Would you pay to attend a wedding? (Me: No!)

I'd read a bit about it. Having clicked on one wedding horror show story on AITA (a Reddit forum: Am I The Asshole, in which folks write in about a sitch they're involved with, and ask forum members to weigh in on whether they're a-holes or not), such stories appear with considerable frequency. And with considerable frequency, I get baited and click. I never weigh in, other than in my mind because, basically, I don't care if your cousin failed to go along with your dress-like-a-Star-Trek-character request. Etc. 

But because of AITA, I knew that there were couples out there who are charging people to attend their weddings. Sometimes they ask for cash wedding gifts to help defray their dream wedding costs. Sometimes the fees are associated with part of the wedding, important now that a lot of weddings have become multi-day, drag-on affairs. Sometimes they solicit a donation on the RSVP card, so you're more of less purchasing a ticket. 

Remember when, back in the day, the only cost (beyond a gift) associated with a wedding was paying for your drinks if there was a cash vs. open bar? Ah, the good old days.

So coming across an article in the New York Times that talked of charges of $333, of $450, to attend a wedding shouldn't have come as a shock. And yet it did.

What to make of the young guy in Houston who's planning ahead for his 2025 wedding? 

Hassan Ahmed, 23, is charging his guests $450 for a ticket to his wedding next year in Houston, where he lives. Mr. Ahmed said he hadn’t heard back from many of his 125 wedding guests. But he has already spent over $100,000 on the wedding, including deposits for the venue, the D.J. and the photographer. In a video on TikTok, he said he was confused by the response, noting that many of his guests had spent more money on Beyoncé or Chris Brown tickets. (Source: NY Times)

I'm going out on a limb here in stating that young Mr. Ahmed is a 14 karat gold dope. 

He's wondering why he isn't hearing back from his guests? Huh?

And he has this to say about the frivolous ways his nearest and dearest are frittering away their cash: 

"What I don't understand is that y'all spend more money on stupid stuff, but you can't come out to support your family and your friends at a wedding," the groom said. (Source: MSN)

Stupid stuff, you say?

How about this? The overall cost for this wedding is said to be $200K, which translates into $1,600 per guest. That's swell, I guess, if you can afford it. But if you need to have your guests defray the costs, then you can't afford it. And your guests are not your guests, they're paying customers. And if they want to spend their money on "stupid stuff" like Beyoncé tickets, then that's their right as customers. Because I'd sure rather spend $450 to see Bey than pay that much to go to anyone's "stupid stuff" of a wedding.

And how shortsighted to spend $200K - even if your customers help underwrite $56,250 worth of it - on a one shot experience, as opposed to using that kind of money to say, put a downpayment on a house. And the $450 your customers are forking over could have gone toward purchasing tangible stuff - like the "stupid stuff" that no doubt litters your bridal registry, but will at least last and help you settle in to married life. (Hassan Ahmed is only 23, so presumably he's setting up a household for the first time, as opposed to older couples who've lived together and already have the Cuisinart, airfryer, and monogrammed sheets.)

Again, one thing if you have the money to spend on a splosh wedding. (Can you just imagine what the nuptials will cost when and if Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce tie the not.) But if you have to charge your guests, then you really do need to lower your sights. Backyard weddings, a DJ'd reception at the K of C Hall, can actually be a lot of fun!

And by the way, it's already not cheap to go to a wedding:

The cost of being a guest is also becoming more expensive. The average cost of attending a wedding is $580, according to a 2023 study by the Knot, which surveyed 1,000 people who had attended a wedding in the previous year. That was an increase of $120 compared with 2021. (Back to the NY Times)

Well, 2021 was pandemic, so the weddings were likely smaller scale, but that's still quite an increase over a few years. But when you think of it: gift, outfit, transpo. You can run through $580 pretty darned quick. And this even if you're not talking a destination wedding...

Yikes! 

Some folks actually do seem to be able to carry off the ticketed wedding. 

Last year, Nova and Reemo Styles were married at St. Patrick's Cathedral in NYC. They sold tickets to their wedding for $333 a head. 

The couple, who live on the Upper East Side, said they had not charged guests to cover the cost of their wedding, which was upward of $70,000; rather, they had needed to winnow their guest list down significantly.

The couple hired a double-decker bus that took guests to New York landmarks that were significant in their love story. The first stop was the legal ceremony at the cathedral. Other stops included Hudson Yards, where Mr. Styles, 31, proposed, and the 42nd Street AMC theater, where they played a video of their journey together. The final stop was the reception, which was held at a private event space on the 102nd floor at the One World Observatory.

The couple originally had a 350-person guest list, but the bus had space for only 60 people. “It was stressful,” Mr. Styles said. “We had to figure out a way for them to choose us, because we can’t choose them.”

Ms. Styles added, “We wanted people who really wanted to be there.” They felt that the ticket system was the best way to do it.

I just can't. (And, Ms. Styles, I have some news for you: I'll bet that lots of the 350 people on your original guest list likely found the invite, even if it were for free, to be a big pain in the arse. When they opened the envelope, the majority likely rolled their eyes, checked their calendar, and hoped they had something else to do that day - like have a colonoscopy or have their wisdom teeth yanked out or wallpaper the guest room.)

Anyway, the Styles had 350 folks on your guest list, but they wanted them to self-select by paying for the privilege of attending their wedding? Wouldn't the normal response be to winnow the list down to the number of people who were most essential in your life, and host a wedding you could pay for?

Under the pay for the privilege scenario, what happens if dear old Auntie Gladys is on a tiny fixed income and doesn't have $333 to spare, but a former colleague whose wedding you went to (for free) thinks, WTF, sounds like a hoot, and buys a ticket? 

The one Styles attendee interviewed was glad she went. At first, she didn't quite get it, but the couple explained their reasoning (which I personally found a tad bit absurd), so Lola Marie decided to go for it. 

“It was worth more than $333,” Ms. Marie said, adding that she knew the couple’s intention was not to make money from their guests. She said she had a lot of fun celebrating and would have paid much more for the steak and lobster dinner at the top of One World Trade Center, with stunning views of the city and a surprise performance by the rapper Fabolous.

Fortunately, the Styles had 60 folks willing to pay for surf and turf with a view. While I will say that if someone I cared for asked for cash gifts only, that would be fine by me, even if the money was going for the wedding party and not real life. But if I'd been on the invite list for this shindig, I'm pretty sure the answer would have been a bit fat NO! Let alone if Hassan Ahmed had sent me a save the date with a save $450 to pay for it attached to it. NFW!

Stay classy, dressagers.

