky have participated in their last fishing derby. And I'm guessing that in tournaments where there's serious money on the line, those weighing bags may be getting more scrutiny than they have been getting traditionally. I can definitely see some sort of TSA-style screening in the future. 

Not that I'll be there to see it, as I don't typically follow the world of professional fishing. 

Still, interesting to learn a bit about it. And pretty shocked that such obvious cheating went on. Didn't these idiots think that eventually someone was going to notice something fishy going on?

Catfished

I remembered the story. Vaguely. A prominent college athlete - Samoan kid at Notre Dame having a banner senior year. Grandmother and girlfriend die on the same day. Playing on makes Manti Te'o an inspiration. Turns out the girlfriend didn't exist. Manti Te'o enters a shitstorm...

And that was all that I remembered. Actually, more than I remembered. 

When Tua Taovailoa - another ethnic-Samoan football star from Hawaii - suffered his second concussion in less than a week, I heard the name "Tua" and thought it was the catfished guy.

Then I watched Untold: The Girlfriend Who Didn't Exist, a two-part Netflix documentary that revisited the now nearly decade old scandal from the perspective of both the the victim (Manti Te'o) and the perpetrator (Naya Tuiasosopo), which turned out to be fascinating and nuanced, and touched on issues on so many planes and vectors of our culture.

First, there's Manti Te'o. A star athlete from Hawaii (he graduated from the same high school Obama did), who's one of the most highly recruited high school football players, Class of 2009.

Manti is smart, gifted, handsome, driven. His family has no money for college, so a scholarship is mandatory. A lot of schools are interested, and he's leaning towards Southern Cal. Then he has a revelation that God wants him to go to Notre Dame. 

From a football perspective, why not? Although its team hadn't been doing all that great, ND is always up there in terms of the prestige of its program - including that, unlike the situation at so many sports-factory schools, most of its athletes graduate. But South Bend is cold. And Notre Dame is Catholic. Very Catholic. Which makes Manti Te'o, a very religious young fellow, a Mormon, something of an odd man out.

There are great expectations that Manti will help turn around the ND football program, and, over the years he's there, that he does.

But Notre Dame was a culture shock for him. If he'd gone to Southern Cal, even though he wouldn't have found a ton of fellow Hawaiian/Pacific Islanders, there'd have been an order of magnitude more than he found at ND. And he'd have been in an area with a large AAPI population. 

Then there was the Mormon thing...

There aren't a lot of them at Notre Dame, which is overwhelming Catholic. 80% of its students are Catholic (vs. roughly 70% at Holy Cross and Boston College, and roughly 40% at Georgetown).

In some sense, the conservative Catholic atmosphere at ND would make a conservative Mormon kid fell right at home. Still...

Being a fish out of water pretty much set Manti Te'o up for what happened to him.

Which was that he met Lennay Kekua on Facebook. Like Manti, Lennay was of Samoan descent. And smart. Stanford smart. She was very religious (not clear whether she was a Mormon), and the two grew FB close, exchanging messages and phone calls. Manti was able to vet Lennay through a cousin, who was also a friend of Lennay. Turns out, he was a FB friend who'd never met her in person.

Meeting her in person would have been impossible, because she didn't exist.

Lennay was the invention of (then) Ronaiah Tuiasosopo, who was using Facebook to help herself come to terms with her own identity as a transwoman. 

Over time, Manti pressed to meet Lennay in person, but he was a busy young man, what with school and football. And he was in Indiana, while Lennay was in California.

And, in the modern era of social media, having a virtual relationship was becoming fairly commonplace.

The relationship was growing in intensity, and Tuiasosopo (also a Samoan from a conservative religious background) decided to kill Lennay off.

And so, as football season kicked off at Notre Dame in the fall of 2012, Lennay's "sister" informed Manti that Lennay - who'd previously suffered an equally imagined accident - had died of leukemia, just hours after Manti's grandmother had died in real life.