As a kid, I read a couple of those pre-teen girls' books set in a fancy boarding school where all the students are beautiful, well-to-do Southern girls with their jodphurs, their shiny boots, their velvet jackets, their peaked riding caps. With their horses. 

Even though pre-teen girls are supposed to be gaga for horses, I was never all that interested. 

The whole thing just struck me as a bit weird.

The only horse I'd ever been on a merry-go-round, and if there were any other choice - lion, tiger, bear - I'd pick that animal rather than a horse. 

Most of what I knew about horses came from TV Westerns. Trigger. Buttermilk. Champion. That and Mr. Ed. 

And I've never been particularly drawn to horse-related sports, either. Sure, I've been to long-gone tracks - Suffolk Downs, Naragansett - a couple of times, where I bet a couple of bucks on horses based on their name and their jockey's colors. But the Kentucky Derby? Meh. And Olympic horsey sports - jumping, eventing, dressage. Meh to the nth. Especially dressage, which seems to me to be a bit too much about forcing horses into unnatural acts and then preening around to show the judges you could do it. 

Anyway, if you know little else about dressage, and if you kept up with any Olympic news during the Paris games, you might be aware of the scandal involving Charlotte Dujardin. She's the British Olympic gold medalist who withdrew from the games once a video emerged of her whipping a horse during a training session a couple of years back. Maltreating horses is, of course, a big bad no-no that's probably gone on for years before everyone with a smartphone became a videographer. (Other videos of horse abuse have come out over the past few years. And a German dressage coach had been kicked out of the Tokyo Olympics for punching a horse.)

An anonymous whistleblower released the Dujardin video in order to "save dressage."

Turns out the dressager (dressagist? dressagite? dressagerian?) who is rumored to be the whistleblower doesn't have the most squeaky clean record herself.

Australian Alicia Dickinson has not been accused of animal cruelty, but she has been in the news when it comes to her suspect business practices.

Dickinson had been planning an "unsanctioned [by official dressage entities] dressage 'extravaganza'" at the leading Australian show center. 

Willinga Park canceled the show, claiming that Dickinson's promotional materials were misleading and "misrepesented [their] brand," and put that brand in a negative light.

One thing that raised Australian dressage eyebrows was the 620K Australian dollars worth of prize money that Dickinson's event was promising. But that big prize pot wasn't exactly cash on the barrelhead. 

Her “Willinga Park YRS Triple Crown” brochure said the show gave “non professional riders the professional experience.” The prize pool was largely “in kind,” with unusually high values. Prizes include “$40,000 training holidays” in Europe, FEI dressage horse “sponsorships,” and $10,000 “competency-based memberships” (of Dressage Institute, whose own literature is similarly worded). Prizes also included items from Dickinson’s own “LuxeofLondon” saddlery range. (Source: Horse Sport)

(Hey, could I just set up a Pink Slip Prize contest, with the winning blogger allowed to post on Pink Slip, which I would value at 620K Australian dollars? I know I've never monetized my work, but if I charged entrance fees...)

Dickinson is also accused of overstating her coaching and performance credentials, while charging high rates for coaching sessions. 

Berni Saunders is a respected Australian dressage rider, journalist and co-founder of the long established Cyberhorse portal. She told HorseSport.com that many people around the world feel fleeced by Dickinson.

Saunders said, “The Dressage Institute and Your Riding Success [Dicksinson's outfit] relies on attracting people with little experience and huge dreams and sell programs that promise unrealistic and non-deliverable success.

Sounds like those groups that rope in kids with marginal singing talent, putting them in showcases and kinda-sorta promising that they're going to be the next Beyoncé or Taylor Swift. 

Then there's Dickinson's involvement with Dujardin which, if it had worked out, would have earned some pretty good coin for both of them. (Until the whipping controversy, Dujardin was about as big as it gets in the wonderful world of dressage.)

Anyway, Dickinson was definitely there at the training session in which Dujardin was filmed whipping a horse - interestingly, Dickinson prohibits phones and any videoing at her own training sessions - but has said she's not the whistleblower. Her name remains on the short list. And Dickinson admits that, given how widespread abusive practices have been in dressage, there may well be "historic footage of herself being 'not nice to horses - because I was told to.'"

Whatever Dickinson's motives, outing animal cruelty seems like a good thing, and something that dressage should pay attention to if it wants its (dubious) sport to survive. And, sure, the Willinga Park cancelation may well have been payback for Dickinson's presumed whistleblowing. But if you're the whisteblower, it sure does look a lot better if you're not yourself a huckster.

Stay classy, dressagers. Pink Slip will be keeping an eye on you.

Shirt Police! Shirt Police!

Many years ago, my sisters and I came up the concept of Shirt Police. This squad would be charged with enforcing our notion of public decency and making sure that flabby men with beer bellies and moobs - especially flabby men who were pasty white - put a shirt on when they were anywhere in public other than the beach. No, we didn't need or want these guys to be arrested. We just wanted someone to insist that they put a tee-shirt on.

When we would see a shirtless miscreant, we would roll our eyes and mutter "Shirt Police," which over the years turned into just plain old "SP."

Other than runners, most of them pretty darned fit and thus not subject to the Rogers Sisters' shirt patrol, I don't see many shirtless men out there. And most of those runners don't merit us whistling up the SP. 

But as a matter of personal preference, I wouldn't want to see female runners, no matter how fit and runnerly they were, join the shirtless Esplanade-running, Marthon-prepping men folk.

Not everyone agrees with me, of course. And in mid-August, when it was still warm enough out to go shirtless, a handful of activists from organizations like Go Topless and Equalititty freed themselves of shirts and bras and paraded around demanding that women be allowed go topless, too. And so, on a hot August afternoon:

A half-dozen women marched topless through Boston Common to the State House on Saturday while calling on legislators to make it legal for women to expose their breasts in public in the name of gender equality.

The “Topfreedom” protest was organized by groups who say legalizing toplessness for women would promote gender equality, as men are not bound by law to wear anything above the waist.

Massachusetts law prohibits women from exposing their breasts in public except when breastfeeding. Women who go topless in public can face six months in jail, a $200 fine, or both. (Source: Boston Globe)

Maybe they have a point. Apparently, it's legal for women to go topless in most states. (Massachusetts is one of 15 states where the law is considered ambiguous.) And if it's at the beach, go for it. (Just remember, girls, to slather plenty of SP50 on those girls that may not have seen the light of day since you were splashing in the backyard pool in your diapers.) 

But I really wouldn't care to see women running on the Esplanade topless. Of course, now that I think of it, my fatwa on topless female runners would be similar to how I feel about flabby males. A woman who's flatchested or who has 100% perked-up non-drooping breasts, fine. Women where gravity has taken hold, put a shirt on! (Or at least a bra.)

Of course, I'm probably nothing but an old prude.

Sure, when I was young I wore very short skirts, lowcut scoop necked tee's, cutoffs that were cut off within an inch of decency. (No, my ass cheeks never hung out, but I wore short shorts short.) I wore bikinis at the beach. I wore spaghetti-strap cotton knit shirts without benefit of bra.

And, while I never went topless, there was that one beach in Greece where I might have done so if I hadn't been afraid of third degree burns.

So overall, I'm going to refine my position and okay topless at the beach, and even for non-wobbling topless runners. 

Goose/gander and all that. 

But what surprises me is that there are women taking up this cause.

In many states, women have lost their reproductive freedom, and things could get worse. There's a fellow running for governor of NC who's put out the idea that women maybe shouldn't have the vote. The guy running against Amy Klobuchar US Senate in Minnesota has said that women have gotten "too mouthy." The R-ahole running for president has retweeted a meme about Hillary Clinton, Kamala Harris, and blowjobs. 

I think we've got bigger problems than whether Massachusetts should enact less ambiguous laws around female toplessness.

But I guess if you really, really, really want to go out in public without a top on, something that strikes me as pretty trivial becomes critical. Be warned: if I spot someone who looks like me going around topless, I reserve the right to call the Shirt Police.

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

The picture is from a Boston Magazine article on aa 2013 demonstration. Guess the issue's been around for a while.

I'll admit it: I just love a good royal gossip

Right up front, let me state that I am anti-monarchy. Why any country in this day and age would want to maintain the full blown version of this archaic institution, I just don't get. 

I do get why Euro nations - Denmark, the Netherlands - still have low-key royals. History, culture, continuity, etc. Fine! Great! Tote 'em out for ceremonial occasions. Occasionally. But mostly...

Then there's England.

I do know that King Charles is trying to slim down the royal retinue, with fewer royals earning their living by cutting ribbons at jam factories and waving from the balcony at Buckingham Palace. 

But however much nipping and tucking Charles does, the royal family - Should That Be Capped? - owns so much of the their own country/countries and beyond. While they may only have 250,000 acres in England, I read that, worldwide, the royals own (should that be "own"?) a staggering 6.6 billion acres. Rule, Brittania! alright!

Shouldn't at least some of that be repatriated to its rightful owners?

And the working royals, not to mention a bunch of peripherals you've never heard of unless they show up at Wimbledon, all make a decent salary for all that ribbon cutting and hand waving. Plus they get to live in splosh housing.

If I lived in the UK, I'd be out in the streets clamoring for an end to the costly royal madness. 

Keep what's needed for tourism and uniting what's left of the kingdom, but jettison the rest and move on to the more general Euro-model, where royalty's role is limited to ceremonial and/or appearing in the tabloids. (Princess Mathilde of Sturm und Drang twisted her ankle on the slopes at Klosters while in the company of Marco Bellissimo, pretender to the Royal House of Savoy and a gigolo half her age.)

Yet I must confess that I have a near-insatiable appetite for gossip about the British royals. (It goes without saying that I greatly enjoyed The Crown, which did nothing other than reinforce my opinion that the royals are not much more than a bunch of entitled - literally and figuratively - often nasty and overprivileged twits. I do give the late QE a pass. I think that, despite her rigidity with respect to letting her peeps - like Princess Margaret and her son Charles - marry the person they loved - she served admirably.)

Anyway, because I click on every click-baity article on the royals, I get bombarded with more and more click-baity articles.

So I know that the current funeral planning for King Charles is routine, done for every monarch so the full coterie will be ready to rock and roll when the great day comes, and that the preperation has nothing to do with his health which may or may not be precarious. (If he has pancreatic cancer, as is rumored, he's likely a gonner.)

I followed every last detail of last winter's brouhaha about Princess Kate's botched Photoshop job on the holiday picture of her kids. (I've mercifully forgotten the brouhaha details. Did Charlotte have three arms or something?)

And speaking of winter, King Charles likes a cold house - he must love England, is all I can say -  and keeps the windows open year round. Queen Camilla, on the other hand, likes cozy, and is always shutting the windows at Balmoral, or whichever of the drafty piles they're chillin' in (literally, I guess) for the week.

I know, of course, that Prince Andrew, a Jeffrey Epstein frequent flyer, is on the royal outs, and that the king is trying to dislodge Andy from his commodious digs in the Royal Lodge at Windsor, and demote him to the relatively shriveled Frogmore Cottage (which, at over 5K square feet, is still hefty enough for a single gent like Andy, even though he does provide housing for his ex-wife, Sarah Ferguson). Frogmor is the home that Harry and Meghan were dumped out of once they decided they'd rather be Californians than royals.

(BTW, I have a tiny bit of sympathy for Wills and Kate, hoping against hope that Charles lasts long enough for them to raise their kiddos before Prince William becomes King William, but if I had to pick a side, I'm team Harry and Meghan.)

More royal stuff: I know that Prince Edward's daughter is into her grandfather's sport of competitive carriage driving (!?!), and that Princess Anne's daughter, like her mother, is an Olympic equestrian. 

Etc. 

So how could I not click on the Sky News well-baited headline that Prince Edward and his wife Duchess Sophie were "reeling" after they weren't granted some add-on titles they felt they had coming.

In April, new appointments to various Orders of Chivalry were announced by Edward's eldest brother as a part of his annual birthday celebrations. (Source: Sky News)

April? King Charles' birthday is in November. (His mother's was in April, so there's that.) I know there's a royal bit in which, whatever your actual date of birth, the official birthday is in June. But April is not June. Guess if you're a top-dog royal you get to observe as many birthdays as you like.

Queen Camilla received the title "Grand Master and First or Principal Dame Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire", while Prince William was bestowed "Great Master of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath," a title the King previously held himself. 

Grand Master?  I thought that was a hip-hop designation, but what do I know?

Meanwhile, Princess Catherine made history by being appointed to the newly created position of "Royal Companion of The Order of the Companions of Honour".

This sounds to my American ears like being named the Duke of Earl. And with Duke of Earl, at least you get a great song to go along with it. 

But this is the one, apparently, that had Edward and Sophie feeling as snubbed as if they were any old pedestrian, non-royal Eddie and Soph. 

"Edward’s household was hoping he would finally get an honour... They have really stepped things up with their commitment to service over the past few years." 

The royal source added that Princess Catherine's title was a particular "blow" for Edward, as it's "a special award granted to those who have made a major contribution to the arts, science, medicine, or government lasting over a long period of time". 