Manti, in good athletic spirit, soldiered on, leading Notre Dame to an undefeated 12-0 season. And the story of his suffering through these two deaths captured a lot of attention, raising Manti's profile and helping him get a nomination for the Heisman Trophy. (He didn't win, but got the most votes ever for one-way players who played defense only.)

Ah, human interest. Aren't we all suckers for it?

Then, on the eve of Notre Dame's playing for the national championship, the story began to unravel.

A couple of Deadspin reporters, trying to prove that mainstream sports news sites like ESPN were willing to go with stories that they didn't bother to vet, researched Lennay and found that she didn't exist.

The pictures on her Facebook page? Stolen from the social media accounts of one of Tuiasosopo's high school classmates The persona? Entirely cooked up by Ronaiah (as she was then known) Tuiasosopo. 

The questions - and the piling on - began.

Was Manti Te'o in on the hoax? How could he have been so naive? Was he stone stupid? Was he secretly gay and in love with Ronaiah Tuiasosopo? Etc.

Manti went from cover boy and boy hero, to laughing stock and meme.

The story became a skit on SNL. Katie Couric asked him if he were gay. Everyone, it seems, was piling on.

Not surprisingly, Notre Dame lost the national championship game. Manti Te'o's play was definitely off.

Then the NFL draft came along, and Manti - who had expected to be taken in the first round - wasn't picked up until the second round. It's estimated that this tumble cost him several million dollars. 

Manti did make it to the NFL, and had a reasonably good career: 9 seasons, 3 teams. 

But football life was hard. The confidence he had felt in high school and college had taken a big hit. How had he allowed himself to be catfished? He went from there's Manti Te'o being shouted to there's Manti Te'o being whispered, or jeered.

Manti Te'o comes across as someone who, helmet off, has his head on plenty straight. He's forgiven Tuiasosopo. He's forgiven himself. He's married and a father. Whatever he does after football, he will no doubt succeed. 

Then there's his catfisher, Naya (now) Tuiasosopo.

While she does express remorse for the harm she caused Manti Te'o, she's more interested in her interviews in exploring how and why she invented Lennay, and how it was central to her coming to terms with her gender identity and sexuality. 

While I'll reserve most of my sympathy for Manti Te'o and his family, I have plenty left over for Naya Tuiasososopo and her struggles.

How easy it is to get sucked into meshugas when you're making things up on the Internet. How difficult it is to extricate yourself from it, once you get in deep.

Fascinating stuff, for sure.

If you're a Netflix subscriber, I highly recommend Untold: The Girlfriend Who Didn't Exist. 

End of Season's Greetings

This afternoon, the Red Sox are scheduled to play their final game of what's been quite a disappointing season. 

They've had a pretty good run in the 21st century, what with four World Series Championships - something that I, as a lifelong Red Sox fan, never expected to enjoy. But the off years have often been painfully off. And this season, after an unexpectedly

enjoyable run in 2021 in which they made it to the American League Championship Series, has been as off and painful as any of them have been.

I've been to three in person games this year, and the first two were definitely terribly lackluster and boo-able. I also managed to get out to Worcester for two Woo Sox (Red Sox AAA) games which were thoroughly enjoyable. A great little stadium, a lot cheaper tickets and concessions, and I got a split - one W, one L - on the two games I saw.

Anyway, when the Sox win, they play the Standells' "(Love That) Dirty Water," and as of last week I hadn't heard it this year.

Despite how god-awful the Sox have been - and they're ending the season in last place in the Eastern Division - I'm always game to take myself out to the ballgame. I watch part of most games on TV, but there's nothing like being at Fenway in person.

Last Thursday was a perfect early-fall day. Sunshine, mid 60's, blue skies. The Sox had an early afternoon game against the Baltimore Orioles, who were still in fingers-crossed hopeful contention for one of the AL Wild Card spots. (The Red Sox had already been eliminated.) And last minute tickets on the scalper reseller sites were going for cheap. So, what the hell.

I got myself a last minute seat for about one-quarter of what I paid for a similar Loge Box seat at the two earlier games I went to. I'd say a steal, but I think the Red Sox owe us fans for the fact that they have the highest ticket and concession prices, and one of the lousiest teams.