If it's any compensation, Edward recently received the honor of becoming part of "The Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle." And in 2019, Edward was granted the title of Earl of Forfar. Forfar is a town in Scotland known for "witches who once danced on graves and frolicked with the devil." Sounds like more fun that being named a Companion of the Companions. 

Anyway, Edward and Sophie should buck up. The tea being spilled is that they're going to get to move into the Royal Lodge once Andrew gets the royal boot. I'll be staying tuned for more dish here.

I just love a good royal gossip...

_________________________________________

BTW, that's a pic of Mad King George. Aren't they all...

Of course this caught my attention...

I've got to believe that, like the policeman in Pirate's of Penzance, a priest man's job is not a happy one.

Since the high point of American Catholicism - the election of JFK (one of "our" very own) - it's been an arse-over-teakettle downhill tumble for the men in black. Most of the young men who entered in the glow and afterglow of Vatican II revolving-doored their way out. Fewer and fewer men went in. There were fewer and fewer parishioners in fewer and fewer pews as more and more churches closed. 

Some of what happened to the Catholic Church was modernity catching up with it - and the Church's refusal to accept the immutable fact that things change. And plenty of the decline in the last twenty years can be laid on the altar of the lid on the jar containing all that info on all those years of rampant sexual abuse and coverups.

So, I can't imagine the life of a modern priest is an especially happy one. It's always been a lonely one, with plenty of depression and alcoholism to go around, plenty of overeating and addictive behavior, but now it's lacking one of the aspects that helped make it worthwhile and sustainable: the companionship of fellow priests. There are too few of them left, and a lot of the new guys going in (from what I understand) are a bit off. And it's also lacking the deference and respect once accorded priest. That's out the door. Instead, everyone's looking at someone wearing a Roman collar and wondering whether he's one of the guys who did it or one of the guys who ignored it.

(As an aside: I'm working on a novel, The Sins Against Hope, that explores the contemporary priesthood through the eyes and experiences of a good priest who somehow stuck with it and made it to his 50th anniversary.)

Anyway, I get that it's a tough and lonely life. And I get that there's a lot of odd guys drawn to it, and a lot of weird behaviors associated with it. And some pathetic behaviors that seem inevitable, given the isolation and loneliness that riddle the life of a priest. As in the case of Pennsylvania's Father Lawrence Kozak, accused of felony theft for spending over $40K in parish funds on online gaming (and a couple of rather innocent, nerdy gifts for his goddaughter, including a chemistry set).

Police found evidence that Kozak had spent more than $214,000 between 2018 and 2022 on Apple charges, mostly on credits for cell phone video games, among them Wizard of Oz slots, Cash Frenzy slots, Mario Kart Tour, Pokemon GO, Candy Crush Friends Saga, Candy Crush Jelly Saga, Credit Sesame, and Willy Wonka Slots Vegas Casino. 

Police identified that of those charges, $43,397 were incurred on the parish credit card. (Source: The Pillar)

In his defense, most of the money came out of Kozak's own pocket, and the charges to the parish credit card were incurred when his personal card hit its limit and charges rolled over to the parish card. Before he was arrested, he had already begun making restitution. He's in therapy for his mental health. And further in his defense, he became a Candy Crush etc. addict after he was in an accident where he sustained severe brain damage and nearly lost his leg. 

But there is something very sad about developing a gaming addiction - especially, it seems to me, if the gaming you're doing is "just" gambling without the possibility of winning any money. At least if you're betting the ponies or the point spread for the Monday Night Football game, you stand the chance of

making a little dough. Two-hundred and ten thousand dollars worth of Candy Crush Jelly Saga? Huh? (On the other hand, if you lose a bundle on Candy Crush, you've paid for it and there are no leg-breakers coming after you.)

It's unlikely that Kozak will end up behind bars. And why should he? Not condoning embezzlement, but by Catholic Church scandals this is nothing much more than a hill of beans Candy Crush icons. 

These online games are, like Oreos, built to get users hooked. 

Researchers say that mobile phone games are designed to stimulate reward pathways in the brain, and can alter the perception of time. People with mental health issues, like depression or anxiety, can be especially exploited by the neurological effects of such games. 

But psychologist Lisa Strohman told NBC News that anyone can become addicted to mobile phone games.

“Mobile games like Candy Crush are particularly addictive because everything shuffles and changes and then you level up so if you have any competitive nature, you can feel successful,” Strohman told NBC News.

“The [mobile gaming] industry knows that, so they take highly engaging colors and sounds and create a classical conditioning loop that increases the dopamine rewards push,” she added.

Some media reports have documented an increasing number of players who have lost substantial amounts of money on gambling components of cell phone games, or on power-ups, upgrades, and other costly add-ons to usually free games. 

Kozak was apparently sucked in by power-ups, which give a player the temporary ability to get extra "benefits" or whatever good stuff that you wouldn't have if you were content to play the free version of the game.

Hope he's got a decent lawyer, although with his level of pathetic criming, he really doesn't need a Clarence Darrow. (Ironically, the parish he stole from is named for St. Thomas More, Henry the VIIIth's martyred lawyer.)

As noted, it's not likely that Father Kozak will end up in the hoosegow. Nor should he, as he's no doubt living in a prison in his mind and of his very own making. He's no longer running a parish - which was his job AND his vocation - and he's got to pay back the church, and his personal credit card debt. Not to mention the public humiliation. Hard enough being a priest these days...

Next time maybe a lower profile target for your scheme

Maybe Lisa Jeanine Findley was thinking along the lines of 'go big or go home.' Or maybe she was just thinking that this was one hell of a get-rich-quick scheme. But trying to steal Graceland? GRACELAND! As in the home of the King of Rock and Roll (not to mention the topic of the wonderful eponymous Paul Simon song, which is, of course, today's earworm - and one of the few earworms I've actually been happy to have earworming around in my brain).

Here's what Lisa Jeanine Findley, "also known as Lisa Holden, Lisa Howell, Gregory Naussany, Kurt Naussany, Lisa Jeanine Sullins, and Carolyn Williams" was up to: 

[She allegedly] falsely claimed Presley’s daughter pledged the property as collateral for a loan she failed to pay before she died last year, prosecutors said. She fabricated loan documents and then published a bogus foreclosure notice in a Memphis newspaper announcing that Graceland would be auctioned off to the highest bidder in May, prosecutors said.

...In May, a public notice for a foreclosure sale of the 13-acre (5-hectare) estate said Promenade Trust, which controls the Graceland museum, owes $3.8 million after failing to repay a 2018 loan. Riley Keough, Presley’s granddaughter and an actor, inherited the trust and ownership of the home after the death of her mother, Lisa Marie Presley, last year.

Keough filed a lawsuit claiming fraud, and a judge halted the proposed auction with an injunction. Naussany Investments and Private Lending said Lisa Marie Presley had used Graceland as collateral for the loan, according to the foreclosure sale notice. Keough’s lawsuit alleged that Naussany presented fraudulent documents regarding the loan in September 2023 and that Lisa Maria Presley never borrowed money from Naussany. (Source: PBS)

Just in the nick of time, the "brazen scheme" was discovered - among other things, the notary whose name was on the documents as attesting to Lisa Marie Presley's signature found out she was implicated and affidavited an immediate 'no way.' So in May, Tennessee authorities put the kibosh on the auction and whistled in the Feds. 

Lisa-0f-the-many-names-including-an-awful-lot-of-Lisas, if convicted, is facing some quality time (20 years+) in the pen. 

And Graceland is saved to continue it's role as a monument to Elvis and a primo tourist attraction that's on plenty of bucket lists. (It's not on mine, but if I were anywhere near Memphis, I'd sure give it a whirl. Who wouldn't want to see where Elvis made those peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwiches? His Jungle Room man cave? The place where the King is buried?)

What astounds me here is why someone with larceny in their heart and mind would go for such a prominent target to swindle. Surely there are no-name folks with no-name heirs whose estates could have been more easily stolen. But the foreclosure notice for Graceland, placed in a Memphis newspaper, was bound to attract plenty of attention. And some of that attention would surely have made its way to the daughter of the other Lisa, the real Lisa, Lisa Marie Presley: Riley Keough. (Lisa Marie Presley's estate - a.k.a., the Elvis Presley estate - was left to Riley Keough, and to Lisa Marie's other daughters, who are teenagers. Riley Keough - not a bad actress, by the way - is the prime in terms of overseeing the estate on behalf of her half sisters. The overall estate is estimated as being worth over $700M.)

Seriously, if Graceland were up for auction because Lisa Marie Presley used it as collateral for a measly $3.8M loan she didn't repay, the news would have made headlines all over the world. Guarantee it would have played on al the national news networks. No way someone wouldn't have uncovered the ruse. And someone, of course, did. 

Lisa Jeanine Findley's defense so far is the ever popular, I'm the victim of a Nigerian identity thief. The supposed Nigerian identity theft is no doubt a prince, but, let's face it, a king is always going to trump a lowly prince. Let alone some a.k.a. dumb bunny who tried to swindle Elvis' heirs. 

Talk about fools rush in...

Maybe it's time to stopr the glorification of all things Navy SEAL?

Until I read about the Tufts lacrosse players who were hospitalized with it, I'd never heard of rhabdomyolysis. 

Rhabdomyolysis (shortened as rhabdo) is a condition in which damaged skeletal muscle breaks down rapidly, often due to high intensity exercise over a short period of time. (Source: Wikipedia)

That "high intensity excercise" likely explains my lack of familiarity with rhabdo. Never been there; never done that. 

But a week or so ago, twelve Tufts' lacrosse players ended up in the hospital after a 45-minute workout conducted by a Tuft's alum who's also a recent Navy SEALs graduate. 

Now, there's certainly a time and place for the Navy SEALs. Like ridding the world of Osama Bin Laden. And their special operations work certainly requires them to be in superb physical shape and possess a supreme degree of mental toughness, braveness, bravado, and ferocity. So, hooyah to their training. 

But it seems to me that, over the past couple of decades, we've begun overglorifying these warriors. Tough, brave, ferocious: sure. But some members of this vaunted outfit have been implicated in war crimes. And they often give off an air of toxic masculinity, and scorn for anyone who ain't them. So there's that. 

Anyway, the level of workouts the SEALs endure may be entirely appropriate to prepare them for the tasks they'll be called on to perform, especially given that the most strenuous workouts aren't what the training starts with, but what it leads up to over the course of their course

Yet here were the young men on the lacrosse team, in a voluntary, unsupervised workout session taking part in an extreme workout, pretty much starting cold. Not that these fellows aren't in good shape. Lacrosse is not for the lazy-arsed or faint of heart. But they're in normal college athlete fitter than fit shape. Not in Navy SEALs, jump in to a firestorm with a hunting knife between your teeth fitter than fit. 

As a result of the workout, nine of the lacrosse players were treated in the ER and released. As of Monday, three were still hospitalized. (Note: I've seen slightly different reports on how any of these athletes were actually hospitalized. But the "three still in" seems to be factual.)

Beyond the wikipedia definition, rhabdo can be absolutely dire. 

Rhabdomyolysis is a rare condition in which muscles disintegrate, leading to muscle death. It is a life-threatening condition that can cause kidney damage after toxic components of muscle fibers enter the circulation system and kidneys. (Source: Boston Globe)

This is scary stuff, especially when you consider that three of these kids are still in the hospital after a week. Yikes! 

Tufts is no big athletic powerhouse. They're mascot is Jumbo the Elephant, and their primary color is light blue. But its lacrosse team is highly competitive, and they're the DIII NCAA lacrosse

champions. So these fellows are no doubt LAX bros who might be drawn to the SEAL mythology. But mostly Tufts is a pretty good school, and these young men are student athletes. They're not Navy SEALs. 

Hope they're okay. 

And hope that folks stop irrationally glorifying the SEALs, let alone thinking that their level of fierce training is appropriate for civilians, especially a bunch of impressionable college kids.  

OK, it does sound kinda fun in a very weird way

When my nieces were little - late 90's/early aughts - Polly Pockets were popular. 

They weren't the girls' favorites. They like Barbie. They liked American Girl. They like the Groovy Girls (my personal favorites). 

But they did like Polly Pockets.

And what kid wouldn't?

Most kids love things in miniature, and there was tiny little Polly Pocket and her tiny little outfits and her tiny little shoes and her tiny little pocketbooks and her tiny little living spaces and her tiny little stuff. 

While Polly Pocket was cheesy and cheapo, I would have absolutely been bonkers for them if they'd been around in the 50's when I was big into dolls. 

Sure, from a step on a piece barefoot perspective  - not as painful as stepping on a Lego piece, but still plenty painful -  to a search for that crucial tiny little missing piece point of view -  purple left-shoe has disappeared! - Polly Pockets had a lot going against them. But so much more going for them.

I completely get that girls who grew up with Polly Pockets have wonderful memories of them.

I wonder how that translated into those grownup 80's and 90's girls renting an Airbnb that's "a real-life scale version of the Polly Pocket Slumber Party Fun" pad that, a couple of weeks ago could be had for $89 per guest per night for any fan willing to travel to Littleton, Massachusetts. 