One of my favorite urban experiences is walking out to the game.

Last Thursday, I was running late, so had to take the T, but there was a good ball game crowd on it. And after I got off at the Kenmore stop, there was a big crowd heading to Fenway. A feeling I love

I got my usual sausage and peppers sandwich and some Cracker Jack which, surprisingly, contained a reasonable number of peanuts. A first in a long while!

The game was good, the seat great. The lead back-and-forthed a few times. Things were tied 3-3 in the 8th. Sweet Caroline, as much as I was enjoying the game, as much as I love baseball, I despise extra innings games. But I certainly wouldn't have abandoned the game during the 8th inning.

The crowd was interesting. For a crappy team so late in the season, attendance was pretty high: roughly 30,000 out of a capacity of 37,673. It was a combo of diehards, young families, old geezers, business folks, and tourists. The guy sitting next to me was from somewhere else, and his seatmate, in a thick French accent, was trying to explain baseball to him. In the row behind, a woman gamely tried to explain the game to a couple from Germany, who couldn't grasp that there was no time limit in baseball. 

There were three couples in the row in front of me. The women were all wearing Red Sox gear and enjoying themselves. (At least one of them, I take it, was originally from New England.) The men were all wearing MAGA-adjacent garb: a Chatahoochee cap, a deer hunting tee. A couple of guys seemed to be sort of enjoying the game. At least the beer. But the guy in front of me - he of the deer-hunting shirt - sat there glowering with his arms folded across his chest throughout the afternoon. I guess he felt like I would wearing a Nantucket tee-shirt at a NASCAR race. That is, somewhere between appalled and scared.

After the singing of "Sweet Caroline," which occurs between the top and the bottom of the 8th, Fenway began to empty out. The tourists in the lead of the exodus. Apparently, singing "Sweet Caroline" at Fenway is on a number of bucket lists. Who knew?

Those who left missed an exciting bottom of the 8th, during which DH J.D. Martinez, likely gone after this season, went bridge, smacking a two-run johnson, and putting the Red Sox ahead 5-3. Which was enough for the W. And so I got to hear "Dirty Water." And got a beautiful walk home along the Charles River.

In using the notion of going bridge with a two-run johnson, I'm paying homage to Red Sox color guy (and Hall of Famer) Dennis Eckersley, an enormously entertaining fellow known for his Eck-isms. He's leaving the Boston area to be closer to his grandkids. Good move for him. Bad move for Red Sox fans. I'll miss his goofiness, honesty, insider knowledge, and sheer enjoyment of the game.

Which I, as an outsider, so enjoy as well.

I'll put on today's game to hear the last of Eck. And see the last of the Red Sox.

Baseball is my game. I can intelligently watch pretty much all the major sports, but baseball, thanks to my father, has always had my heart. 

The Red Sox are out of it, which has been the story for most of my life. So I'll dip in and out of the playoffs. So far, I don't have a "rooting for," other than the Cleveland Guardians (formerly Indians). They haven't won it all in a dog's age, and I love their coach, Terry Francona, formerly manager of the Red Sox, where he put the curse to bed in 2004, and to prove it wasn't a once-in-86-years fluke, did it again in 2007. 

I do have a couple of "rooting against" teams, i.e., Yankees and Dodgers (despite Mookie Betts). If those two team end up in the World Series, I'll be hard put to pick someone to cheer for.

There's still another month of baseball, and for that I'm thankful.

Still, feeling a little wistful about the end of the Red Sox season.

End of Season's Greetings to all. And to all a good game.

Sneaker authenticator? Now there's a job for ya!

When I was searching for an image to illustrate this post, I used the term "expensive nike sneakers." What came up first was a pair of size 9 Louis Vuitton/Nike Air Forces, available for a negotiable price of $23,750. There's complimentary shipping in the US, but nonetheless, $23,750 does seem a tad steep for a pair of sneakers. And I'd hate like mad to pay that much for these sweet Nikes only to find out that they were fakes. Talk about Jeez Louise Vuitton.