When the Airbnb (a collab with Mattel) was first advertised, we learned that:

Guests will be able to try on Polly Pocket-themed accessories, clothes and raid her fridge for a late-night snack. (Source: Worcester Telegram)

The clamshell design house looks like it folds up like the original toy did, but it obviously doesn't fold up with overnight slumber partiers in it. So it looks like your stay will be al fresco. But that should have worked, as the weather in Littleton, Massachusetts in September - the only days the house will be available - is generally pretty temperate.  

The house features, plein air:

...five beds, one bedroom, and a private half-bath. According to Airbnb, you’ll be able to camp out under the stars, play dress-up, craft your own bracelets at the Friendship bracelet station, enjoy a 90’s inspired kitchen.  (Source: Billboard)

Airbnb had a much more to say about the Polly Pocket House when they put out their presser announcing it 

The pad is packed with nostalgic surprises to take guests right back to their childhoods while getting the 411 on the pocket-sized life.

“I can’t wait for you to visit and help celebrate my birthday in my most epic compact ever,” said Polly. “Let’s have some serious slumber party fun in my hometown of Littleton, where we make the ordinary extraordinary. There’s adventure to be had from my closet full of nostalgic fashion fun to the surprises I’ve left hidden around the compact. The fun is endless!” (Source: Airbnb)

Given that Polly Pocket was invented in England, I'm a bit surprised to learn that her hometown is Littletown, Massachusetts. But what's a little make believe when "the fun is endless."]

Did Airbnb say endless? Hell to the yeah!

Get ready at Polly’s vanity, stuffed with nostalgic hair and nail accessories of her favorite colors. Did someone call for press on nails?

Check out the retro fridge and craft the snack-filled picnic every ‘90s kid wanted.

Try on the doll life for size in Polly’s closet, where her most iconic throwback looks hang waiting to be worn in joyful hues and glossy silhouettes in the beloved signature gummy texture.

Kick back in the living room with some popcorn, a movie and plenty of pillows.

Doze off on Polly’s pullout couch or cozy up in her life-sized Action Park Tent just 10 feet away from the compact after filling up on slumber party fun
Make custom, Polly-approved charm bracelets to match with your BFF.

And if you weren't able to nab one of the overnight opportunties, the house will be available for daytime adventures through early October. 

There's really nothing comparable for those my age. Our dolls didn't come with houses, or even much by way of accessories. Baby dolls had bottles and rattles. I think I may have had a layette for my Tiny Tears. 

I loved my Vogue Ginny and Ginnette dolls, and they had lots of cute outfits. But I believe us doll moms were responsible for housing our doll babies. 

Sure, we may have had dollhouses, but they weren't big enough to fit our dolls in.

But you know who would have fit in those metal doll houses? Polly Pockets. 

Sure, our dollhouses weren't as colorful and exciting as Polly's plastic fantastic clamshell compact house. But, size-wise, she would have fit right in. 

Anyway, Polly Pockets was never my jam, and I'm way too old and crotchety for this sort of adventure, but a visit to the Polly Pocket house does sound kinda fun in a very weird way. 

Kinda-sorta serves them right

I don't spend a lot of time thinking about (or going to) weddings. But I am certainly aware that they have become a big thing since I was a girl and weddings were relatively simple events without a ton of crazy hoohah and fanfare. The prime differentiator from one wedding to the next seemed to be whether there was an open bar or not.

But like so much else, weddings have become a THING.

Many are elaborate affairs that stretch across multiple days, often at a destination that you need to travel to. Some have themes - Roaring Twenties, Star Wars, Renaissance Faire - where guests are asked to come in costume. Others are color-coded, with guests requested to wear a specific color. 

There are professionally choreographed dances. Forget the clumsy father-daughter twirl to "Daddy's Little Girl." There's the groom and groomsmen dance; the bride and bridesmaids; the father of the bride's star turn, with or without his daughter; the mother of the groom's elaborate multiple-song mashup dance, with or without her son. 

Years ago, I went to the wedding, in Galway, of young Irish friends. The grandfather of the groom, the father of the groom, and the groom himself all performed step dances. But they were all champion Country Kerry steppers. It was great! 

The highlight for me of that wedding was when everyone got down on the floor and did a synchronized routine to "Rock the Boat," which I didn't at the time realize was an Irish thing. I only found that out when everyone got down and started rocking during an episode of Derry Girls.

But most of the weddings I've attended - and I don't go to a ton of weddings -  from modest backyard affairs to black-tie-optional swank hotel do's, have been on the simpler side. Nothing crazy. No bride-zilla antics. No psycho drama. Buffet or table service. Open or pay bar. Champagne toast. Bride and groom drop by every table. Everyone out on the floor for Shout and The Love Train. 

One trend I've read about online is that some couples have their dog serve as their ring-bearer. Seems a bit strange to me, given that the honor usually goes to the cutest little nephew, but, hey, dogs are people, too.

But I hadn't read about folks using an owl as their ring bearer. And at one July wedding, the owl took off with the rings. This was in England where, thanks to Harry Potter, his bestie Hedwig, and the snowy owls that deliver the mail at Hogwarts, owls are increasingly hired to do the job. 

Callum Russel witnessed the owl take wing with the rings.

He says the bird flew away with the couple’s rings around 1 p.m. and sat on top of the venue. The couple finally retrieved their rings seven hours later, around 8 p.m.

"It seemed like they had been ready to do the rings but the owl went away,” he said. (Source: People)

While the trend began in England, it's taking off in the US as well, with "more couples are opting for birds of prey like owls and hawks to serve as ring bearers during their nuptials."

The small business Raptor Events, based in Long Beach, Calif., offers a raptor ring bearer package for $1,200, which includes a rehearsal with the bird, ring bearer services, photos with the bird after the ceremony and a "cocktail hour" meet and greet with the ring bearer.

Raptor Events has a pretty diversified product line, which includes falcons used for pest control, hired to drive away nuisance birds like pigeons and starlings. They also have a specific practice for helping those plagued by peacocks. In the Boston area, we are plagued with wild turkeys, but I haven't heard of peacocks (and hens: remember the ladies) being a thing in these parts. Raptor Events is in California, so maybe people go in more for ornamental peacocks without realizing that they can be destructive and nasty. Sort of like our wild turkeys.

But back to the ring-bearing wedding owl. 

If you trust the rings to your cutie pie little nephew, he may have a meltdown or work stoppage on the way down the aisle. But the rings don't disappear.

I suppose a dog ring bearer might swallow the rings, which could lead to an unpleasant wait and see period. But you will get the rings back. 

But the British couple was lucky that the handler managed to coax the owl down after seven hours. The bird could have just as easily absconded with the goods entirely. 