Apparently, there's a ton of sneaker forgery out there. 

The sneaker market is colossal - estimated at $72 billion globally per annum. 

And I, a 7 mile a day walker who walks through about 3-4 pairs a year, am a modest contributor to that. Sneakers are what I'm wearing about 95% of the time, and I get good ones. Which I believe to be authentic, trusting Zappo's as I do. Mostly ASICs. But paying $150 a pair is one thing. $23,750 is quite another.

Anyway, where there's a colossal market, there's colossal inducement to fraud, especially when it comes to iconic brands like Nike, and collectors who've gotta have the latest latest. (A few years ago, I walked in the cold rain passed a store on Newbury Street. There was a long line out front. The sort of line I'd seen only at an Apple store on new iPhone day, or on the news for the old Filene's Basement "Running of the Brides" wedding dress sale. I asked someone what they were lined up for, and I initially interpreted his response to be that he was waiting to see Kanye West. Then I realized that the line was there because a limited supply of Ye's Yeezy sneakers were going to be on the shelf that day.)

Footwear is one of the top counterfeited industries. Nearly $96.7 million of footwear was seized by U.S. Customs and Border Protection in 2021, up from $63.1 million in the previous year, CBP spokesperson Jeffrey Quiñones said in a statement.

Fake footwear trailed only handbags and clothes, according to 2021 customs data, rising from the sixth-most-seized item just three years ago. (Source: Washington Post)

Less than $100M seized? A pittance compared to the overall market. But wait a darned minute. 

The counterfeit sneaker market last year might have been worth $450 billion, more than five times the value of the legitimate market, according to a report from fitness trend reporter RunRepeat.

Needless to say, the legit sneaker producers aren't big fans of counterfeits. After all, they've invested a lot in coming up with a product that so many people want, a brand that consumers so proudly wear. The resellers like eBay and StockX (a sneaker marketplace) aren't wild about it, either. Their names get tarnished if folks think they're buying the real deal, only to find out they've got a real fake. 

To the rescue are sneaker authenticators, experts like Justin Mupas, "who examines hundreds of shoes each day as a trained sneaker authenticator for the online marketplace StockX,"

For StockX’s human authenticators, the process involves more than 25 elements, starting with the shoe box. Even the box paper, which buyers tend to discard, can say something about the shoes inside, Mupas said.

“There’s some things that we can point out immediately that to a regular person that’s not an authenticator, they wouldn’t be able to see it,” Mupas said, adding that authenticators have to understand every brand and sneaker style available on the StockX platform.

Authenticators don't reveal all the tricks of their trade. After all, they don't want to let the fakers onto the tells. But Mupas as able to identify a real pair of Chunky Dunky sneakers (a shoe produced by Nike in collaboration with Ben & Jerry's) by it's "scent of animal hair. The fakes smell like factory glue."

Think I'll take a hard pass on sneakers that smell like animal hair. 

Thanks to LinkedIn, I learned that Mupas spent his early career in financial services (insurance, small business loans) before joining StockX as an authenticator four-and-a-half years ago. Nothing in his background screams "sneaker authenticator", but he's a young guy and, I'm guessing, a sneaker buff.

His company, StockX, is embroiled in a suit with Nike, which has claimed that, authenticators aside, StockX has been selling counterfeits. 

EBay would, of course, love to see Nike prevail, making them the dominant force in the authentication space. 

Today, authentication is primarily done by humans, but AI-based authentication is coming.

Raymond Nieves, an eBay authenticator, said real people would have to continue being involved in deciphering real vs. fake shoes. With human senses — sight, smell, touch.

“A robot cannot do this,” he said.

Just you wait, Raymond Nieves, just you wait.

For now, sneaker authenticator may look like a secure profession, but machines are on the way that will be able to tell me whether those Louis Vuitton Green Nikes are real, or real fakes. 

Now this sort of NFT makes sense. Sort of.

I'm not a big fan of NFTs, and don't understand why anyone would want to pay for a digital image of anything. 

A physical work of art you can hang on your wall and enjoy? Yes! A digital rendition of a work of art you can look at it on your smartphone? The same way you could look at a picture you took of your actual physical work of art you took with your smartphone? Plus you'd have the physical work of art on your wall?

I'll take the physical work of art any old day.

I'm not alone. As far as I can tell, a lot of people took a pass. And a lot of other people lost their shirts betting that investing in NFT's would pay off big time.

Oh, sure, there are still some folks spending "good" crypto on Bored Ape NFT's. (Have a google for yourself on this one.) But the general feeling seems to be that NFT's are dead. Or at least dying.

But there are innovators out there who just don't want to let the concept of NFT's go. They're betting that tying the physical object of your desire to digital goodies - or digital access to physical or experiential goodies - is going to be thing. 

Endstate is a Boston startup. (And why am I not surprised that they're endstate.io, not endstate.com.)

Endstate is a sneaker company. Sort of. But:   

What Endstate really sells is NFTs, or non-fungible tokens, which it releases periodically in limited amounts. Customers buy an NFT, specify their shoe size, and within weeks receive a real pair of sneakers.

The shoes come with a wide variety of perks and access to in-real-life experiences. (Source: Boston Globe)

Each Endstate "sneaker drop" comes with a physical thang - the sneakers - and digital and experiential elements as well. 

Some of the sneakers Endstate drops are purely commercial.

There's a pair for fans of Eagles wide receiver DeVonta Smith. You get your kicks - if that's what the cool kids still call sneaks - and a chip in the tongue of the shoe gets you an invite to an event Smith is hosting, plus a game watch party where you can watch Smith go wide - and root for him to gain enough yardage to win you a coupon for a free cheesesteak.

But other Endstate sneakers are for a higher purpose. There's a blue and yellow pair that provides aid to Ukraine. (These you pay for in crypto - $1,340 worth of ETH [Ethereum].) Then there's the Red Bandana Sneaker, which helps support the Welles Crowther Charitable Trust. 

Welles Crowther was a recent Boston College grad working as a trader in the Twin Towers. On September 11, 2001, Crowther - wearing his trademark red bandana - managed to save at least 20 people by helping them down the staircases, and - in some cases - carrying folks down on his back. The Charitable Trust his family established in his name supports community engagement for young people.

The Red Bandana sneakers benefit the foundation. They're tied to the Boston College vs. Clemson football game. So, in addition to the sneakers, you get access to a special tailgate. 

The sneakers, then, are the physical element, and the tailgate is part of the experiential element. That leaves the digital, which "contains" an NFT of the sneakers, some sort of Discord access that I don't understand in the least, and "future metaverse integrations." And if I don't understand in the least what "entry into The State Department channel within the Endstate Discord" means, I really don't understand what "future metaverse integrations" is all about. 

Still, I get that the sneakers come with some non-sneaker goodies. Which is how NFT's will survive. 

Anyway, Endstate has gotten some interest from investors, and seems like it's onto a good thing. If there are enough folks out there willing to spend $250 on sneakers+ (or, in the case of the Ukraine Aid drop, .25 ETH.)

Nic Carter, a partner at Castle Island Ventures, wrote in a recent blog post that several “tech-savvy luxury brands” likely thought about selling NFTs last year that didn’t come with a physical good or utility component.

“Now that the hype has cooled,” he wrote, “these brands will start to realize that the real innovation is not exploiting fans by selling them overpriced JPEGs with dubious utility, but by twinning merchandise with a persistent digital property.”

Persistent digital property? Is that a new thing? A PDP? 

If so, what happens when the sneakers wear out? Cut the tongue with the embedded chip in it out of the sneaker and hang onto that forever, a remembrance of cheesesteaks and tailgates past... 

Baby CEO? Bleak? You ain't kidding!

Kids, from toddlers on, have always liked playing "work." For babies, most of the "work" they play at is around-the-house sort of stuff. 

They joyfully push the tiny plastic lawnmower, cheerfully fake wash dishes in the plastic kitchen sink, and gleefully hammer away with a plastic hammer. 