Guess the Brit newlyweds will have a tale to tell their kids and grandkids, but the disruption and fear factor kind-sorta serves the couple right. 

The crazier and more elaborate a wedding gets to be, the more that can go wrong. 

Let's hear it for the weddings of yore. Simple, to the point, got the job done without any unnecessary risk or drama. Maybe the priest muffed the name of the bride or groom, but there was no damned owl taking off with the rings. 

So sad. So very, very sad

This past July, Brandon Miller - a 43 year old father of two, a New Yorker, a Brown graduate - killed himself.

The US averages well over 100 suicides a day, so Brandon Miller wasn't alone when he decided to do himself in. The overwhelming proportion of suicides are male, so there may well have been a few other forty-something fathers of two killing themselves on that day. And all those suicides no doubt left an indelible mark, an unfathomable level of never-going-to-go-away pain on their family and friends. 

But there's something especially sad about the death of Brandon Miller. Something particularly American tragedy.

Ostensibly, Brandon Miller and is wife were living the high life. He was the wildly successful second-generation New York real estate developer. His wife Candiece, the social media chronicler of their neo-Gilded Age lifestyle - heavy on extravagant homes, over-the-top parties, luxe consumption, jet set travel, perfect mommy-ness. 

She was known for her vintage designer gowns and for private fitness sessions (about $250 per hour on top of $900 monthly studio membership fees) that she filmed and shared online.

The Miller children’s birthdays were also an opportunity for Ms. Miller to entertain on a grand scale — for friends and for online fans. A Coachella-themed party for one daughter spawned a torrent of Instagram posts tagging the vendors Ms. Miller hired: a party planner, a florist and a DJ. Helping to keep it all afloat were nannies, housekeepers, drivers, boat captains and personal chefs. (Source: NY Times)

Having sold their Tribeca home a few years back, they were living in a glam apartment that rented for $47,000 a month. (You read that correctly: $47,000!!!)

The showpiece of their consumption was their 5,500 square foot Hampton's mansion, where a few years back they held a 10th anniversary party. 

Beautiful women in gowns watched with their handsome husbands as the couple renewed their vows near a swimming pool strewn with peonies and rose petals beneath a canopy of lights. 

Peonies and rose petals. Sounds gorgeous.

For the Millers, unfortunately, the lifestyle of the rich and famous was becoming an illusion. 

They were behind in their rent, and hadn't paid the tab for the rented furniture ($180K for the first year; $12K a month after that) that graced the apartment they were more or less squatting in. 

None of the deals Brandon Miller was working on came through. He borrowed millions, trying to stay afloat until his ship came in - in the image and likeness of a fabulous, lifestyle-saving deal. Some of his borrowing came from friends.

He took mortgages out on the Hamptons house, mortgaging it to the hilt. 

His million-dollar speedboat - Miller Time - was repossessed. And by the looks of the green scum-covered pool, the Millers hadn't been paying the pool service on their Hamptons pool.

Candice Miller supposedly had no idea of the dire straits they were in until late last spring. She just kept spending up a storm to fuel her Instagram account with content - spending on items like an $800 facial. After she found out about the financial shape the couple was in, on the promise that a new deal was going to make all the bad stuff go away, she took off with her daughters on an Instagrammable luxe vacance on the Amalfi Coast.

While his family was away, Brandon Miller hit a friend up for $1,000. (You read that correctly: a lousy one-thousand bucks.) He then headed out to the Hamptoms, where he jiggered with his Porsche Carrera so that it would fill with carbon monoxied, and proceeded to kill himself. (He was found before he died, and lived a few days in the hospital.)

No one's waiting around for Candice Miller to finish her grieving. She's being sued for all the money owed on the Hamptons house, which she has now put on the market for $15M. Word is that Brandon Miller had a hefty life insurance policy, so she is not being left a penniless widow. But $15M (the rumored policy amount) isn't going to go very far toward sustaining a lifestyle that was more billionaire than millionaire. (I was wondering whether insurance paid out on a suicide death, but apparently as long as you've held the policy for two years, you're good to go. As it were.)

And word is that Candice Miller is relocating to Miami from New. 

Who could blame her, although Miami doesn't exactly scream unostentatious lifestyle to me. 

Still, I wish her and her daughters well. Not sure of their ages, but in a picture I saw, they looked 11-12-ish. Terrible to lose a father at that age, for sure. And terrible for Candice Miller to lose her husband, who she'd known since childhood, especially in such an awful and sudden way. And in such a public and humiliating fashion.

But what a lesson in getting sucked into the wannabe super-rich way of life. Can't help but think that, if they'd decided that they didn't need to be super rich, or have super-rich people think they're super rich, they could have lived a more than comfortable life in Westchester or New Jersey or Connecticut. Nice house. Nice cars. Nice clothing. Nice vacations. Nice schools. A nice, prosperous, upperish classish life. Just not a $47K a month rent and Coachella party life.

Candice Miller might still have a husband. And those two little girls might still have a father. 

If crazy, deadly, insane consumption isn't an American tragedy, I don't know what is.

Whatever happened to "neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night"

I have a wonderful postman. Unfailingly pleasant and upbeat, he delivers the mail every day - no matter how rotten the weather, no matter how late it takes him. He's terrific about sorting whatever mail doesn't fit in the mailboxes. He even automatically dumps the flyers into the basket I keep in the foyer for recyclable catalogues and junk mail, since he knows that they just sit on the table until I grab them for recycle anyway. And he never fails when it comes to holding the mail and bringing the withheld mail back the day I want it back.

I've been living here for 30+ years, and we've always been fortunate when it comes to our letter carriers. Before W, there was B. Before B, there was E. All of them were great. And I'm sure there are plenty of other folks who also have a positive experience with their letter carriers. 

Not all, of course. There are rogue postal workers who toss out mail they just don't feel like delivering. Who swipe envelopes that they think contains a giftcard or cash. Who are careless, or lazy, or who otherwise f things up.

I've been fortunate that none of them have happened to me.

I usually run into W once or twice a week, and we chat for a few minutes. But in early August, I hadn't seen him for a couple of weeks, so may have missed a convo about his going on vacation. 

But then came a Monday, when I didn't get any mail.

On Tuesday, I noticed that there was no mail on the table in the foyer where W puts the mags, catalogs, and envies that don't fit in the boxes. And I couldn't see anything in anyone's box. (There are 6 units in my building.)

I knew I was supposed to be getting mail because - although I have no recall of having signed up for the service - each morning I do get an email alerting me to what I can expect from USPS that day. Some days, the email includes a scan of the envelopes and packages that are expected. And those daily emails were telling me that I had mail coming.

Wednesday. No mail. 