Sure, these days the little ones also make calls on fake smartphones, and tap away at the keyboards of fake laptops. But those little plastic smartphones and little plastic laptops aren't explicitly about work work. They're more about acknowledging the ubiquity and centrality of electronics in our lives. 

All the little plastic workish playthings already on the market apparently weren't enough for Fisher-Price.

Nope, they decided they needed to come up with an office-themed baby jumper, which artist/writer/baby dad came across when looking for a jumper for his kiddo.  As Rob posted in a series of tweets: 

Looking at baby jumpers and this office-themed "activity center" is so bleak. Prepare them for a life of demoralizing wage slavery by trapping them in Baby's First Cubicle! Includes their first shitty corporate laptop, calendar of bullshit meetings, and a kleenex box to cry in!

Begin the process of gradually eroding hopes and dreams early! It's never too soon to discover that the churn of capitalism is inescapable! The cell phone with an aspirational lock screen of a tropical vacation they'll never be able to take is a nice touch.

Obviously babies don’t know or care about the themes of these things, they just wanna smack shapes, chew on shit, it doesn’t matter. But then why make it THIS?? It’s more what this says about us, what we invite into our homes, the systems that control us limiting our imaginations. (Source: @rob_sheridan)

I'm with Rob Sheridan. 

Once they grasp a bit more about the concept of work, older kids may want to play "office." 

As a child, I don't remember pretending I was an office worker. The jobs my buddies and I played at were teacher/nun, nurse/doctor, soldier, priest (Necco Wafers = communion wafers). And, of course, movie star. 

But babies? As the man says, they just wanna smack shapes, chew on shit.

The boss baby jumper looks like the sort of toy - and, by the way, at $109 on Amazon, it's plenty Fisher-Pricey - that someone would buy because they found it kind of amusing. A baby gag gift. 

Hold their calls because your little CEO will have so much do in the Fisher-Price 2-in-1 Like a Boss Activity Center. Your baby can start off sitting in the entertainer’s spinning seat and interacting with fun activities around them. From a shape-sorter coffee mug to an interactive toy computer that plays lights, music & sounds, baby has everything they need for a productive day playing from home. Then, as your baby grows, replace the seat with a clacker bead bar to transform the infant activity center into a cool toddler table for standing-desk play. (Source: Amazon)

Sorry, Fisher-Price, I don't think there's anything "cool" about this mini-office set up.

What's wrong with baby jumpers with pandas, and lions, and puppies, and kitties...

At least the baby gets to be the boss, so that's at least something. And I guess the items in the Baby CEO Activity Center will help parents expand their baby CEO's vocabulary. Sure, you don't get to ask "what does the paperclip holdersay," but I suppose it will come in handy at some point that your kiddo knows what a desk plant is.

Oh, dear. Bleak is definitely the word.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Tip of the grownup non-CEO cap to my sister Trish, who spotted this gem. 

There's poor folk needy, and then there's TRULY NEEDY

Mississippi is poor. Really poor. Desperately poor. Dirt poor Nearly twenty percent of their population lives in poverty (nearly double the rate in Massachusetts). 

TANF (Temporary Assistance for Needy Families is a Federal program that sends money to the states for them to use pretty much however they want, as long as they're using it to alleviate poverty.

Mississippi has a pretty loose definition of poverty alleviation, that's for sure.

Hall of Fame quarterback Brett Favre wangled millions to erect a volleyball facility at the University of Southern Mississippi, his alma mater, and - more relevantly - the school where his daughter played - surprise, surprise - volleyball. The funding was supposedly to provide sports opportunities for underserved communities, but it's hard to see that the daughter of a multi-millionaire football star has been anything other than overserved during her privileged young life.

Favre was also given $1.1 million to give speeches - just what needy families need! - but he never actually bothered to give the speeches. And $2 million was funneled into a pharma startup Favre was involved in. 

There were other sporting recipients of the TANF largesse:

Marcus Dupree, a former college football phenom, paid $371,000 to buy a 4,000-square-foot house, with a swimming pool, pavilion, and “adjoining acreage on which Mr. Dupree was to maintain horses.” Dupree claimed in charity filings it would be for “equestrian activities for underprivileged children.”(Source: Vox)

The DiBiases - Ted Sr., Ted Jr., and Brett, a family of well-known professional wrestlers - scored funds for bogus leadership training, a four-month stay for Brett (to the tune of $160K) at a high-end drug rehab facility in Malibu, and $1.7M for Ted Sr.'s "wrestling ministry." (Praise the Lord, and pass the TANF money.)

Non-athletes also had their hands in the till. 

In all, the state auditor found at least $77 million misused from 2017 to 2020. Mississippi’s yearly TANF spending has ranged anywhere from $55 million to $104 million in federal TANF funds in recent years. 

So far, six folks involved in the scam - Favre isn't one of them - have been criminally charged.

Nationwide, only 21 out of 100 families living in poverty qualify for TANF - in 1996, when TANF began, the figure was 68% - and the range is, not surprisingly, wide. In California and Vermont, 71% of those living in poverty receive TANF money. (Couldn't find the Massachusetts figure, other than that it's over 40%.) In Mississippi, it's roughly 4% of families in poverty.

And ain't no one getting rich on TANF. In Mississippi, a family of three, which would need an income of less than $5K to qualify, would get about $260 a month. 

It's worse than shocking that only 4% of poor folks in Mississippi are considered needy enough to receive a few bucks - money that comes from the Feds, by the way, not from Mississippi. 

I'm no expert on welfare funds, but I've had enough exposure through my volunteering to know that most (I'm guessing 99.9999%) of the people looking for help NEED the help. 

I've volunteered for years in a shelter, and I don't think I'm going out on a limb when I say that ain't no one who comes in for breakfast or lunch, to get clean (mostly used) clothing, to find help navigating housing opportunities or signing up for the Massachusetts version of TANF, is scheming to find benefits they don't "deserve."

We don't means test. If someone making $200K a year wants to come in for lunch, no questions asked. But guess what? Someone who can afford to grab lunch at Panera is going to grab lunch at Panera, and not get in line to eat off a plastic tray at St. Francis House. (Not that you can't get a good meal at SFH. If I'm working in the kitchen, and there's food leftover, I often grab lunch. The buffalo mac and cheese is my favorite, but last week I took a couple of yummy crab cakes home. And the Italian wedding soup? To die for.)

Christmas in the City, the other organization I volunteer for, does do means testing. CITC is centered around helping needy families during the holidays. Pre-covid, we used to run a big party for families living in shelters, and provide toys for those housed but in need. Living in a shelter we worked with automatically qualified someone to come to the party. Who's living in a shelter who's NOT in need? Since we haven't been running the party, we bring gifts directly to the shelters.

For our toy giveaway, families need to sign up in advance for the event. To qualify, they need to be able to demonstrate that their kids are on MassHealth (Medicaid). We sometimes make exceptions, but that's our prime qualifier. 

Sure, sometimes someone shows up wearing a Canada Goose coat and UGGs. So maybe they could afford toys for their kids, but...whatever.

I believe that if someone's willing to drag in town to stand in line to sign up for toys, and drag back in a few weeks later to pick toys up for their kids, deserves those damned toys. Last year, on one of the toy days, it was sleeting. And people stood in line, outdoors, in the sleet because, with covid protocols, we could only let in a small number of folks at a time. These are parents - many of them working a couple of minimum wage jobs, trying to keep body and soul together - who just want to have something to put under the tree for their kiddos.

That's poor folk needy.

I guess when you're Brett Favre or Ted DiBiase, Sr., there's a different level and definition of need entirely, where NEED = GREED. What an astounding level of amorality, pocketing money that could go to making the life of some desperately poor family at least marginally better. 

My father had a couple of terms for people like Brett Favre, Ted DiBiase, and the other Mississippi scammers. One was "bum." Another was NG, for No Good.

What a bunch of NG bums! Hope they all get criminally sacked for their involvement in this scam.