Thursday. No mail. (Hey, that's my New Yorker day!)

Thursday, I sent out a group text to the other residents. I didn't hear from everyone, but the ones I heard from weren't getting any mail, either.

Each day, our building's mail generally arrives at some point in the afternoon. By 3 p.m. at the latest.

On Friday, it was 3:30 p.m. and still no mail.

It almost goes without saying that there was no answer at the local post office. And the general PO customer service number didn't seem to have any humans associated with it, either.

So, despite the fierce heat and humidity that day, I decided to make a house call, and trekked up the hill to the post office that's responsible for my mail, the PO that W works out of.

After waiting about 10 minutes in line, I told the clerk that my building hadn't had any mail since the prior Saturday, and wanted to know if she could tell me what was up.

Her answer was that, if we weren't getting any mail, there may not have been a letter carrier available to deliver it.

Huh?

I know from my conversations with W that the post office is under a lot of stress. They are desperate to hire. They've had a lot of retirements and not enough new recruits to replace the retirees. There's a lot of OT being worked, and the letter carriers are under a ton of pressure. 

This is, of course, the inevitable outcome of how the postal service has been treated over the years, ever since the powers that be but shouldn't be decided to put the screws to the service, pushing to privatize and profitize it and make it a lousy place to work and - the long game - eliminate it.  

Anyway, I asked the clerk whether the lack of mail was because W was on vacation. She told me she couldn't tell me.

I asked whether these mail outages were common, how long they could possibly last, how we were going to get our mail.

No answer.

She went briefly into a back room to "check" for my mail, but came back almost immediately and told me there was no way she could go through any accumulated mail and find mine. Let alone the mail for anyone else in my building. 

She told me that I would need to talk to a supervisor, but that there was no supervisor there are the moment - and she didn't know when there would be. Go out for coffee and come back, she told me, and maybe the supervisor with the answers would be around. Or come back Saturday morning, when the PO was mostly closed, but the rental box area would be open and where there'd be a supervisor on duty from 3 a.m. on. So the supervisor would possibly be there if I came in.

I was sorely tempted to burst into the old Marvelette's song. 

Please, Mr. Postman, look and see.Is there a letter in your bag for me? 

It was late Friday afternoon, so I'm sure the clerk was tired and ready to go home. But still, I was expecting more help than I got. I would have settled for fake help, or a bit of sympathy. (By the way, I may have sounded increasingly incredulous as I asked her unanswerable question after unanswerable question, but I guarantee you that I was not being an unreasonable bitch.)

When I walked out, the woman who'd been working with the clerk next to me told me that she couldn't help but overhear my exchange. And, like me, she was pretty astounded by the runaround and lack of info I was given. Surely, we told each other, the clerk should have been able to tell me a tiny bit about what was going on. As in "we've been experiencing a shortage of postal carriers...our policy is that no route goes more than x days without mail delivery...I'll take down your information and report it to the supervisor, who will be in contact with you." Something. Eventually, she did say that she'd take down my name and address and give it to the supervisor, but I had little confidence that she actually did so. And also told me she had no interest in the names of the others in my building. They were going to be on their own.

Amazingly, when I got home, the mail had arrived.

Later than the norm, but it was there. Unheralded but seemingly intact. 

Saturday, we got mail, too.

Remember the part of the Marvelette's song when they sang deliver the letter, the sooner the better. (Or as my cousin Ellen and I cleverly wrote on the envelopes of our penpal letters to each other: D-liver D-letter D-sooner D-better.)

I guess the updated lyric would be deliver the letter, better late than never.

Not that I got anything that actually qualified as a letter. A couple of bills for the condo association. The usual requests for donations. And, yes!, my New Yorker. 

Still, as I gritted my teeth on my march up to the PO, and my even more annoyed march back - among other things the humidity and heat were tropical - I kept harrumphing to myself. Whatever happened to "neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." 

Amazon, the great job-creator!

I may not like Amazon, but I do order plenty of stuff off their site. Yes, I always (mostly always) try to get what I want locally, in a brick & mortar. Or directly through the vendor. But sometimes you just gotta do what you just gotta do. And I have to admit, it's great when that little smiley package lands on the doorstep the very next day. 

And Amazon is a job creator. It has over 1.6M employees. Plus the small businesses that have expanded the market for their wares thanks to Amazon. Of course, it's also a destroyer of jobs, and there are some studies that maintain that it has destroyed more jobs than it's created, leveling local retailers all over the place. Is Amazon a net job creator? Maybe yes, maybe no.

But Bezos is responsible for creating at least one oddball job, one fellow has struck gold in the Amazon.

He looks like a billion bucks.

A German ex-electrician went from watts to wealth after quitting his gig and becoming a professional Jeff Bezos lookalike.

Now, much like his celebrity doppelgänger, he lives a lavish lifestyle as an entrepreneur.

“I look like his twin brother,” Cagdas Halicilar, 46, told Jam Press of his uncanny resemblance to the Amazon founder, who is the world’s second-richest person with just over a cool $201 billion dollars. (Source: NY Post)

Halicilar does have another source of income. A while ago, he had swapped out being an electrician for running his own transport company. But who couldn't use a side hustle? So a while back, he signed up with a "doppelgänger agency." (Imagine such a thing.)

Moonlighting as Bezos part-time has allowed the mogul impersonator to land some eye-popping opportunities, including various gigs on German TV stations and at events.

The shiny bald head obviously helps, but Halicilar does look an awful lot like Bezos. On a trip to Seattle, he strolled around the Amazon campus and was asked for a selfie by a number of employees who thought he was the big mahoff. Many of them also took the opportunity for a bit of suck-up, telling the faux Bezos how proud they were to work for Amazon. Turns out that effort was a misdirected waste of breath.

Some folks who've asked for selfies have been so tongue-tied and shy in the presence of Bezonian greatness they've been rendered speechless. I guess they communicate with the universal language of holding up their phone and raising their eyebrows in an 'ask' that they wanted a selfie.

Between his transort business and his side gig, Halicilar is living pretty large. Not Bezos large, of course. Not bunch of $90M homes large. Not personal space flight large. Not invitest to state dinners at the White House. But large enough to hire a butler, drink top shelf whisky, and travel in style. 

He even did a guest spot on the German Netflix mini-series “King of Stonks.”

Never heard of "Stonks." Probably because it's a German thing. I'll have to look it up and may even decide to binge it.

But whether it's Bezos of Halicilar, I doubt if I spot him on the street I'd ask for a selfie. Too busy trying to think of what I'd say to John Roberts if I ever saw him out and about - and it sure wouldn't be asking him for a selfie. But that's another story altogether...